Dreamland(79)

“Over there,” I said, pointing to the table separate from the rest, “is where she runs the business side of things.” Her laptop computer stood open, along with an overflowing wire inbox, a stack of notepads, a coffee cup filled with pens, and a half-filled water bottle. Beside the work desk stood some mismatched file cabinets piled high with assorted books, ranging from the history of stained glass to coffee-table photo collections of Tiffany lamps. “The cabinets hold copies of all the original Tiffany designs, information on her clients, and specific work details on the lamps she’s already created and sold. I think I told you she’s built a good business, but I probably underplayed that. She’s one of the few people in the country who do this, and she’s far and away the best. You can find her work in some of the most beautiful and expensive homes in the country and as far away as Europe. Which is kind of crazy when you think about it, since she’s lived most of her life right here on the farm, except for the few years she was married. The local guy she learned from was competent at stained glass, nothing more—he mainly did windows or pieces that hang in windows, and he worked with lead, not solder—so she taught herself all of this. And then figured out how to identify customers, market and promote her work. Without her, I don’t think the farm would have made it. Most of the money we needed for the early changes actually came from her. She gave it to us without a second thought.”

Morgan studied the workshop thoroughly before her eyes swung back to me.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because I told you that she was smart and talented and generous. I don’t want you to forget those things. Just like I don’t want you to forget that she’s my best friend in the world, or that we play games or watch movies at night, or that she’s an excellent cook. Or that she was the one who pretty much raised me. I don’t know who I would have become without Paige.”

“I never doubted any of those things,” she said.

I smiled, feeling the weariness of the last few days. “You will.”

“I don’t understand…”

I lowered my gaze, extending my hand again. “Come with me.”

I closed up the barn and led Morgan toward the house, pausing at the front door. “She painted the door red, by the way. I thought it was silly, but she told me that early on in America, a red door meant that visitors were welcome. Like if they were traveling on horseback, it would be a place they could spend the night or get something to eat. That’s what she thinks a home should be.”

I steeled myself before reaching for the knob, then finally opened the door. I gestured for Morgan to step inside, noting that her gaze swept from left to right. I slipped past her, walking toward the kitchen. In the silence, I heard her tentative steps as she followed.

In the air was the odor of burned and spoiled food mixed with the faint residue of fresh paint. In the kitchen, dishes were piled high in the sink and on the stovetop and atop the table. There was a plate of chicken drumsticks, charred on one side, raw on the other; on another plate was raw hamburger, already spoiled. There was a pot of soaking beans on one of the stove burners. There were unfinished meals on the table, next to a container of milk that had turned rancid. In a dirty mason jar with a large dirty spoon beside it, I saw what appeared to be a dead tadpole. All the drawers and cabinet doors stood open. The walls of the kitchen were yellow, but the paint job had been hasty and sloppy, with smears on the cabinets and countertops and splashes on the floor. Kitchen utensils were splayed everywhere, and in front of the sink was a pile of detergents, cleansers, sponges, and other items that had obviously been pulled out in haste. Dead flowers sat in a jelly jar, and I saw Morgan startle at the bloodstains on the counters. On the table, strangely, was a drawing of a house; though in crayon, it was surprisingly good, and it reminded me of the place where Paige had lived in Texas. Picking our way to the pantry, we surveyed the cleared shelves and items stacked on the floor. She said nothing as we walked to the living room—I wordlessly pointed out the emptied closet in the hallway as we passed—but noted with obvious shock the cockeyed cabinet and half-painted wall, rotting apple cores on the rug, toppled stacks of DVDs and books and albums and a pair of Paige’s shoes and other odds and ends heaped everywhere. The television was on the floor, and as I used the remote to check that it was still working, I saw that it was tuned to the cartoon channel and turned it off. Touring the back porch, we observed that almost everything except a drill and saw had been removed from the shelves and placed on the floor, just like in the pantry.

We eventually climbed the stairs to the second floor where I absently motioned toward the contents of the linen closet heaped in the hallway. In my room, there was a stack of children’s clothing and a smallish pair of sneakers, along with a book I’d saved from childhood called Go, Dog. Go! On the nightstand was an Iron Man action figure I’d never seen before. For whatever reason, my pillowcase looked as though it had been dragged through the mud, and Morgan’s eyes widened when she saw a pile of bloody Band-Aids on the floor of my bathroom, along with more dried blood on the counter.

Paige’s room was far worse than mine. As in the kitchen, all the drawers and the closet doors were flung open, and her clothing and personal effects had been strewn everywhere. On the floor of the closet—as though placed for emphasis—was a box containing my sister’s favorite shoes, the Christian Louboutin pumps that her husband, Gary, had once given her for her birthday.