The Paper Palace(31)
* * *
—
We reach the farmhouse at dusk. Whitman and Tyson are waiting for us in the driveway, three dogs jumping at their heels.
“We heard that old clunker of yours coming down the road from a mile away. Could have walked out to meet it.” Whitman gives Leo a bear hug. “And you, Wallace. Still looking good enough to eat.”
“Been too long, man,” Leo says, slapping him on the back.
Tyson is surprisingly handsome. Tall, in worn overalls, with a gentle face.
“I’m Elle,” I say, putting out my hand.
But he looks away, bone-shy. Kicks at the ground.
“Tyson must be about your age, Conrad.” Whitman picks up our bags, and we follow him inside. “Grab those other bags, Ty. Put them up in the loft.”
Whitman is the polar opposite of his son. Small, jaunty, talking nonstop—so fast I don’t know how he manages to take a breath. He reminds me of a cartoon rooster, his bantam-crackly laugh, southern accent, the swift, jilty way he moves. I like him.
Inside the old farmhouse he has laid out dinner. “Fresh rabbit stew and succotash. I’ve become quite the homesteader since we left Philly,” he says proudly. “Baked the bread myself this morning. All the food on this table comes from our garden. Even the rabbits.”
“You grow rabbits?” Conrad says, poking at his stew.
Whitman laughs. “We catch rabbits. They’re a menace. Pests. We have to put traps out if we want a single vegetable to survive. But around here, we eat what we kill. Though we don’t get to eat rabbit as often as I’d like. Ty goes around tripping the traps when I’m not looking. He can’t stand the screaming.”
His son sits at the end of the long oak table, eyes down, eating his rabbit stew.
Whitman turns to me. “Ever hear a rabbit scream?”
I shake my head no.
“Not pretty. Can’t blame my boy.” Whitman tips back in his chair. “Talking of pests, the deer are worse this year than ever.” He turns to Conrad. “You know what that means, don’t you, young man?”
Conrad shakes his head.
“Tomorrow night, venison.”
Conrad looks horrified. Whitman bellows.
“Conrad’s not exactly the adventurous-food type,” Leo says, tearing off another piece of bread. His beard is a nest of crumbs. “If it was up to him, he would live on fish sticks and Whoppers.”
I take a big bite of my stew. “You should try it, Conrad.”
“I did,” Conrad says. “It’s really good.”
“No, you didn’t. You’ve just been pushing it around on your plate.”
“Tattletale,” Conrad spits.
“Liar,” I spit back.
“Jerk-off.”
Tyson has gone completely still, as if he is trying to hide in plain sight.
“Not to worry.” Whitman breaks the tension. “I ate nothing but baked eggs in cream until I was twelve. I’m making spaghetti and meatballs tomorrow. And no, young man, I didn’t go out and shoot a cow. Which reminds me, if any of you want to take a walk in the woods, be sure to wear something bright red. I’ve been having a problem with deer hunters trespassing on my land off-season.”
“I hate hunters,” I say.
“Well now, I don’t have a problem with them if they’re trying to put dinner on the table,” Whitman says. “But these hunters are shooting for sport. No moral compass. Leave the damn animals lying there to bleed out. Not even a shot to the head. Shameful. My dogs find them in the woods. Come home with their mouths all crusted in blood.”
“I think I’m gonna puke,” Conrad says.
“Conrad.” Leo looks as if he’s about to boil over.
“We had a dog when I lived in Guatemala as a girl,” Mum says. “It would get into the henhouse and bite the heads off the chickens. The gardener shot it.”
“Guatemala?” Whitman raises an eyebrow, refills her glass.
“My mother moved us there when I was twelve.”
“Why Guatemala?”
“An unfortunate divorce. And the help was cheap. In those days, you could have a private cook for eight cents an hour. Nanette was used to the finer things. But she hated Guatemala with a passion. She was convinced she was going to be attacked by a villager with a machete.”
“Does she still live there?”
“She died a few years back. Not a machete. My brother Austin never left. Married a local girl. Hates the States. Thinks we’re all a bunch of savages.” She laughs, downs her glass. “He’s an ornithologist. A parrot specialist, of all pointless things.”
“I love parrots,” Tyson says quietly.
* * *
—
After dinner, Whitman leads us up an almost vertical staircase to a loftlike attic, high ceilings open all the way to the rafters. Three mattresses are made up on the floor.
“I’ll leave the bathroom light on downstairs,” he says. “Don’t want any of you tripping in the dark. Hope no one has a problem with bats.”
“What the heck, Dad,” Conrad says after Whitman has gone. “We’re all sleeping in the same room?”
“It’ll be fun. Like camping,” Mum says, though she, too, looks doubtful.