Goodhouse (3 page)

“My name is James, ma'am.”

“Ma'am,”
she repeated, then smiled as if I'd said something funny. “No one's ever called me that before. Are you saying my dress is too matronly?” She made a show of looking herself over.

“What? No, ma'am,” I stammered. “I would never comment on your clothing.”

“But you just did,” she said.

I backed away. This was all going wrong.

“I'm kidding,” she said. “It's a joke. Can't you tell?”

I didn't know what to do, so I stuck to the script. “My name is James Goodhouse,” I said. “I'm here for a Community Day. I'm eager to be a respectful guest in your home. Please let me know if I should remove my shoes.”

The girl's smile faltered. Something about my speech sobered her, though I couldn't imagine what, and this heightened my impression of being out of control.

“Aunt Muriel,” the girl turned and hollered. “That boy is here.”

“Not till Sunday.” A woman stepped forward and opened the door wider. She was plump, and her flower-print dress was extremely colorful and slightly blurry, as if it were moving. Her short bangs had been swept to one side and artificially stiffened like the bill of a hat. “You're a day early,” she said. “Did they change the date?” She looked into the yard as if checking for additional visitors.

“It's just me,” I said.

“For heaven's sake,” said the aunt. “Why can't anything work out?”

They led me down a hallway. The girl with the braid followed close behind.

“You're totally going to ruin Cousin Rachel's baby shower,” she said. She spoke in a low voice, just loud enough for me to hear. I hurried to put some space between us, but she kept up. “Hey,” she said. “My name's Bethany.”

*   *   *

There was no Goodhouse equivalent for girls. The same markers in women were not predictive of future criminal behavior the way they were in boys and men. And as I entered the house, as I walked into its inner recesses, I felt very aware that I had never, as far as I knew, stood this close to a girl my own age.

Bethany followed me into the living room. A dozen women clustered on couches and chairs. They stared at me, gaping openly, eyes moving from my stiff formal collar to my tie to the shiny gold buttons on my jacket. A pregnant woman was ensconced in a chair with bunches of blue balloons tied to its back. Colorful streamers cut across the white ceiling. The room was oddly familiar. I was sure I'd been in a room like this as a small child. I was sweating through my shirt. The tie seemed to tighten of its own accord. I was supposed to give the speech, and I struggled to keep my eyes open and my voice level. I realized I could skip the part about the shoes. Everyone was wearing them.

“My name is James Goodhouse and I am honored to be a guest in your home. I am happy to be of any assistance. Please do not hesitate to ask. I'm grateful for the opportunity to give back to the people of this community.” I made myself look at them. The speech, which had seemed just another bland necessity at school, felt surprisingly humiliating to recite.

“Our tax dollars at work,” one woman said. “Wars, roads, and manners.”

“Very pretty,” said the aunt. “Now, I think I do have a few small tasks that need doing.” She led me into the kitchen.

It looked very different from the ones I'd labored in. There were no cameras, no molded plastic workstations. This kitchen was decorated like a living area. A large painting of a cityscape at night hung above an upholstered bench. Food like I had never seen dotted a polished stone countertop—a cake frosted to look like a basket of flowers; fresh fruit sliced and arranged in arcs of color, like a sunset.

Everything seemed preposterously small. Goodhouse staples came in fifty-gallon drums, but here was a jug of milk I could lift with one hand, a mixer the size of a toy, a sink so shallow as to appear useless. And where was the sand tray? At school we scoured our dishes with sand first, but these people didn't seem to have a tray. It wasn't until I saw a stack of plates and a line of mugs that I felt a little calmer. These, at least, were the same size, and it steadied me. I was going to be okay.
These people are like us
, I thought.
It's just a different scale.

“James?” the aunt said, testing out the name as if she was unsure it would work. I realized I'd been standing there with my mouth open.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “Please excuse me. Your home is very interesting.” I winced. This might sound critical. “Very beautiful,” I corrected. But maybe that was worse. She might worry that I would touch or take something.

The woman frowned. “Please follow me,” she said. The hem of her dress swayed as she led me through the kitchen door, down a few stairs, and into a large, fenced backyard. It abutted a row of other yards of similar proportions. A maple had been recently felled and the trunk cut into sections like vertebrae in a spinal column. The branches and leaves were missing.

“I'd like you to split logs,” the aunt said. “You do that, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good.” She went into the shed and returned carrying an ax. There was a moment of hesitation before she surrendered it.
Weapon
, I thought, and quickly corrected myself.
Tool
. At school we learned our thoughts were powerful. If it was in a mind, it was in a body, and soon it would be in the world for everyone to see.

“Split into eighths,” she said. “You know how many that is? Eight pieces?”

I was confused. Did she think I wasn't a native speaker? I did have a slight accent, a touch of rural Oregon. “The whole pile?” I asked.

“Whatever you can do.” She hurried into the house, locked the door, and spoke through the open kitchen window. “Stack them next to the shed.”

I glanced at the other yards. They were all deserted, but manicured. A red plastic car, only large enough to hold a child, lay on its side, the roof bleached pink by the sun. Ornamental sage grew in clumps along the fence, and I crushed a leaf between my fingers, rubbing its scent on my hands. The maple was newly cut. The wood still had a golden hue and there was no sign of disease, no apparent reason for its removal. I knelt beside the tree and counted back seventeen rings from its outer edge. My finger stopped on a narrow ring. There had been a drought the summer I was born.

I took a section of trunk and made this my chopping base. I rolled it near the shed, then removed the hated jacket and necktie. I stretched my back, reached over my head. Holding the ax in two hands, I imagined this was my house, my yard, my tree. It took several strokes to warm up and find a rhythm. But once I did, I felt relief to be outside, doing something I was good at. I knew when to relax into the swing, when to tense and when to exhale. I knew to go slow, to pace myself. It was like one of the tasks at school where work had no ending, only an endless middle.

I continued for a while, humming under my breath, and then, since nobody seemed to object, I sang a little louder. As I worked, shade ebbed across the yard. I lost track of time, and my mind was finally quiet, my body working, a melody surrounding and protecting me. I knew mostly religious hymns. At my old school I'd sung in the choir, and I missed the music.

I heard the kitchen door open and I went silent. Bethany was walking down the stairs carrying two cups of dark liquid. “Thought you'd be thirsty,” she said. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted an astonishing candy-pink color. I quickly dropped the ax, not wanting to frighten her. “They're drinking Bloody Marys and playing bingo,” she said. “Totally moronic. Rachel's lost like two babies, and I bet this one will flush, too. They all go at five months. Aunt says it's God's will and that some children are too pure to be born, but I know it's farm runoff in the water. That's why I drink root beer and nothing else.” She seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Her brown hair had red highlights that had been invisible indoors. “Here.” She handed me a cup and I was surprised to feel real glass.
Weapon
, I thought.

“I don't really want kids,” she said. “But I do believe in adoption. It's the right thing and a lot of people think it's wrong to adopt out of the country and I definitely agree, since it's racist if you don't want an American baby just because it's too brown or on drugs or whatever. Your voice is beautiful, by the way,” she said. “I was listening to you just now.”

“I thought I was alone,” I said.

“I had my window open”—she shrugged—“so technically, you were.”

I didn't know what to say. It had been months since I'd sung in front of anyone, and now the thought of an audience made me surprisingly nervous. I took a sip of the root beer and almost gagged. It didn't taste like food.

“Let's stand in the shade,” Bethany said. She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the shed, then rubbed the spot where she'd gripped me as if trying to erase the contact. Her touch was electric and startling. It made my whole arm tingle. “I read all the literature your school sent,” she said. “We're supposed to evaluate your cleanliness, which struck me as bizarre. Wouldn't the school know how clean you were? You're hardly likely to get dirty coming over here. I felt like they were all fake questions.” I was so preoccupied with her lightly freckled shoulders and the thick, angry-looking scar on her chest that I didn't immediately realize she'd gone silent.

“Excuse me?” I asked. I pretended to take a sip of the soda, but kept my lips tightly closed. I didn't know where to look or what to say, so I stared at a small jeweled barrette that twinkled above her ear. The crystals were a bright, clear blue.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

“You probably shouldn't,” I said.

“I hacked Auntie's calendar,” she said. “I shifted the dates for Community Day so she wouldn't know you were coming.”

“Why?” I said. I glanced at the other yards to make sure we were still alone.

“They were going to send me to church while you were here,” she said. “Make me help out with the charity suppers, only I'm not allowed to do anything strenuous, so I just fold napkins or sneak into the priest's office and read his letters. He's in love with his neighbor's wife, coveting her and all that. I read it.” She stared right at me, the sort of unflinching look I associated with birds. “Everybody treats me like a glass trinket,” she said. “I get so bored. What are you really thinking?”

I shook my head as if I didn't understand. I was only ever thinking about the right thing to say—the thing that would show me in the best light. This wasn't the same as having thoughts.

“Come on,” she said. “I know you're thinking something.”

“You shouldn't break into other people's offices and read their letters,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Stop that.”

“And also,” I said, “it's wrong to share pilfered information.”

“Pilfered?” She laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“Stolen,” I said. I didn't really think that this was a trap, but I couldn't take a chance. At school, if you failed to speak up against wrong-thinking you were considered no better than an accomplice.

“Cut it out,” she said. “We might only have a few minutes and I want to know everything about you. I'm moving to campus soon. I'll be living with my dad. I'm going to be doing lots of programming and coding—very dry, very dull. Do you think we can meet secretly?”

“No,” I said.

“Dad wanted to keep me here,” she said, “but I made myself
unwelcome
. That's Auntie's word.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Don't be,” she said. “I consider it a personal triumph. I'm very goal-oriented, and getting kicked out of Meadowlands has been objective number one. Now Dad has to
take responsibility or else
. Those are Auntie's words, too.”

I nodded, but I didn't quite follow. I was looking at the stone patio and the plentiful trees. I was sure that if I lived in a house like this, I wouldn't want to leave. “You don't like it here?” I asked.

“‘All oppression creates a state of war,'” she said. “That's a quote. And perhaps it's not explicitly in reference to girls entombed in suburban homes. And perhaps you think that I'm a little dramatic, but I won't trivialize my experience.”

She frowned, her expression determined and a little mutinous, as if she expected me to challenge her. “I should get back to work,” I said. I tried to return the root beer.

“No, no,” she said. “I'll shut up. I just talk too much. Tell me what you really think about things.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Tell me the worst thing you've ever done,” she said.

I stared at her barrette. The blue crystals were the same color as the lights on the civilian police cars.

“Okay, forget that,” she said, seeing the look on my face. “Do you have a pet? I hear they do that—give you animals to take care of.”

“At my last school I had a goat.”

For some reason this made her giggle. “And?”

“She liked to eat mops. We'd leave them to dry on the back porch and she'd eat the cottony parts. She ate a shirt once, too, but it wasn't mine.”

“Sounds like she was a bad influence,” said Bethany.

“But a clever thief,” I said. “Not that I value that in a friend. Not a friend, but you know, a goat.” I wiped sweat off my upper lip. “You make me nervous.”

“Dad says nervous people die young.” She touched the scar on her chest. “I'm supposed to stay calm.”

“Are you sick?” I asked.

“If anyone tries to argue with me, all I have to say is, You're upsetting me, and they have to be quiet. Except lately that hasn't worked,” she said. “I think I've overused it. Or else they want me to keel over dead. Do you consider yourself a maniac?”