House of Darkness House of Light (4 page)

It was early in the morning on the day of his departure. While Roger and Carolyn stood in the kitchen sharing a cup of coffee, an explosion rumbled through their front yard. It sounded like cannon shot; echoing throughout the community. Alarmed, they raced outside. Carolyn had created a rock garden near the entrance of their driveway soon after they purchased their humble home. Friends often teased her about it, reminding her that the centerpiece resembled a tombstone. They were right. It accidentally did. The only thing missing from the gigantic ice-aged edifice was a deeply chiseled inscription denoting the name of someone using the natural relic as a final resting place.

The man residing below them climbed into his truck that chilly morning. He cranked the engine, had a massive heart attack and died behind the wheel; his lifeless foot collapsing onto the gas pedal. The truck raced up the narrow lane, stopping only when it lodged upon the massive stone; wheels spinning. Roger scrambled to his aid while Carolyn called for help. Mister Curtis was already deceased; nothing Roger attempted would revive him. As neighbors poured into the road, the adversarial mother next door shouted vile remarks toward Carolyn about the
graveyard
on her lawn. Once the police arrived she waddled back inside her house. After the ambulance left with the body, only then did Carolyn break down, spilling tears of grief. Still shaken, Roger had to leave but she wanted him to cancel the trip. The sudden death upset him as much as it had his wife. They exchanged few terse words before he departed. Stress was taking its measure of the man…and the woman.

Carolyn expended a great deal of energy attempting to suppress her grief, a strain causing her to tremble while she prepared a cake for the Curtis family. Bringing it over to their house in the afternoon, she was promptly rejected, dismissed at the door. Returning home, still carrying the cake she’d baked in the worst heat of summer, Carolyn knew it was time to go. Later confiding in her friend Cathi, she explained: Mrs. Curtis actually blamed
her
for the tragic death of her husband; the woman blatantly accused Carolyn of being a witch. That was it. Enough. No more.

When Roger came home, she explained what had happened in his absence. She sat him down at the table. Expressing her heartfelt sentiments about the death of their neighbor as well as legitimate concerns she had for the safety of their children, his wife begged him to reconsider selling the house to leave its whole community behind. Recounting a series of unfortunate events, what became the basis of her conclusion, he agreed; these were serious problems. He empathetically reiterated: they were in NO position financially to make a move, certainly not a sudden one. Carolyn was fixated on getting her girls to a place in the country. The couple spent well over an hour discussing limited options. When they went to bed it was with a mutual understanding; it would take some time to transform this dream into reality. There was no obvious or immediate remedy available. According to Roger, there’s no point dwelling on what they could not change. Carolyn acquiesced. She did not mention her distress again. Within the next few days he would leave town on yet another business trip; one which kept him away just long enough for the Universe to intervene on their behalf. A cautionary tale: Be careful what you wish for…

***

While waiting outside enormous doors, examining the impressive façade of
Mount Saint
Charles Academy
Carolyn suddenly remembered that she had neglected to bring something to read. Rarely taking Andrea to music lessons, the child usually traveled with a friend who also studied flute. It was only an hour but, in the heat of June in Woonsocket, it was becoming a stifling wait. Seeking a shadier spot, she noticed a newsstand in front of the corner market. There, Carolyn purchased a copy of
The
Woonsocket Call
. Having enough time left to scan a few of its pages, she tucked it beneath an arm, crossing the road to meet her daughter as the budding musician popped out from behind one of the massive, ornately carved wooden doors, seeking her mother on the crowded city street.

When they arrived home, the newspaper was temporarily discarded; tossed into a corner of the kitchen counter: Time to make the dinner. Revisiting the newspaper later that evening, once the children had gone off to bed, Carolyn spread it wide on the table then settled back in a chair; it was such a luxury to relax with a newspaper. Nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, the woman read page after page with nothing on her mind except whatever her eyes fell on at any given moment; she had no ulterior motives or hidden agenda. Arriving in the classifieds, she paused. Only then did the idea occur to her: “No harm in looking.” So she did. Knowing precisely what she was looking for, locating a
“
Land and Farms for Sale
”
column, Carolyn began the search, reading one little box at a time.
The Woonsocket Call
was a comprehensive newspaper, covering all of Northern Rhode Island, including rural or remote areas of the state. Though there was substantial acreage for sale she found nothing which included a suitable house for their family. Her eyes continued wandering the column. There it was: the pipe dream.
“9 room colonial farmhouse w/ barn + 200 acres Harrisville
$75,000.”
It was well past 9:00 p.m. when she spied the advertisement. In spite of the hour, Carolyn called the realtor then made an appointment to view this property the following day. That night she went to bed then laid there, alone in the darkness, unable to sleep; disturbed by the persistent, nagging regret at having made the call at all. What was the point? Roger had been quite clear on this topic. There was no extra money; no hope of moving anytime soon. Carolyn struggled with the idea. In one moment she felt selfish; altruistic in the next. It was for her children that she so longed for a place in the country. As the listing agent, Mrs. Hertzog had been gracious; understanding about the late hour of the call. Carolyn felt fraudulent; tacitly misrepresenting their situation with total silence on the subject; a covert and deliberate sin of omission. During their extended conversation she failed to disclose the fact there was no
Earthly
way they could afford to buy property, yet she made an appointment to view it anyway. Compelled to do so, swept up by the notion of a home place in the woods, the enticements of it evoked intense emotions, over-riding an otherwise formidable conscience. Slipping into the dream, a final conscious thought occurred: “It couldn’t hurt to look.”

Up and on the phone at first light, Carolyn called upon her closest friend. Cathi was there within the hour. Lingering over their coffee at the corner of the kitchen, the women whispered their conversation as girls mulled around, anxious for some undivided attention. Neither of them wanted to arouse any suspicion regarding a sudden excursion; likely nothing more than diversion: an adventure. Cathi encouraged Carolyn to go and have a good time house-hunting; certain it was pure folly which would culminate in little more than a few welcome and well-deserved hours away from their house. The girls were all more than willing to remain behind with the favorite friend, never asking where mom was going. A chance to be with Cathi meant playtime:
Weebles
!

As a lark, perhaps a lapse in judgment; Carolyn considered her behavior as she drove along, chastising herself repeatedly. It felt like an especially long ride which meant it would probably be the same for Mrs. Hertzog. When she finally met the woman at her real estate office in Harmony, she was, at once, ashamed yet excited by the prospect of seeing a grand old estate up for sale. It would prove to be an historical journey; a whimsical passage through time and space: the ultimate of magical mystery tours. All reticence was about to subside; inner conflict, pangs of conscience about to come to an abrupt end.

Mrs. Hertzog was kind; very generous with her time. Inviting Carolyn into her car, they drove many miles of winding country roads, dodging neglected potholes along the picturesque route. Entering the village of Harrisville from the south, the realtor did a great job pointing out various landmarks: schools, library, theater, town hall and churches. The lush landscape was remarkably uninhabited. There was ample space between its homes; land even within the village proper.
This
was it; the place Carolyn had searched for in mind.

~ The Assembly Theater ~ Harrisville, R.I. ~

Passing beyond the quaint little town, heading north onto Round Top Road, Carolyn became breathless with pure anticipation, longing to view what Mrs. Hertzog had been so busy describing as they traveled their rural route. It was more than magnificent…it was everything she had dared envision in dreams; pastoral pleasure beyond mortal imagination. The farm defied all description: Technicolor in comparison to black and white…Dorothy stepping through an open door, over the beckoning threshold…upon entering the Land of Oz.

Rounding the final corner, Carolyn first saw the barn, then three enormous evergreen trees lining the front yard of the farmhouse set back a considerable distance from the road. As they pulled into its earthen circular driveway, Mr. Kenyon emerged from the house, waiting patiently on the porch to receive his guests. This elderly gentleman: as gracious a host as the realtor. He escorted his company around the property, through the barn, then into the house. She was enchanted. Mr. Kenyon told her what he knew of the history of this old estate. As she admired the lone apple tree, he then explained the Hurricane of 1938 claimed thirteen others from the grounds. He suggested the only reason the barn survived that horrendous storm when so many others did not fare as well was because centuries before, it had been painstakingly constructed by a master shipwright; its solid oak center beams deliberately arched to sway in the wind. Entering the farmhouse, Carolyn instantly noticed how cool it felt in the worst heat of day. Together they strolled from room to room. It seemed gigantic compared with a humble home in the suburbs. Wide-planked floors creaked beneath their feet; hinges on each door seemed to sing a unique tune. She was intrigued by its ancient fixtures; wrought iron latches at every twist and turn; cubbyholes in every corner. So many aspects of it were authentic to the centuries old structure. Carolyn was amazed by the living museum.

Though Mr. Kenyon knew little about the earliest history of the house or its inhabitants, he did tell Carolyn the estate was one of the original
Providence Plantations
; the property deeded in 1680, house completed in 1736. It was a veritable journey through time. She drank it in like sweetest nectar, savoring every sip as if it would be her last. Apparently it was a love potion, working wonders on a dispirited soul thirsting for unbridled beauty, seeking space far from the madding crowd.
This
was the place; her elusive vision of a country home. It beckoned her as siren song does a sailor, disguised as a clarion call. She was swept away…utterly overcome by her own heart’s desire.

Walking them over to their car, Mr. Kenyon extended his hand to Carolyn, holding hers gently within his own as he spoke: “This is a wonderful place to raise a family.” A singular statement, delivered with sincerity, convinced the young mother her intuition was trustworthy. He departed for the farmhouse. Mrs. Hertzog silently studied Carolyn’s facial expression. Reaching into her handbag, retrieving the checkbook tucked discreetly between the leather and a ragged tear in its tattered satin lining, the woman met her realtor’s gaze.

“My husband is out of town. How much would it take to hold this place?” Carolyn presented a delighted real estate agent with a check for five hundred dollars, earnest money to seal the deal, effectively emptying a bank account. A single impetuous act secured the farm for her family. Likewise, it all but assured certain conflict would erupt when her husband arrived home. It was worth risking Roger’s wrath. Looking back toward the house, she spied Mr. Kenyon pacing the porch, hoping to overhear some good news, no doubt. He raised his hand, holding it in place until she returned the gesture. He knew. Roger would soon breathe the sweetest air and drink the purest water. He too would sip the irresistible nectar and would, in time, ultimately succumb to a potent hypnotic spell cast by the natural beauty of this mysterious, magical place in the country. She need only convince him to come take the tour.

***

A long drive home seemed brief by comparison with an initial journey into deep, dark woods. Carolyn floated euphorically through their front door then grabbed Cathi, embracing her tightly. Shocked by this outburst, she realized what it meant. Oh, my God! What had she done? It was obvious; her dearest friend, the woman who could not even afford to
pay
the babysitter, had done something supremely impulsive. Her suspicions were instantly confirmed.

“I bought it!” Wild-eyed with excitement, she screamed out the news with a whisper the girls could not possibly hear…it was a secret.