Ashes to Ashes

I VISIT REEVE NIGHT AFTER NIGHT. I MEET HIM IN his dreams. Every time, I say it’s the last time, that I need to end Reeve’s life once and for all. But when it’s morning I come back home, read some more of Aunt Bette’s books, and wait until the moon comes out again.

I’m startled by the jingling of keys in the front door, and then a stampede of high-heeled shoes crossing the threshold into the foyer.

In a flash I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs. It’s five women from the Preservation Society, dressed like they’ve just come from a fancy lunch, in fur-trimmed coats, heels and stockings, and quilted purses hanging from gold chains off their shoulders. They are huddled together like a pack, staring around, wide-eyed. One woman, the youngest, searches the wall for the light switch.

I stare at the switch as she clicks it on. Nothing happens. She tries again a few times.

“I guess they turned the electricity off already,” she says.

No, you idiot. The electricity is still on. I’m just not letting you use it.

Since my mother took Aunt Bette away, the Preservation Society has come by too many times to count. Usually they stick to the outside, circling the house, making notes in their notebooks, cupping their hands around their eyes to try to peer into the windows.

They’ve never come inside before.

“I can’t see a thing,” an older woman complains. She takes a step and almost trips over a pile of mail that was shoved through the front door slot. Another white-haired woman catches her.

“Ooh, I’ve got an idea!” the young woman says pertly. She pulls out her cell phone and uses the screen like a flashlight. The place is still a mess from when my mother dragged Aunt Bette away. The woman’s perky smile fades. “Oh my gosh.”

The eldest woman is also the shortest. Her chest is covered in a bib of pearls. “We’ll leave the front door open and just stick to the ground floor.” She steps over a buckled runner carpet. “I’m most anxious to see the state of the living room. I know the Zanes did some renovations, and I pray they were smart enough to leave the fireplace mantel intact.”

What do these women think they’re doing? I know they want to turn the place into some empty dollhouse with fake furniture that no one can live in, but this house has been in my family for more than a hundred years. There’s no way my mom or Aunt Bette would ever sell it. Which means that these women are trespassing.

They move as a group into the living room. It’s not in great shape. But Aunt Bette and Mom will clean it up when they come back this summer. I hope I’ll be in heaven, or wherever, by then. But it still makes me happy to think that my family will live on in this house, that Aunt Bette and my mom still have each other.

“Polly, make sure you take lots of pictures. This will definitely show the people at the benefit why we need to raise those funds.”

“We’ll have to get our interior guy on this straightaway. Danner, take some notes, and we’ll get a quote.”

“All right. We need to call the water company and the gas company and get the utilities shut off during renovation. As for that, all the lighting fixtures must go. I don’t think these built-in shelves are original, but we can look at the blueprints back in the office. We’ll need him to repair the crown moldings and . . . oh good Lord. This wallpaper is atrocious!” The lady with the pearls actually rips a piece off the wall and flicks it onto the floor.

I helped my mother pick out that wallpaper. We both loved the tiny birds on it and the flecks of foil. It was really expensive. It had to be special-ordered from overseas.

Another woman is staring at one of Aunt Bette’s paintings on the wall. She lifts it off and tosses it onto the floor, like it’s garbage. “Danner, have them bring two Dumpsters.”

They can keep dreaming. They can’t remove anything or renovate without an owner’s permission. I’ve heard my mother say that she’d rather sell a kidney than ever part with this house.

“Thank goodness Erica decided to donate the house. Another few months and this place would have to be condemned.”

What?

There’s no way. No.

“I’m surprised she wanted to hold on to it after her daughter killed herself in the room upstairs. If I were her, I’d never want to come back.”

Danner holds up her pencil. “Ooh! Actually, this may sound silly, but maybe we should look into having the place spiritually cleansed. I know a woman who does an excellent tarot reading in White Haven. She studied in India and—”

I feel like I’m about to burst out of my skin. And the house feels it too. Cracks bloom on the plaster walls; white dust sprinkles down like snowflakes. The women scream in unison.

They make for the front door, running through a gauntlet of spark and sizzle as I send bolts of electric current flashing out of outlets and light switches. Danner is the last one to the door, and I slam it and trap her inside before she can cross the threshold.

The other women outside are calling for her. Danner drops her notepad, grabs at the doorknob, and frantically tries to turn it to escape. I pucker my lips and blow some of the electrical sparks down onto the pages, making them catch fire. Their precious notes and measurements crackle into ash.

Shrieking, Danner peels off her fur coat, lays it down on the fire, and stamps the flames out. Then she picks her smoking coat up off the floor, and I finally let her open the door. She runs like mad down the walkway.

They might want this house, but they’re not going to get it. Not while I’m still here.

Suddenly I’m standing in front of a beautiful old building. There’s a bronze plaque next to the door.

JAR ISLAND PRESERVATION SOCIETY

I wonder if I’ve appeared here because I’m supposed to get back at these ladies. At Danner. I am here for a reason. I just need to find out what the reason is.

The office is closed up; there aren’t any lights on inside. I guess the whole staff was over scoping out my house. I pass through the locked door and look around inside. Every detail is beautifully restored. The place must have been an old bank or some kind of store. The ceilings are high, and the place glows with the pink setting sun.

I feel myself pulled down the hallway, and I go with the current. Hanging along the walls are black-and-white photographs of Jar Island from long ago. It’s like a museum. I stop at one photo, of a group of elected officials seated at a table covered in documents. Five men and one woman. She has to be my great-aunt, the first female alderman of Middlebury. She fought for the rights of the migrant workers on the island, to see that they were paid fairly and treated well by their employers. My family did such great things. I could have done great things too, if I hadn’t . . .

No. Wait. I am doing great things.

I am avenging the lost, the downtrodden. I am punishing those who deserve it.

I pass by an open office door and see a picture of my house up on an easel. On the desk there are contractor plans, beautiful plans, no doubt, but it’s not their right. The Preservation Society must have preyed on my mother, knowing she was so vulnerable.

They stole my house.

I snoop around on the desk. There’s a seating chart from last year’s fund-raiser. There’s an X over the date, and someone’s changed it to this year’s date. I scan the table assignments. I see Alex, his parents. Lillia and her parents at the same table with the Linds. I remember Lillia once telling me how much fun she and Alex had together at the fund-raiser. But someone has put a Post-it next to Lillia’s seat. It says available.

Well, that shouldn’t be. If Reeve is so intimidated by Alex Lind, if he’s so worried that Alex is going to steal Lillia away from him, then Lillia should definitely be at the benefit with Alex. I use my hand to lift that Post-it note off, and then I peel off the very top ticket in the pile.

Okay. Time to go make mischief.

But when I try to go, I can’t. I’m still in the office.

There must be something else I need to find.

It takes some searching, but I finally spot a creamy white envelope in the outbox. I can see through it to the letter inside, like the envelope is glass.

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to highly recommend acceptance of Katherine DeBrassio to Oberlin College. I have worked with Katherine for the last several months on a preservation project here on the island and am so impressed with the character . . .

It goes on and on, full of praise, glowing praise, detailing what a hard and motivated worker Katherine DeBrassio is. How she’d be an asset to any college.

Ah. Yes. I get it.

It makes me extra mad, knowing that she’s helped the place that basically stole our family house.

I pick the letter up between two fingers, blink, and the thing goes up in flames.