The Last House on the Street(47)

I’ve kept quiet as you two searched for the perfect site for the new house and I was pleased when you said you were looking to build just two miles from me; I love having Rainie be a big part of my life. If I didn’t sound thrilled when you told me your exact choice of location at dinner tonight, I’m sorry. I know my reaction disappointed both of you and I think I need to explain. I didn’t want to go into it all with Kayla there and poison her feelings about the site, if it does turn out to be where you decide to build.

The Hockleys, who, as you know, own the only property on Hockley Street, will never sell their house as long as either Buddy or Eleanor, who lives in California, are alive. They are the stubborn types who will probably put something in their wills to turn that place into a halfway house for drug addicts or some such thing after they die. If you go through with building your home on Hockley Street, just know you’ll most likely have that old house in your neighborhood for as long as you live there.

One other thing, and of course I feel like a fool writing this, but … when I was young, everyone thought the woods where you plan to build were haunted. I don’t believe in spirits, of course, but I can’t help it; I’ve always had an uncomfortable feeling about that area. But who knows? If you and Kayla decide to build there, maybe it will be your beautiful new home that puts my discomfort to rest.

I felt like I needed to share my thoughts with you, but I trust your judgment and I know you always have Kayla and Rainie’s best interest at heart.

With love and admiration,

Reed, a.k.a. Dad

What the hell?

Jackson never mentioned the letter to me, but I do remember the dinner Daddy referred to. He came over on a weeknight, as he often did. He was lonely since Mom died and I loved the way he interacted with Rainie. Even then, when she was barely two, he was so attentive to her and she lit up when he was around. That evening, as we ate tuna noodle casserole made from my mother’s recipe, one Daddy loved, we told him that we were in negotiations with the developer who planned to put twenty-one houses on Hockley Street, turning it into an upscale neighborhood they’d call Shadow Ridge. Jackson and I were about to put our deposit down on the prime lot; the one with all the trees at the end of the street. I expected my father to congratulate us. He knew we’d been looking for the right piece of land for over a year. But he pushed his casserole around on his plate, not looking at either of us. I remember exchanging a glance across the table with Jackson.

“You know where we mean?” I finally asked my father.

Of course he knew. It wasn’t like Hockley Street was tucked away out in the boonies.

Daddy finally looked up. “Sure,” he said. “I’m just trying to picture it. All those houses on that little road. All that kudzu.”

Jackson had laughed. “Yeah, that’ll be a mess to get rid of all right, but not my problem. The developers are responsible for clearing the land. I just want to be sure they leave the most trees possible.”

“Uh-huh.” Daddy stared at his wineglass. Finally, he looked up and smiled at me, then Jackson. He nodded his head. “Well, you’re sure that’s the lot you want?” he asked.

I can’t remember what Jackson and I said after that. Something like, we think this is the perfect lot or we’ve made up our minds. Now I wonder if my father’d had a sixth sense about us building here. Something he couldn’t adequately express. There is no doubt in my mind that if we hadn’t chosen to build this house on this spot, Jackson would still be alive and I’d feel joy every time I walked in the front door. But there is no way my father could have predicted what happened. And the bit about the area being haunted? I’d felt it, hadn’t I? At night, when the world outside the house was dark as pitch? Or even in the daylight, when Rainie and I walked around the trail and I felt the wave of cool air that had made me shiver, despite the warmth of the day.

I wish I hadn’t found the letter. I crumple it up and put it in the recycling bag, then take it out again. Flatten it on the desk. I don’t know why, but I think I should keep it. Then I look around the room at the dozens of other boxes, and I hope there will be no more surprises.





Chapter 22



ELLIE


1965

The past four days had been some of the longest—and most educational—of my life. I finally felt like Win and I had become friends. He gave me small peeks into his life: He had a younger sister, handicapped from having polio. She took all his parents’ energy, he said. “Someday when they’re gone, she’ll be my responsibility,” he told me. I could tell that he loved his sister, that she broke his heart, and that his family was close. He missed them. I envied him for that. I did miss Buddy, but not my parents. To be honest, I was glad to be away from them. As for Reed, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him after the past couple of weeks. I hadn’t written to him. He didn’t fit very neatly into my life right now. I felt like it had been years instead of two weeks since I’d last seen him and my family. No one other than my fellow field-workers could understand what I was experiencing.

I felt safe most of the time as I canvassed with Win. No white people lived in this part of Flint and we hardly ever saw anyone on the rutted roads other than curious neighborhood children, much less white men ready to kill us. The children loved the novelty of us. We were new people to talk to and sing with and walk with. Many of them were particularly interested in me. They didn’t see white people very often, if ever, and they held my hand, swinging my arm as I taught them “I’ll Fly Away” and “I Love Everybody,” inserting the names of people they loved and—at my insistence—the people they hated, and they taught me their favorite songs and took us to see their parents, giving us exactly the introduction we needed.