Chapter 3
You may be wondering why I have chosen to fling myself into this lonely, if not pathetic, existence during the usually liberating, super fun, silly summer before college. Well, dear witness, I could tell you.
But first, let’s have a look around this place, shall we? From what I can assume, I am standing next to the formal sitting room. Where no one looks to have sat for half a century, despite its impeccable cleanliness. Looming over the entire affair is an enormous oil painting of a foxhunt. Horses. Hunters in red coats. Dogs salivating. Everyone looks very enthusiastic except, I am assuming, the fox, who is hopefully hiding somewhere far outside the parameters of the painting. One can only hope he somehow escaped this particular perilous moment in time.
The walls of this room are a kind of burnt pomegranate, a textured wallpaper that blends seamlessly into the enormous, intricately carved black fireplace. There are a few oil portraits of respectable-looking relatives staring down from the centuries, looking vaguely judgmental. A striped sofa, a mismatch of wingback floral chairs, and Victorian lamps on the side tables. It really seems as if this room is waiting for a party that was supposed to have happened more than a hundred years ago.
To the other side of me, camouflaged by the wooden panels to the entry hall, is the library, filled from floor to ceiling with books, curiosities, elaborate chinoiserie vases, and plants, which I am assuming I’ll have to water. The fireplace in this room is green marble surrounded by dark wood, and above it is a very calming painting of what I can only assume is the English countryside. The bookshelves are lit from within, so as to feature the curios and knickknacks. There is a globe on the table with dated place names: Leningrad, Bombay, Burma. I guess they felt there was no need for updating. Really, you get the idea. It’s Earth.
This, unlike the sitting room, looks very much inhabited. Newspapers, an empty mug, a few New Yorkers folded to a specific article. One particularly worn-deep leather chair with an equally worn ottoman in front of it. I believe we have discovered the inner sanctum of Professor Addington. I don’t blame him. It’s a pleasant place. The kind of place where you could lose yourself in the brooding mercurial moods of Mr. Darcy or the endless indecisiveness of Hamlet. They would come here to you. Spend the afternoon.
Stepping back into the depths of the house, I am led through the formal dining room, which is a place for Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter brunch, and maybe the odd dinner party. It’s a deep sort of robin’s-egg blue mixed with jade. A beautiful color, lit by sconces on each side of an enormous, imposing mahogany china cabinet. The deep wood dining table ends at the enormous gold-framed painting at the end of the room. Various proportions of gilded clocks are arrayed on the side table, like gold-wrapped women lounging through time, draped in gilt for eternity.
There is one funny thing here. As I lean in to marvel at the intricate gilding, there’s a rush of cold air, as if someone just opened a window in winter. I stand up, looking for a vent. There’s no clank of the air conditioner. And the feeling is gone.
It’s nothing really, I know. The gold-gilded beauties from the clocks seem utterly bored by the whole affair.
It’s funny in these old houses, there’s no effort to integrate the kitchen with the rest of the space. The general feeling seems to have been that the kitchen was built for servants. For “those people” who have nothing to do with the owners, other than doing everything for them. So, unlike the “open plans” you see everyone salivating over on the endless string of predictable yet somehow fascinating real-estate house-hunting TV shows, these places are closed off like a dirty secret. That’s the place where the little elves make . . . the foods!
This kitchen, shut off from the elegant dining room by a white swinging door, is white white whitey von whitington. The floors are white octagon tile. The cupboards are white. The walls are white. The dining set in the middle of the room . . . you guessed it, white. I am tempted to open the fridge to see if the food is white. Milk. Mayonnaise. White bread.
I suppose I’ll get to that later.
There’s a curious little window to the side, staring out at the back porch, where there is a kind of wrought-iron dining set and a few strategically placed ferns down the stone steps to the sprawling backyard guarded by three distinct towering oak trees.
I have an odd feeling standing here looking out at that patio dinette. As if I am not the first person to stare out this little window. I can picture a dinner conversation, and me spying out over it. And for a reason I don’t quite understand, I move quickly, VOOM, out of the room and up the stairs.
These are the servants’ stairs, I believe, leading from the back of the kitchen up to the second floor. They’re cramped in a tiny space, two feet wide, and steep. A staircase made for scurrying. Constructed long before building codes. I guess they figured the servants would be skinny. No seconds for you, underlings!
The second-floor landing offers a side table. On it, perfectly placed, a chinoiserie vase, looking like it might just cost a pretty penny. The rest of the second floor is divided between two grand bedrooms, each with its own sitting room, enormous walk-in closet, and en suite marble bathroom. Between them is a grand parlor, obviously meant for visiting second-story dignitaries. I resolve to investigate all of this later, and continue up the wooden formal entry-hall staircase, leading to the third floor, which is essentially the attic. My room, or the room I decide on, is tucked into the side of the attic, a converted space with vaulted wood ceilings; a queen-size bed with a quilt; a white, peeling dresser; a painting of a cat; and not much else.
Yes, I suppose I could cheat and take one of the fancy downstairs bedrooms, but that seems like an invasion. I’m the help, after all, and the professor seems like a nice man. The kind of man who could be a father figure if I play my cards right. Then I would have someplace to go for Christmas. Although, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I haven’t even met the wife.
I resolve to take a good look at the family photos.
I drop my belongings at the foot of the bed and sigh into the abyss. Yes, this attic is the perfect place for me this summer. This is exactly how unhappy I am. I will not have to pretend to be having a good time here. No one will be watching. No one will be expecting me to say something clever or even smile. Here, I will be able to just stare at that painting of a cat for hours, undisturbed.
Except.
At the bottom of the stairs. Two floors down. There is a giant THUD.
What could have made that sound? I’m the only person who’s supposed to be here.
I know, I know. I probably shouldn’t go investigate. But there wouldn’t be a story if I didn’t.
So it begins.
Chapter 4
As discussed, I am the only person who is supposed to be here, and I know that because that was part of the deal. I signed up for a solitary summer. A solo dirge.
Some knife-wielding murderer isn’t just going to go on ahead and interrupt my entire summer of abject self-pity, right?
I mean, the audacity!
The noise downstairs sounds nothing like the clank of the air conditioner, and more like a scuffling. Yes, there was a distinct thud but since then, a sort of shuffle shuffle shuffle. Also, a muttering.
Stupid ax murderer.
Peeking over the stairwell, I see some sort of array of printed fabrics positioning and repositioning themselves on a human figure below. Tiny painted flowers on a navy blue background, larger navy flowers on a floral background. A kind of matching mismatch of prints.