House of Darkness House of Light (6 page)

This rippling flow was inhabited by a multitude of creatures. Frogs leapt as snakes slithered, skimmers skimmed while minnows paddled by in its muddy puddles. Crayfish scampered beneath flat rocks protruding from the rugged shoreline. Roger could no longer resist it; this call of a cool pool. He quickly removed his shoes and socks then tightly rolled up the bottom of his trousers. His kids begged to follow. He’d denied their request for a legitimate reason, not wanting mud pies leaking in their car. A father already knew in his heart; his children would spend endless hours in this river. Satisfied with “no” they perched themselves along the bank and watched their daddy play; man of the family transforming into a boy, traversing its steep embankment with the full vigor of youth. Wading through shallows, walking along shoals, he inspected multi-colored stones layering the riverbed, worn smooth over time. After an inspiring few minutes he peered upward to find his wife, poised at the center of a single weather-worn beam, precariously placed across the wide expanse, resting on two giants: slabs of granite, facing off from opposing sides. It was a pitiful excuse for a bridge. Roger would later decide to replace it with a far more substantial version. “You be careful up there.” Carolyn was a beautiful woman yet, this day her husband gazed at her with a renewed appreciation of grace. She appeared as an ethereal vision; an angel awash in Heavenly Light.

“Roger. Can you believe this? The Lord works in mysterious ways…”

“…His wonders to behold. I see.” He was still staring up from the riverbed.

“Look at the water!” She pointed downward. Illuminating the deepest part of the pool was a perfect circle; white hot spotlight. Craving sudden warmth it provided, trout gravitated to the hot spot like heat-seeking missiles. At first it was a frenzied approach, involving a few awkward intersections. Then they all figured it out. The fish began swimming in tandem within the mobile and temporary perimeter established by the instant infusion of midday sunshine. Their synchronized movements created a whirlpool on the surface. Everyone present was mesmerized. As the beam shifted the crowd dispersed, following the light. Roger actually giggled as he scaled the riverbank. He went directly to Carolyn. Leaning toward an embrace she whispered some poignant words. “It’s a wonderful way to spend the day.” He wrapped her tightly in his arms.

The children ran ahead as instructed, back up toward the farmhouse, each claiming a portion of its grounds as her private pastoral pathway. The couple thanked their host for an exceptionally generous gift received. Roger finally entered the house. He became instantly distracted; lost in space too ample to absorb it all at once. Mr. Kenyon remained in the kitchen. He sent Roger off to explore, offering him free reign to investigate the place at will. Wandering room to room, the indelible imagery of a riverbed impaled an over-stimulated mind. The father of five lingered here and there, attempting to regain a focus fractured. Effectively house-inspecting, he’d continually reminded himself to remain on alert. A checklist: the heating system, plumbing then wiring; make mental notes; questions to ask. It was his job to determine its adequacy; what the house might lack, what it may need in terms of future improvements and of course, what the fixes would cost. Utilizing all the self-discipline he could muster, denying himself the luxury of wallowing in the sheer spectacle of the house, he forced himself to overcome the temptation to simply admire it, to walk it as one would a museum, merely to celebrate its existence. This home offered an abundance of space in which to raise a big family. There would be time to enjoy it later. In the interim, it was Roger’s responsibility to inspect it as thoroughly and objectively as possible; to look at it with different eyes: to observe it with
indifference
…as a pragmatic,
devil may care
advocate.

Carolyn gathered her children on the front lawn. Exhausted, they collapsed into a pile to rest. She settled in beside them, taking in the aromas, beckoning the supple blades of grass to stroke her slender fingers. Mr. Kenyon emerged from the house holding a tray with a large pitcher of water and four matching glasses, all he had on hand. The temperature was climbing; humidity equally oppressive: Ah, it was summertime in Rhode Island. With the excitement and adventure, everyone was drenched with perspiration, sporting flushed, ruddy cheeks as proof. The young ladies shared, passing glasses, drinking heartily. Carolyn waited for them to replenish their fluids before helping herself. She was startled by the cold pitcher; almost painful to the touch. Filling a glass to the rim, she placed it up against her lips. Shocked, as if jolted by an electrical charge, eyes widened and brightened in equal measure with the first swallow. Never before in her life had she tasted water so frigid or pure, like something straight from the heart of a glacier: Refreshment!

“Mommy! It hurts my teeth!” April, only five years old, was not normally shy about expressing herself. Garbled words were barely intelligible as she’d stuffed a few warm fingers into her mouth, to ease the pain of the oncoming brain freeze. Wrinkling up her face in a disapproving grimace, she obviously took exception to laughter erupting at what she perceived to be her expense.

Mr. Kenyon smiled at the baby of the family, long blond hair plastered to the sides of sweaty cheeks; sea blue eyes peeking out and up at her mother. The cherub stole his heart. In fact, the family’s presence brought a sudden ray of light into the life of a lonely old man who feared the darkness of night. He made himself clear in a moment: they were
always
welcome at his home. Carolyn believed she’d rediscovered a long lost friend. His kindness was so endearing, sincerity so compelling, the instant connection she’d felt with Mr. Kenyon when they first met was coming to fruition; a blossom as fragrant as mountain laurel…as delicate as lady slippers. She recalls it as an inexplicable familiarity, as if it were a well-established friendship with a man who was, in reality, a virtual stranger when they were introduced. Neither seemed to feel the initial reticence associated with such an awkward circumstance. Instead, they’d tacitly accepted the feeling with a knowing silence. The sensation they shared did not require any further acknowledgement.

As she sat there observing a man reveling in laughter, an insidious sadness crept into Carolyn. Diverting her eyes so to avoid anyone’s perception of the suddenly languid mood, the woman looked down, studying a glass cradled in her hands. Beads of water resembling tears trickled down the face of the vessel, leaving streaks to mark a journey. Chasing the frost from its surface, droplets paced a solitary dirge, tracing icy paths. The vivid, haunting imagery instantly evoked a memory; a somber reflection, one entirely contrary to her formerly uplifted spirit; the pure elation she was experiencing only moments before. Several lines of poetry, pensive words Carolyn memorized in youth, consumed her mind then began escaping her lips. They listened attentively, familiar with the practice as well as their mother’s proclivity for drawing on fine literature during more poignant moments in life. Her tone softened; the reverence in her voice stilled the birdsong and stunned their host. It was as if the garden flowers humbly bowed their blossoms as surrounding stone walls knelt in prayer. Reciting the lines betrayed her melancholy mood:

“And still other brothers and sisters,

Linking their arms together,

Walked down the dusty road where once he ran

And into the deep green valley

To sit on the stony banks of the stream he loved

And let the murmuring waters

Wash over their blood-hot feet with a springing crown of tears.”

Mr. Kenyon leaned back, observing the gentlewoman while she spoke. He was visibly moved by her rendition of the poem with which he was familiar; asking what caused her to recall this particular passage when she’d finished. The children remained respectfully quiet for the duration. They all listened.

“Look.” Lifting her glass as delicate droplets mournfully descended, “They resemble human tears.” Searching Mr. Kenyon’s moistened brow and soulful eyes for acceptance; she found only sadness akin to her own.

“It was beautiful, mom: Joseph Langland.” Andrea shared an appreciation.

“She says poems like that to us all the time.” Nancy directed her comment toward Mr. Kenyon apologetically; apparently the nine-year-old spitfire felt the necessity to expound. Leaping to her feet, hands propped on skinny hips, she made an impatient plea, a rather terse request of her mother. “Can we go back to play in the barn again?” Her precocious stance demanding an equally terse response, if not another form of covert discipline, Nancy was officially bored and everyone knew it; a hard to
little
miss
moment.

“I do not
say
poetry, sweetheart. One
recites
poetry.” Infinitely patient, the mother had to be so, especially with her second-born, condemned as she was to a life of trial by spitfire.

“No…you
say
it right out of your head!” This persistent pixie had a point.

Having been a poet since childhood, becoming the mother of five left no time for writing it though she conceded to sharing whatever her memory retained.

“Yes. I suppose I do.”

“You do.” Several spoke in unison.

The familial interaction completely engaged Mr. Kenyon’s imagination. He listened intently to every word uttered by a bevy of ladies at rest on his lawn. It was obviously his pleasure to do so.

“So? Can we
please
go back into the barn now?” It was Nancy again.

“No, we have to go home soon. It’s getting late.” Carolyn had rendered her verdict. Before Nancy could challenge it again Andrea pulled her sister to the ground, planting the child firmly beside her: Argument over.

Roger joined his family and host on the front lawn, discreetly thanking Mr. Kenyon for allowing him such an extensive tour of this property without the presence of a realtor. Gratefully, he accepted the last glass of water.

“Isn’t it great?” Soliciting a response, Carolyn realized Roger could not yet speak for gulping. Nancy followed up on the subject in his hand.

“Mommy said poetry about it.” Thus, divulging no particular secret to dad.

“She did, huh? I’m not surprised.” Patting his daughter on the head, Roger asked Mr. Kenyon the next logical question: “Where does
this
come from?”

“There’s a spring…over there.” Pointing with pride at a sharply rising hill on the other side of Round Top Road, Mr. Kenyon informed them that half of the two hundred acres was directly across the street. Escorting Roger away from the family, he spoke privately with his prospective buyer. After awhile they rejoined the group; time to bid a fond farewell. Cordially, Mr. Kenyon first extended a firm handshake to Roger; then held Carolyn’s hand tenderly in his own while they spoke, not wanting to release her delicate fingers from his grasp. Exchanging pleasantries, their children loaded up as a resounding chorus of
thank you
and
goodbye
rang out from their car. Then pulling onto Round Top Road from the far side of the circular driveway, everyone waved as they passed, leaving dear old Mr. Kenyon standing alone in his front yard. Carolyn looked back longingly toward the sympathetic solitary figure; a man for whom she had developed an abiding affection; an isolated man who now seemed quite frail, somewhat smaller than she had previously perceived him to be. As they departed, Carolyn again became plagued by the same insidious sadness which seized her on the lawn. The vision of him as they drove away infused her consciousness. Committing him to memory, as if he was a poem, the haunting image lingered. Her troubled soul had sensed its own captivity, caught in the clutches of an inescapable remorse she could not comprehend. She could not bear to leave him behind and did not want to leave the farm.

As expected, the girls promptly fell asleep. The parents felt drowsy enough to do the same while traveling at light speed. It had been quite an adventure. Roger kept his eyes focused on the unfamiliar roads, searching for landmarks or memorizing the route, for future reference. He did not utter a sound until Carolyn asked what Mr. Kenyon had said as they walked off together. Roger leaned toward her, whispering, so as not to be overheard from the back seat.

“He wants
us
to have it; he’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

With a single glance, the light in her husband’s penetrating eyes released a surge of adrenaline through Carolyn’s veins, causing her to shudder. Though appearing aloof, unattached to the notion, she easily read his tone of voice; Roger wanted the old farm just as much as she did, maybe even more. As the weight of self-doubt lifted, her spirit soared. She was suddenly wide awake. The couple remained silent for the duration of the lengthy ride back to their little house in the crowded suburbs and did not speak of it again until much later in the evening, after their children had gone off to bed.

Having checked in on the girls, Carolyn rejoined her husband in the parlor. Settling in on a sofa together, there was much to discuss. They spent the rest of the night relaying impressions and exploring their options. A conversation began with an unexpected announcement.

“Andrea asked me why we went where we did today; if it was because we were moving to the farm.” Exasperated, motherly sighs escaped as her lungs collapsed. Their eldest daughter was known to be precocious and a bit too perceptive at times…and this qualified as one of those times.

“What did you say to her?’ Roger was concerned. Neither of them wanted to set their girls up for another loss or disappointment, especially considering the devastating events they had endured that summer. Neither was willing to make a promise they might not be able to keep.

“I told her to get some sleep and we’d talk in the morning. I put her off.”

“She knows.” Roger appeared distressed, his furrowed brow as evidence.