The Graveyard Shift (10 page)

Next came the Bandini brothers, with deep pockets and high hopes of stripping my body of its antique finishings for the purpose of resale. I upended their beds in the middle of the night, dragged them down the grand staircase into the main foyer, and offered them a closer inspection of my fine Tiffany chandeliers by dropping one inches from the elder brother’s head. They left that very night. The bank man came the next day for their bags. He turned to cast a wary look at me as he walked down the drive.

The next time the sign came down, it signaled the arrival of the Lindberg family. They were grotesquely fat, all of them, including the solitary child. And to match their gluttony, they were vile people, loud and obnoxious and ignorant to their own coarseness. Therefore I felt almost no remorse when I attacked them during their first piggish dinner in the kitchen. I turned the room into a tornado of flying utensils and food. The missus took a serving fork in her back fat, and her husband caught a rogue paring knife in his thigh. The child was knocked unconscious by a flying apple, likely the first one he had ever touched in his life. And just as they had begun to attend to their wounds and count their blessings that the event had stopped, I started it all over again.

That family, in particular, drained me of energy. Or rather it was what I had done to them. You see, I learned that my unusual exertions—the ones beyond standard maintenance—took their toll on me. It took days for me to recover fully from the kitchen table maelstrom. My memory had become hazy trying to recollect the rest of that evening, and the subsequent day. But, fortunately, by the time I did leave my convalescence I found that, like the evictees before them, the gluttonous Lindbergs too had left.

They
all
left eventually.

There were the
Morleys and the Andersons, neither of whom stayed longer than a week. Then came the absurdly foolish Bradys, who didn’t stay two full hours. They were followed by the veterinarian, Dr. Rodriguez, whose pups dared to piss on Mrs. Everton’s favorite imported rug.

And then there were a handful of others. But all of them were dealt with summarily. I did what had to be done in order to protect both myself and the honor of my family. And the more I did it, the easier it became. When one watches the heirlooms of his past tampered with and carelessly destroyed for long enough, he will come to understand the true purpose of wrath and the beauty of vengeance. One day, I ceased feeling bad about the occasional broken finger or mild maiming. I never inflicted undeserved pain on my temporary tenants. And I certainly never killed anyone.

But the entire ugly process began to wear me down, to harden me. It put me in the darkest frame of mind that I’d known beyond my grief for the Evertons. I began to contemplate the easy flicker of the gas stove, of the simple kindling that comprised my strong bones. Night after night it called to me, urged me to end the pain and regret once and for all.

And just when I thought I had reached the deepest, darkest bottom of my despair, I found a light.

One morning, a solitary man came knocking at my door. I watched him stand on the porch. There was an easy, unrushed grace about him. The stance was strikingly familiar; it was the same as my dearly departed Mr. Everton’s. This man was perhaps in his mid-fifties and fit, a heavy satchel slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t dressed professionally, but was clean-cut in khaki pants and a blue denim shirt. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, and also, a glint of kindness.

Again he rapped at the front door, cocking his head slightly, like a jeweler listening for the inner workings of a timepiece.

The rumble of an engine caught the man’s attention, and he turned to find the fellow from the bank skid to a halt in the driveway. Dirt kicked up at the car’s tires and the banker got out slowly. He was much older than the first time I had laid eyes on him. He was gray and paunchy, a direct opposite of the man on the porch.

“What an entrance,” the man said to the banker, extending a hand. “Jack Thorpe.”

The banker looked down at the hand and offered nothing more than a weak attempt at a smile. “You’ll have to excuse my pessimism, Jack, but I’ve not had much luck with this house. Let’s just get inside and get this over with, okay?”

The banker unlocked the front door and led Jack inside to the lobby. I could see the glazed look in Jack’s eyes as the banker prattled on in a monotone voice, the
same speech he’d told a hundred times before. Jack was not interested in the banker’s thoughts, and made this apparent when he left the banker alone to talk to himself and explored my hallways like a child navigating a maze. He pulled out a notepad and pen and scrawled down notes—items he needed to repair me. How much it would cost. Where he could get them.

“It is quite nice, isn’t it?” the banker asked, when he found Jack in Mr. Everton’s study a few minutes later, turning Mr. Everton’s lamp over in his hands.

“It’s very nice, and I’m very interested.” Jack set the lamp down with care, and then spread his arms wide. “So… go on with it, then.”

The banker arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“Well, what’s the catch?” Jack asked. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Caldwell. This mansion is dirt cheap and it’s gone through owners like I go through underwear. So spit it out, and not just because you’re legally obligated to. But because I’m curious.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed the banker smugly. “What, murder took place here? Or maybe little Johnny couldn’t take it anymore and hung himself in the basement? Or maybe mommy found daddy diddling the maid? Murder/suicide?”

The banker grimaced at Jack’s crudeness; I, on the other hand, admired his candor.
“Actually, no. People can’t get out of here fast enough because they say the house is alive. That it’s haunted and…” He sighed. “I can’t even believe I’m speaking these words… they say it’s trying to kill them.”

“I’m sure it is,” Jack said, running over a mural of scratches with the palm of his hand. “If I was treated like this, I’d try to murder you, too.”

That afternoon Jack signed on the dotted line, and that evening he returned in a huge work truck with more supplies than I’d ever seen stuffed into one vehicle. There was paint, and bags of plaster, and wallpaper. There were blinds—ornate ones, and not cheap plastic, either—and endless rolls of carpeting. It all was in the style of what I held now, and it was all top quality. But that was all that came in that truck, and I realized then that Jack was alone. He heaved his toolbox inside, like a metal, riveted briefcase and proceeded to fix me from the ground up. By himself.

The first week Jack spent with me, I’d like to think we bonded. He spent it in near darkness with weak lighting and sweat pooling at his brow, but he took great care to fix every crack, every scratch, every dent and every imperfection, so I made sure to shine my lights in just the spot he needed, and if he lost a screw or a nail, I always made sure it popped up right in his line of vision. And when he was thirsty, and he walked back to his truck and saw that he had forgotten his thermos at home, I turned on the hose out front.

“Someone must have left this on,” he muttered to himself with a laugh, before drinking freely.

Jack was taking care of me, and I was taking care of him. And when he was done with all of his agonizing work, I thought I might have looked better than I did when Mr. Everton’s father first constructed me, some
one hundred years ago. My wood had never looked sharper, my walls never smoother. I even felt better.

And though he hadn’t stayed the night yet during this week of restoration, opting instead to drive to his old home, on the sixth day he brought in a bed and fell into it quite wearily after eight hours of
grueling work. I thought he was still sleeping as he hung one foot over the edge of the bed and laid with his torso completely uncovered, but that seemed to not be the case as I gently lifted his blankets up to chin and tucked him in.

“
Ahhh, you aren’t so bad, now are you?” he asked aloud. His eyes remained closed, and there was a smile on his face.

We spent the next few days together, Jack and I. A truck arrived, assumedly filled with his possessions, but he had yet to move a single thing inside. First, he rearranged some of the existing furniture, which actually freed up some space in the living room, and vigorously cleaned my entire interior. I tried to give him his privacy since I had begun to trust the man, but I was still naturally curious. So I watched him from time to time, seeing only care and patience in his movements. That made me happy.

On that particular day of cleaning, Jack had reached the end of the road. His cleaning frenzy was completed. He acknowledged this, in the den, when he finally laid down the last of his dust cloths and fell into the plush crimson upholstery of one of my oldest Victorian sofas. He sat there for a good five or ten minutes in silence, just staring at the empty hearth. I could imagine his satisfaction. In fact, I shared it. As noted before, I had not felt so good in ages. Had we been able to speak to one another, I would have commended Jack, even thanked him.

And then he did something which struck me as odd. He stood up, walked to the mantle at which he’d been staring, and lifted the five-foot-tall oil painting of the Everton family off the wall.

What was he doing? Surely he couldn’t be thinking of getting rid of such a beautiful canvas. I had been so sure the man was not a selfish wretch like the others. I felt a surge of fury well up within me, and unconsciously, the windows in the den all closed with a slam.

Jack was not startled in the least, but gingerly rested the painting next to his feet and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

“As an artist, I assure you this piece will be treated with the utmost respect.”

He laid the picture against the wall and left the room. He went out the front door, opened the back of the moving truck, and removed a package wrapped in brown paper almost identical in size to the painting of the
Evertons. He brought it into the house, the first of his personal possessions beside his toolbox and bag of clothes.

I must admit, I felt anxious. I wanted to trust the man, but I was so confused by what he was doing.

When Jack peeled back the paper, I was surprised to see a splay of pretty, bright colors. The canvas he revealed was a breathtaking rendition of a field of sunflowers, basking in the radiant heat of a summer sun. The detail was amazingly sharp, almost looking like a color photo rather than a handcrafted scene. The blues, yellows, and greens were vivid in their contrast and at the same time, soft in their overall cooperation.

And then I understood. The painting was one of his. He had said he was an artist, but in my panicked confusion I had
failed to process the words.

In no time at all, Jack had hung the painting on the wall. It was a perfect fit for the space above the mahogany mantle. It came as a surprise to me that I was able to admit that, given my fondness for the previous occupant of the wall. He smiled at that field of flowers, pride shining in his eyes and an easy heart. I saw fully then that this act of replacement was done without a trace of malicious intent. Jack had nothing against me,
nor the Evertons. He was merely bringing new life into my old, rattling bones. He was making this his home. And really, could I blame him for that?

Jack spoke aloud and it was then I knew he was acutely aware of my presence.

“That is my finest piece,” he said. “And I hope it brings you—and us—as much joy as it has brought me the last few years it has hung in my studio in the city.”

Yes, I thought. I believed that it would.

Jack put a hand on the framed painting of the Evertons. He touched it gently, which I greatly appreciated.

“As I said, I have the highest respect for art. I am sure this portrait means a great deal to you as I do understand its historical significance. I give my word to keep it safe.” His words were firm, but spoken with honest empathy. This was a man of honor, o
f dignity and class. I knew he told the truth.

I watched as he took the painting outside and set it on the covered porch. Th
ere he proceeded to wrap it as carefully as the package he’d just opened, using soft paper wrapping and tape. When finished, Jack placed the picture in the wine cellar, among the empty racks.

Jack returned to the moving truck, which was backed up to the bottom of the steps. He lifted the rolling rear door, revealing not the furniture or boxes that I had expected, but rather a tangle of metal rods and wooden tables. I could also discern multiple rows of paper-wrapped parcels, clearly more of his artwork.

I must admit, I was intrigued. In my life, I had never before been exposed to the habits of the artistically inclined. Was I about to bear witness to the creation of a new painting? I had already witnessed the fruits of Jack’s abilities and was eager to see the process of invention.

Over the course of the next hour, I watched as Jack hefted one table after another inside the front door. Some were larger than others, and I quickly found that at least half of them were easels. He placed them in almost every room of the bottom floor. Despite their size variations, it was clear that all of them served one unifying purpose: that of display.

Covered in sweat and panting, Jack did not say a word. I got the impression he was trying to gauge my reaction to the presence of his new additions. He looked around the den, gaze lingering on the now open windows for nearly a full minute. The stillness must have satisfied him, because he smiled and wiped sweat from his brow. He glanced at his wristwatch and turned to the staircase.