Drowning Karma–Second Chapter

Somebody called the paper to insist they come and tell the world, or their town anyway, about this incredible house. The newspaper didn’t believe a word of it. Always a crank trying to pull a scam, the reporter, Davis Weber, said, shaking his head and hanging up the phone. But he told his friend and colleague, Jay Martin, who picked up his camera and said he was on his way.

“Don’t waste the paper’s time,” Weber replied.

“You want me to wait for the next cute baby waving a fishing pole picture, because I haven’t taken a worthwhile photograph in months.”

Davis slapped his shoulder. “All your pictures are worthwhile.”

“They’re cute with clever captions.”

“Nothing wrong with that. People like them.”

“I’m going, all right? To stretch my legs if nothing else.”

“Even if it’s true, it’ll just be a house like any other suburban McMansion. I bet it’s even coral colored, and you don’t work for Architectural Digest.”

“See ya, Davis.”

“Fine. But there better be a cute baby in the front yard.”

Jay stopped at his house on the way. His girls would enjoy an outing and he missed them every Saturday he worked. Deva scrambled in the car before he finished explaining the situation to his wife. He tried to convince her she might want to see the house in her professional capacity, but her silent and blank expression let that argument sputter on the breeze. But he did get her and the three girls in the car, and for one afternoon not even Maryl’s cold stares out the window quieted their daughters.

To his surprise and the girls’ delight, a party sparkled and snaked from the home’s yard and into the street. Parking a couple blocks away, they made their way through the people, the smell of a grill drifting along with the beating music, and strangers said hello and offered the girls Cokes and watermelon slices. Maryl hurried them along, and while Jay politely and cheerfully declined another beer, she curtly shook her head at anyone who spoke to her.

At the gate Maryl’s sigh scattered the cluster of adults leaning against the posts and rails. Jay grinned and winked when they walked by, restoring the happy mood of everyone except his wife. The girls followed behind their parents and many eyes watched them go up the walk. Sylvia, the youngest, floated behind her father, looking up at the clouds until some girls dancing in the grass caught her attention. Teenage girls twisted and spun and jutted their hips to the boom box held by a nearby boy and the colors of their clothes blurred around them.

Almost everyone watched the dancing girls too, but where the colors and glitter of cheap gold jewelry mesmerized Sylvia, the way the girls trapped so much attention interested Claire. Without realizing it, she tilted her head in the same way as the tallest girl and she tried to walk straighter. Deva kept her gaze on her parents, afraid to look around too much, afraid she’d see exactly what she’d seen in her mind when she first pointed the paintbrush at the front door of this reborn house.

Deva stole a glance up at the house, holding her father’s hand, and thought about her paintbrush. The paint set was in her purse, and she knew, as she played with the purse’s clasp, exactly what the house looked like inside—the floor plan, the colors, the furniture, the odds and ends in the laundry room, the soap in the bath, the way Mrs. Montrose slept curled up on her side in her queen-size bed. She knew.

“I did it,” she whispered. The air around them grew quiet even as the partying continued.

“What?” her father asked, leaning over to listen, making sure his camera didn’t swing from its strap and knock her in the head.

“Me. My paint brush.”

“What are you talking about, my little dove?” he asked distractedly.

“The house.”

“Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it? But I wouldn’t take these kinds of stories too seriously—no matter what your mother says.”

Her mother turned sharply. “Are you two whispering behind my back?”

“I was telling your daughter here—”

“I did it,” Deva said, looking up at her mother. “I pointed my paint brush at it.”

Maryl frowned. “Paint brush? The one my mother gave you?”

“Now, darling wife of mine—”

“Hush. Answer me, Deva.”

Deva didn’t like the expression her mother’s face. “Oh, yeah, but it was pretend. I pretended to paint the house is all.”

“You have the brush with you?”

She thought of lying, then nodded and opened her purse, but she made no move to take the brush out; a voice wisped through her brain that only if she willingly handed the brush over could anyone take it from her. She snapped her purse shut. “I’m sorry, I was making up stories again. I know I’m not supposed to.”

Maryl wasn’t easily put off. “I don’t think you’re making up anything. You aren’t that clever. Not that I’ve seen anyway.”

“Maryl, don’t.” Jay squeezed his daughter’s hand. “You don’t mean that.”

In one blink Deva stopped the threat of tears. With each passing year she got faster at stopping them.

“You know I mean everything I say,” Maryl said.

“Or you’re just mean,” he replied and fussed with his camera lens.

Deva caught Claire watching them. Listening. Her sister was always listening. Claire bounded over and wrapped her seven-year-old self around her mother’s legs. Sylvia paid no attention to them at all, and ran her hand through a flower bush.

Maryl ignored her husband and smiled at her children. “Why don’t we go knock on the door and see who the lucky woman is who owns this startling house? Who knows what we might learn, right girls?”

Jay rang the doorbell. “The lady’s probably out there having a good time.”

“No, she’s not out there. She’s inside.” Deva regretted her words, and knew her mother would remember them.

Mrs. Montrose opened her door.

*
Deva took the slice of orange cake Mrs. Montrose offered her, and wondered if the old woman knew orange was her favorite. She liked the color and the taste—sweet and acidy at the same time. The flavors dried on her tongue when she heard her mother refuse a slice. Deva reddened. She wanted to be liked and her mother made it so hard.

Mrs. Montrose smiled at Deva and put another slice of cake on her plate. “Sometimes a girl needs more cake,” she said with a wink.

Jay coughed a laugh back, but the cough turned scratchy and deep with his wife’s glare.

“Claire,” she said, “at least has the sense to listen to her mother.”

Claire glanced at the second slice cake on her sister’s plate and she smiled. Deva met her sister’s eyes and resolutely took another bite. Jay recovered his voice. “This cake is delicious. I couldn’t sell my soul for better.”

“But you’d try,” Maryl muttered and straightened her perfectly straight collar.

Read Chapter Three.