Now I don’t yet know why houses have so much grief concealed in them if they try to be anything at all and try to live as themselves. But they do. Like people in this I suppose.
Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Lloyd Wright: An Autobiography
On a rainy Sunday night one week after her parents’ car skated off the road into the woods, Gina Gilbert pounded and kicked the old front door that had swelled against the jamb until it suddenly gave way, pitching her, soggy and luggage-laden, into the tiny entry hall of her childhood home.
Her sister, Cassie, stepped inside behind her. The chime of the ship’s clock greeted them, followed by the sad moan of the lighthouse clock.
“Cape Ann,” Cassie said. “Ten o’clock.”
“It smells horrible in here,” Gina said.
The fat, blue ceramic lamp on the living room table was already on, its wide shade standing sentry over a collection of framed family photographs. Gina squinted to shut out the room. The cold, early darkness and crowded, closed-up rooms were the lesser reasons she’d come back here only in the summers since moving to California thirteen years ago. Tonight, the sepia-toned lamplight was not just forlorn but tinged with death. Gina’s legs threatened to fold under her. “Cass,” she said, “I think I’m going to bed.”
Cassie touched her arm. “It’s still early. We’ll be okay. We’re here together. Besides, I made us some applesauce cake.”
Gina draped her wet coat on top of Cassie’s on the newel post and followed her sister through the living room to the kitchen.
“It smells even worse in here,” Cassie said. “Skunky and like something is rotting.” She pulled the string that switched on the ceiling light. The hodge-podge kitchen, which doubled as the laundry room, filled with a harsh glow.
“Oh, God. Look.” Gina pointed to mice droppings on the floor. “They’ve moved in already.”
Finding the garbage can empty, they checked the cupboards for spoiled food without uncovering the source of the odor. Cassie sliced up the applesauce cake and handed a piece to Gina on a napkin. She ate dutifully. “Yum,” she said.
“I actually made the applesauce for it—from Macintosh apples,” Cassie said. “Comfort food.”
Cassie’s momentary perkiness faltered in recognition of this current absurdity; she looked as pale and defeated as Gina felt. The sisters shared a crooked smile, small features, and delicate skin that tanned easily. At five-foot-two, Cassie was four inches shorter than Gina, but her broad-shouldered athleticism buttressed her role as older sister, which, at fifty, she still took very seriously.
When the teakettle whistled, Cassie pulled two herbal teabags from her purse and Gina understood they’d be sitting down together at the old pine table in the foul air. There they ping-ponged practicalities: bills, insurance, pensions, auction, flowers, canceling this, ordering that, boxes, trucks. Gina had traveled all day from San Francisco and as soon as Cassie had her in the car at Logan Airport she’d hit her with the news that Mr. Hickle, their parents’ landlord of fifty years, had called to tell them they had to be out of the house by the end of the month. The prospect of moving out on top of getting through the funeral nearly suffocated Gina.
Now, the stench in the room began to work on the food in her stomach. “Something died,” she said.
Cassie looked at her blankly. Gina stood, opened the door to the small shed built off the kitchen, and gasped. A dead skunk lay just past the threshold, feet splayed out, a clear plastic cranberry juice bottle stuck on its head.
Behind her, Cassie barked, “Shut the door!”
“It’s dead.”
For the first time all day, Gina felt alive. She insisted on taking care of the skunk herself, finding some rubber gloves under the sink and a pair of tin snips to cut the bottle off the skunk. She wrapped the animal in two old swimming towels from the shed and then walked through the rain to the garage, where she laid it on the floor. Should she bury it? she wondered. Did the town dump even take dead animals?
Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice was her mother’s favorite. Gina imagined the skunk rummaging in her parents’ recycling box that only got emptied every couple of weeks and then blundering around the shed terrified, possibly for days. Feeling a fresh surge of anger about human carelessness, she trudged back to the house.
Upstairs, Cassie was sitting on her childhood bed, her face glowing in the light from her computer. “Jake’s Wi-Fi password still works,” she said, referring to the next-door neighbor.
Gina took her laptop into the bathroom, where she knew the connection was better, closed the toilet lid, and sat down to check her email. She was relieved to see that most of her architecture clients still seemed to be respecting her absences of the past week; there were a few easy questions from contractors and employees, and one message from her ever-eager client, Jeff Stone: Know you’re tied up. When you get a chance, give a call. Thanks much.
She answered a note from her husband, Paul, who wrote before leaving for his book group that all was fine at home with their children, ten-year-old Esther and six-year-old Ben. Gina had called Paul at work three times from Logan Airport, getting his voicemail every time. It had been wrenching to leave her family, and she was especially worried about Esther, who’d missed two days of school after her parents’ accident, crying almost continuously. Paul, Esther, and Ben would fly out on Friday for the funeral on Saturday. Six days! It would be the longest she’d ever been away from them. She looked at her watch; the babysitter would be helping the kids get ready for bed now. She wrote Paul a quick report on her trip, closed her laptop, and went back to Cassie’s room.
“The sheets for Dad’s bed are in the bottom drawer in your room,” Cassie told her.
Your room, Gina thought with dread, crossing the hall. Since she’d left home, she’d always stayed in Cassie’s room when visiting. Her own was connected by a door to her parents’ room—a war zone. Her father had moved into it fifteen years ago when he was exiled from the marital bed. His twin bed was, as usual, meticulously made, not a wrinkle in the cotton bedspread. His hearing aid lay on the bedside table. Three pairs of shoes were lined up at the foot of his bureau, all of them leaning to the outside.
She took the sheets from the drawer and pressed them to her face, seeking reassurance in the fresh crispness of cotton dried outdoors.
Cassie appeared in the doorway wearing a too-small Andrews Academy T-shirt that Gina knew had been sitting in Cassie’s bureau for at least thirty years. “G’night,” she said, embracing Gina in a strong, protective hug.
“G’night,” Gina murmured into her sister’s neck.
Cassie went back to her room, and Gina slid between the cold sheets, turned out the light, and lay listening. Somewhere near her head, a loose cable outside slapped the clapboards. Now and then a gust whooshed the rain against the house, and the window rattled. Then, for a few moments when the rain seemed to cease, she thought she could hear the house breathing; she listened reluctantly, the way one listens to the dying.
She folded the pillow over her head, and after a long time, dozed off for what seemed like only seconds before a bumping noise woke her. She got up, went into the hall, and
