The Heirloom

 

The Heirloom

                                                          By E. J. Gwynne

I was busy in the kitchen rubbing salt into the slimy uncooked flesh of the chicken I was making for dinner. While my one-year-old son played with the pots he’d gleefully unearthed from the cabinet, and O.C., my border collie, begged next to me, tail wagging lazily back and forth. A summer breeze floated in from the kitchen window I had cracked open, the heavenly smells of hydrangeas and honeysuckle drifting in. It was one of those dreamy summer twilights with a pink and deep purple sunset still cresting over the horizon, peeking just above the tree line.

Now and then there came a Bang, Bang, Clang, with fits of giggles by my feet.

“Having fun, Buddy?” I smiled down at my son.

My wife and I thankfully traded dinners. Otherwise, I’d probably not be so amenable. But it had been one of those slow summer days, quickly turning into a quiet evening.

My wife, Anessa, ambles yawning into the room through one of the high arches that are prevalent in our home. Her chestnut hair pulled into a messy bun, the tank-top she wore slipping off the side, her heavily tattooed right arm up over her head as she itches her back; Pink and red roses intertwined in an artful sleeve.

We live in an old house. We bought it in what I’d thought was a steal. It came with five acres of woodland, a creek, and an old, dilapidated barn. My wife was obsessed with all things fixer-upper and though I knew how to use a hammer, I was not quite as enthused with the project as she was.

We’d only been in residence for six months. Though, I wasn’t as at ease in the house as my wife and son. They don’t experience the same creeping sensations I do when I enter the basement to do laundry or feel like someone was standing right behind you on the second-floor landing in front of the bathroom.

I think it was the same presence. It had the same feel. Though, I told myself it was an old house and that you were supposed to feel these things in old houses. I’ve basically been conditioned since childhood to think that all old houses are haunted to some extent. So, it had to be my mind playing all kinds of funny tricks on me. At least that’s what I told myself.

Anessa smiles down at Buddy. Bending over him and giving him a big kiss on his adorable blonde head.

“Whatcha making?” she asks, sliding her arms around my neck in a hug.

I’ve just put the chicken onto the baking pan and washed my hands, quickly drying them on the drying cloth. I was about to answer her when the doorbell rang.

We both stiffen. O.C. begins to bark, scurrying to the front door, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. Buddy looks up at us, confusion on his face. I could tell he was debating on whether or not he should cry from the commotion caused by the dog and our postures.

“Hmm, a package? Did you order anything?” I ask untangling myself, scooping up Buddy, placing him in the crook of my hip.

Anessa shrugs, “Maybe?”

“Ok, I’ll check. Can you put the chicken in the oven?” I say as Buddy and I pass through the archway and into the dining room.

My wife painted the dining room a dark red with leaf gold. It’s got antique mahogany furniture left here by the previous owners, whom I presume didn’t want to lug all the heavy wooden furniture out when they moved. A large China cabinet sits in the corner, the China within only used at Christmas, if ever. Anessa had insisted on keeping her grandmother’s floral China, so into the cabinet it had gone.

Buddy and I pass through another arch and into the foyer. A beautiful grand staircase slopes up to the second level. All hardwood, the banister painted a lovely eggshell white, with pictures of our family descending up along the wall.

I purposefully keep my gaze trained on the front door, away from the balcony above. Sometimes if I thought too hard about it, I’d swear the bathroom door was open, when I know I’d shut it. If I looked, it would be open, but the door would be firmly shut if I went up the steps to check. I’d gotten into the habit only days after we had moved in. Some part of me couldn’t bear to see the opened bathroom.

 Now I just avoided looking up. O.C. didn’t like going in the bathroom either, so I know I’m not the only one. Unfortunately for me, it’s the only bathroom in the house with a tub, and I love taking long hot baths.

The front door of our house is a 1930’s art nouveau, with stained glass, the wood painted teal by my wife. I can just make out an outline of a person standing on our front porch. Buddy points to the door and says, “Guh.”

            “That’s right,” I nod, “A person.”

 I flip on the front porch lights and unlock the door, pulling it open. “Back, O.C. I said back!”

            O.C. barks once more, but reluctantly moves behind me, whining.

            I’d been expecting a UPS or FedEx delivery person. The assumption had been so strong that when I see the older woman in front of me my mind flays about, trying desperately to register this new reality. Twilight summer noises of crickets, cicadas, and bats envelop my senses as I stand staring at the older woman standing randomly on my porch. I don’t see a car in the driveway. Did this old woman walk here? Was she a neighbor?

            The woman before me appears to be one of those posh southern ladies. Hair immaculately styled in humid one-hundred-degree heat, dyed light brown, fashioned in a short bob. She wears cotton fitted red trousers and a white silk blouse. She’s a short woman; slim. Crows’ feet and a deep set of laugh lines were the only tells of her age. She could’ve been anywhere between 50 and 60, maybe early 70’s? It was hard to tell under her make-up. She has deep brown eyes, almost black in the darkening light. And as I look into them, I feel like I’m staring down two bottomless wells. She smiles at me with a row of straight white teeth and for one horrible moment, I picture a wolf. A wolf coming across a herd of deer, they don't seem to care, and they keep grazing. It kills a doe and begins to eat.

            “Yes?” I say as I stick one leg out to stop the dog from rushing at the woman.

 Buddy wraps his arms around me more protectively, suddenly shy. I can feel him staring, peeking out from under his bangs.

“Good evening,” she drawls. “Sorry to bother you, but—well, I don’t know how to say this—I used to live here.”

I can feel my eyebrows scrunch. I was not expecting that.

“Hum,” I respond, not knowing what else to say.

Buddy is starting to get heavy, and the dog is whining behind me, pushing on my leg.  Then I hear Anessa call out from the back of the house, “Is it a package?” and light footsteps as she comes to investigate.

The sun now ultimately sets behind the trees as I stand there, allowing the lightning bugs’ bioluminescent glow to become more visible. If I look up, I know I’ll be able to make out early stars. It’s getting late. A little past Buddy’s bedtime. Anessa and I should have put him to bed an hour ago.

Anessa comes up behind me, and I see the older woman focus on her.

“Hello, can we help you?” Anessa asks full of curiosity.

“Yes, dear,” the older woman smiles wider, “You can. I used to live here, you see, and I was wondering if y’all could be so kind as to let me walk around the place one more time.”

“Hmm, we’re about to eat dinner,” I say, hoping the woman takes the hint and leaves. Buddy rubs his head into my shoulder and yawns. “And we’ve got to put the baby to bed.”

I don’t like the woman’s smile. It raises my hackles and I firmly want to slam the door in her face. Though Anessa doesn’t get my hint either. I can tell she is thoroughly intrigued and fascinated by this bizarre situation. She maneuvers me to the side so that I’m now out of the doorframe. O.C. begins a low growl, though Anessa unconcerned, waves her hand down at the dog and goes, “Hush.” Before turning back to the strange woman. “You used to live here? When? Are you the previous owner?”

Maybe I’m just biased or getting hangry, but whatever is controlling my mood, I feel like the smile on the older woman’s face doesn’t quite meet her dark eyes. With Anessa in the doorway now, Buddy doesn’t seem as shy. He twists in my arms, pointing at the older woman, babbling something while reaching out for my wife. Anessa glances at him adoringly.

“This is our son,” she says proudly as if holding up something that she made to her first-grade teacher.

I’m about to interject, “Well you’ve seen the house, so bye-bye now,” or something along those lines… “Get the fuck off my porch,” is also a contender. I don’t care if it’s rude; God forbid being rude in the south. Then again, Southerners have a real nosy problem and find it hard to mind their own fucking business, case in point of the current situation. Though, before I can say what I’m thinking, the older woman continues the conversation.

“Oh my, many many years ago now,” She waves vaguely over in the direction of the dilapidated barn, “When that old thing was still standing.” Then gives a tinkle of a laugh that makes me want to grind my teeth, before continuing. “I’m just passing through and thought I’d give it a shot. A chance to see if I might walk through the old place again. Take a trip down memory lane, you know.”

Anessa claps her hand in front of her mouth, “Oh, how lovely!” she declares, “Yes! Of course, you can come inside and look around. We’re renovating, or at least trying, ha ha. So, it’s kind of a mess. But yes! Do come in.” She steps aside.

“Anessa!” I protest, just as O.C. gives a low rumbling growl. I grab her collar before she can do anything. Now I’m holding the dog and the baby and feeling invisible because Anessa has pointedly ignored me and invited a stranger into our home.

“Bless your little heart, thank you, dear.”

Anessa scoops Buddy out of my arm and follows the older woman down the foyer, leaving me with O.C. who’s now struggling to go after them, her growls getting more and more threatening.

“What is wrong with you?” I hiss at the dog. “Either chill or I’ll put you outside.”

O.C. ignores me too and her growls become more frantic. I’ve never seen her act so aggressively towards another person before. I push her outside the still opened door and shut it. She barks desperately, scratching at the door.

 She’ll be fine, trying to push away my unease.

I turn around to head after my wife when involuntarily I glance up. The bathroom door is wide open, and I can see a dark shadow hovering just within. My heart leaps almost out of my chest and I close my eyes, as I hurriedly catch up with the others. It’s a trick of the light, that’s all.

“—Oh goodness me, look at what you’ve done with the place. What pretty wallpaper.”

“Oh, I actually painted it. But thank you!”

They’re standing in the dining room.

“I see that you kept the China cabinet.”

As if in a trance, the older woman seems to glide over to the large cabinet and begins to caress the side paneling.

“Oh yes, we did!” Anessa begins as if this isn’t the weirdest thing we’ve ever experienced. “The previous owners left it, we assume because it’s probably extremely heavy to move, so we decided to use it too.”

“Hmm, yes,” she pauses, then adds almost as an afterthought, “This was my grandmother’s cabinet. Such lovely craftmanship in those days. Good bones to fill up with your secrets.”

She pats the old cabinet once more before moving on into the kitchen. I glance sideways at my wife, my eyebrows raised. Anessa doesn’t look at me. She sets Buddy back onto the ground, and he wobbles beside her before lifting his arms above his head proudly, taking steps.

“Did your grandmother live here too?” Anessa inquires, her voice piqued with curiosity.

“She did,” the older woman answers, cryptic. She stops before the stove. Looking at it with distaste. Her frown deepened the wrinkles around her mouth in a scowl. The kitchen smells like cooking chicken and steaming broccoli. Anessa must’ve begun steaming them while I was at the front of the house. I check through the oven window to see if anything is burning before turning around with my arms crossed.

“We used to have an old-fashioned range here. I supposed the previous owners gutted it?” She turns towards us as she asks, one perfect eyebrow raised haughtily.

Anessa sputters, “We would never— I, I mean we, love antiques.”

Buddy wobbles back over to his pots and begins banging happily. Smiling up at us in delight. I can still hear O.C.’s occasional barks from outside. Annoyed at this woman’s insinuations I start to say that old stoves are impractical nowadays, and a fucking hassle besides, but once again I am unable to. Interrupted with another weird declaration from the older woman.

“I see you got the stain out of the wood,” she points at a spot by the gas stove we now have. My eyes follow her finger, and I half expect there to be a ‘stain’ on the hardwood. Though, there’s nothing. What does she mean by stain? What kind of stain? But now she’s moving on. Her eyes linger on another opening that leads into the living room from the other side of the kitchen, where Anessa and I have a comfortable lounge sofa, our TV, and all of Buddy’s toys.

Though her roving dark eyes don’t stay there long. They come to rest on the basement door. It was just for a second, and maybe I imagined it, but a shadow shifts across her composed features. She clears her throat, before rearranging her face back into a beam of poise and charm.

“May I see the basement?” she asks my wife, ignoring me completely.

Anessa at once tries to please the older woman. Though she seems bemused at the request. The basement?

“Oh yes, of course!” she crosses the kitchen, her messy bun bouncing, and opens the plain basement door, gesturing for the older woman to enter. “Can you get Buddy?” she says airily over her shoulder to me before following the older woman down the stairs.

I scoff, irate. Glowering after her, I reach down to pick up baby boy, then follow. There is no way I’m leaving my wife alone with that woman.

As I step down to the concrete floor, the cool damp air sends a slight shiver over my skin. Buddy clutches my neck a little tighter. At first, I can’t put my finger on it, but as I come fully into the space, I can feel that same awareness that I sense when I’m doing laundry. It’s come down from the bathroom...

However, the sensation has intensified exponentially. It’s like lightning. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a thunderstorm, a metallic current roving over my teeth. I half expect to be shocked. Then I imagine fingertips gliding up the back of my arm in an invasive caress. I want to violently twitch, and bolt back up the stairs, but I’m holding Buddy and Anessa is fidgeting behind the woman.

The woman is staring at an electrical socket opposite the laundry machines. She is gazing so intensely that an impulse comes over me.

“That plugs never worked,” I say sounding stupid even to myself.

Anessa lets out a laugh, “She probably doesn’t need to know that.”

Just as the older woman speaks, “I know.”

I move closer to my wife, wanting to feel her closeness. I hate the way that the basement makes me feel isolated even while I’m holding my son. And I can’t shake the fear of whatever I think is down here.

Buddy is watching the woman too. We all are. She’s moved over to the wall and is squatting next to the plug.

“May I have some privacy?” she asks, glancing at us.

Anessa seems about to say, “yes,” but this time I get there first.

“No.”

The older woman shrugs her shoulder as if to say, “very well”, and sticks her polished fingernails in between the cracks of the wall socket, wiggling it out. I see a black hole, devoid of wires before she reaches into it almost up to her elbow.

The older woman then pulls out a massive, bejeweled diamond ring.

She holds it up. Its marquise-shaped, inlaid with tiny diamonds that sparkle in the overhead light, perched on a band of thick gold. A diamond within a diamond. Both Anessa and I gasp. Our mouths hang agape.

Buddy points at the ring, “Da,” he says.

The older woman’s face has transformed into a manic desire. It’s almost obscene. She stands, carefully, the ring clutched tightly between her wrinkled fingers.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time. Though,” she grins at us, “y’all won’t much longer.”