The House on Lucy Lane

The house on Lucy Lane had stood silent and empty for as long as Rachel could remember; a testament to a family long scarred by secrets and regrets. Coming back to the upstate New York burg where home seemed light years away had been a means of resolving the past, an attempt to find a real home, not one that existed as a dream – that place where families loved and enjoyed each other’s company instead of stagnating each other with anger, abuse, and neglect.

Be careful what you wish for, Rachel, her good friend Eddie had said to her over their last cup of cappuccino at the Café Roma outside of the rooming house on Union Street in the Italian district of San Francisco. After mom had died and years of trying to fit in as the black sheep, Rachel had longed for a place of her own – one where she could create her music, write her books, think about taking care of other people the way people were supposed to be cared for – with love and nurturing. Still, traveling all the way by bus from the east coast to the west had not eased the sorrow Rachel felt every time she thought about that house and the things that had occurred there, things that should have been eased by the passage of time and copious hours of therapy.

1960 the year she was born had been a time of change, a global revolution where the words peace, love, and happiness were applied to every activity of the century – politically and socially. Reviewing her life as she sat on the bus going back now from west to east, Rachel thought about how she might bring those ideals to that house, replace its sad soul with joy and life again. Her journey over the years had been anything but smooth – accomplishing things she set her mind to in her creative aspirations yet always missing the mark, feeling devalued deep in her soul because of those years spent in that house and the things that had occurred there.

She tried to recall happier times, when she and her younger siblings, and two first cousins would run through the yard as children, free to squirt each other with grandpa’s water hose, while grandma bent over in her house dress tending to her precious iris and roses – a testament to the fact that what goes on outside of one’s home does not always reflect what goes on indoors. Those nights of wishing her mom would not be in so much agony from depression and the rages it caused her, those time Rachel had been beaten for things that now seemed like mere infractions of the rules lain down by grandpa and his penitent for severe punishments.

Yet here she was heading east back to this house as if pulled by some imaginary umbilicus that required cutting at its core. Allowing her mind to review her life as it was from childhood to the present, Rachel knew instinctually that the only way to put her heart and mind at ease was to make that house hers. This was her intention – if she could scrape together the money.

Reeling back to age 6 when she would stand alone in grandmas’ garden singing under the branches of the oak tree that sheltered a large decorative rock that grandpa had placed there when he had first built the low stone wall that surrounded the house, pretending that her father who had been exiled from the family and her life at an early age, had buried a fortune under that rock just for her. Remembering when she finally left that house at age 17 with grandpas’ large old suitcase filled with all of her possessions, walking the few miles into town to catch the Greyhound into NYC to land on the stoop of another family home, where her bohemian aunt resided in Greenwich village, knowing she could land there and make a plan for her own life. Resisting the urge to go back to make certain her siblings and gram where okay, under the onus of grandpa’s incessant control and her own mother’s curse of mental anguish through depression. Recalling the night mom finally relinquished to shock treatments that made her somewhat normal, more able to commit to being a mom who strove to care for her children without the aid of her own parents.

With mom, grandma, and grandpa gone, Rachel finally felt she could put the past behind her and find what she was truly after. Home.

Pulling into the bus station in New York City, Rachel felt a sense of urgency – one more hour to go on the local toward that place where she had grown up and where she wished to end her traveling. Finding her small suitcase amongst the rest of those that had been unloaded she made her way to the boarding area. There was a ten minute wait before her bus would begin its roll out of NYC through the Lincoln tunnel, over the George Washington Bridge, passing through New Jersey, until it made its way onto those familiar routes 84 then 17.

Spring in upstate New York this time of year would be burgeoning with wild flowers and greenery, the trees along the Catskill region in this part of the country thick with new leaves and healthy growth. The lone wolf in her had always imagined getting off of the bus anywhere between the city and home, to roam the pastures and hillsides, seeking respite from the inevitable. Better to remain aloof and alone. She had reminded herself of this so often it had become her mantra, neatly written out in her own hand in a small black notebook she had carried with her since the day she had left at 17, the pages of that book holding her secret desires, fears, yearnings, small observations of life away from family and among them as she had been called back to be part of them at various times in her life’s journey. Looking out the window as the bus rolled closer to her destination the lone wolf lay dormant inside of her. Perhaps this time she could remain here.

Pulling into the town she had that sense of nervous excitement she had always felt – seeing the local diner where she and her teenage friends had shared giant hamburgers and cokes, discussing life, and what each of them might become. She briefly thought of them – where they had gone in their lives, for her own had separated her from those she had felt kindred to.

Rolling past the ponds that still stood in the center of the town as picturesque as ever, she thought of other friends, the one’s she had allowed into her sphere as close ones now deceased, friends she had made while traveling, and those she had sworn she might never return to, each of their names written in her childlike penmanship in her small black book so she might remember them as they were.

Embarking from the bus she looked around in the bright sunshine of the warm spring day. Deciding to walk the few miles toward the house, Rachel found her suitcase again and unfolding it’s handle to pull it along behind her, began the walk she had made so many times before, from town toward home, up Lakes Road toward the mausoleum that lay before her. Crossing the road from the bus station she made her way past the old Mill Mansion, the one made of stone that held gardens dotted with smaller stone cottages and a largess of landscape. A house that she had desired for her own, yet was certain she would never be able to afford. No turning back now, she reminded herself – there is another house waiting for you to bring it back to life.

Further up the road was the street where she had gone so often to play with her first cousins at their paternal grandparent’s home, the pink house, painted as bright as the contents of a bottle of pepto bismol. Stopping to see if she could locate it by its shape and assuming it was no longer such an inordinate shade of pink she spotted its roof top. This house too had stood empty for years, the rain, snow, and sunshine bruising its concrete sides until the pink was now just a washed shade of grey. A few yards farther up the road was another small stone cottage one that appeared to have weathered the ravages of the upstate weather with dignity, for it stood solid and lovey as always under the shade of cascading oaks. Standing before this house Rachel took a moment to breath in the fresh air emanating from the woods surrounding it, recalling nights of summer years ago when she and her cousin Helena would steal through the woods to catch a glimpse of the white peacock that had lived in the house behind it.

Closer now with each step, her heart began to palpitate slightly as she reached the edge of the stone wall, still intact after all this time. Finally she came to entrance of the house’s driveway and stepping in off the road she stopped. There stood the house with shades drawn, the gardens empty of their lovely flowers; the small bridge over the brook that flowed in front of the house full of sparkling water from a strong rain a few days before her arrival. Leaving her suitcase in the driveway, she walked over to where the large decorative stone was still in place. Yet something about it felt different, it seemed smaller and not so heavy an object to move as it had when she was 6 and dreaming of daddy and the fortune that might lay underneath it.

She moved toward the rock to stand on it yet again, almost shyly at first as if not to disturb the essence of how long it had lain on this hallowed ground. Yet the rock moved as she tested her adult weight on it causing her to jolt backwards off it to keep from falling. Looking closer, It appeared as if the rock had been moved from its bed then been replaced. Pushing it, she found the rock wiggled in its foundation. Wondering where she might find something to shift it, she noticed an old crowbar standing next to the makeshift wire fence that grandma had grown her luscious blackberries on.

Walking over to pick up the crowbar, she hoped it wouldn’t break in half since it had stood there for decades. Moving back toward the rock she angled the head of the crowbar under a soft spot in the grass near the rock and pushed. Pushing a few more times and putting more of her weight on it she found she could scoot the rock a few inches off of its base. Moving the rock even further from its original resting place she found she could dig underneath it as she had always longed to do. Finally able to look into the soil underneath filled with earthworms she dug in the soil with the crowbar until it hit something metal. Digging deeper there lay a small metal box, covered with rust yet unlocked. Pulling the box from the earth she opened it to find a note written in a hand that she recognized as her father’s. Also inside were some old coins and another small black book. The book held an explanation of what the coins were and just where she might find more of them buried in this garden she had left behind so long ago.

The book also bore this note:

“To my dear, Rachel. These coins will net you a financial sum enough to make this house your home and keep you in good stead for the rest of your days. They are your legacy. Thank you for being my daughter. Now make this house your home. Dad.”