Halstead House

In my experience and the experience of those with whom I've had the pleasure of speaking with all these years, it is the nature of notable places to instill in some a set of oblique wonder; and so it was with Halstead House, sitting quietly and bedded down within the glum and greenery of Northern Tisbury. The once-plantation house was rustic, marked with age and set with such experience that those who would visit regarded it well. Decked in light-blue siding and pale gray trim, the house stood alone among sprawling lawns and dense groupings of fir and fringe tree. A wide porch, white-washed and sturdy wrapped itself around the house, a becoming bastion to such apparent firmament. Such a place stood in decrepit majesty, a faded old maid, retired in her prime of life.

I am not an eclectic man by any means. In fact, so much do I loathe New England in midwinter, what with its dark skies, swollen clouds and deep chill that I despaired to go about my way that evening. From the my collegue's house I departed, following the pedestrian trail back to my cottage in Edgartown. It was by this way. I found myself turned around, nearly drowning as the ominous clouds opened up in a torrent; assailed, I dashed madly along the path, heading toward lights I had seen in the brush. Thus was the means in which I first came about Halstead house on the eve of St. Lucia's.

I attempted the warped steps of Halstead, seeking shelter from what I knew must be the second great flood; I rapped upon the door with such celerity as if I were haunted by something oncoming. Within seconds, my call was answered by the releasing of a latch, the twisting of a deadbolt; the door opened, bathing my sodden form in the warm light inside.

"Yes?" said the boy who answered the door with caution. Quite young was he, in fact, within a year or two of eleven and still in short pants.

"I apologize for my intrusion," said I, "But I was on my way home and have lost my way in the storm."

The boy gazed at me, lit from behind, strange shadows traveling over his face. There he stood, His eyes captious, exacting more from me then what I had already provided.

"Please, may I come in?" I am aggrieved to say my words came out in a whimper, so daunted was I by the boy's strangeness. Admittedly, it was my predilection simply to leave. However, with a scowl the child allowed me to enter, holding the door back over the threshold. As I shook myself of the damp, the boy, with brows still furrowed, bade me follow him to the parlor. I complied.

As I had yet to understand my newly sought shelter, as I had yet to fully comprehend my whereabouts (the region, the house, the very hour) I could in no way hold any prior expectation of the place to where I was being led by this fair haired, glowering boy. The sitting room was wide, warm with firelight and rich with the smell of cleaning ammonia and an underlying node of a woman's perfume. I had before me, a niche cut out from the rest of the house, the rest of New England and the world perhaps. There, I was humbled by a sense of glamour, a room once trod by slippered feet and brushed by silken hems. An aura of rapture confronted me as I placed my feet upon the floor, as my eyes played over the heavy drapes alive with the movement of fire-shadows and the slight breeze from an open window. Here, a chaise beside the fire, a pianoforte beside, and shelves of books, leather-bound and brooding; there, a card table and a mantle displaying fresh flowers and the Lady Elgin in a bottle. Oriented, I intuited before me a consciousness of past, the presence of ghastly figures and lithe tinkling of music causing them to sway, causing them to wrap slender fingers around one another, around glasses of champagne and luxurious garment threads. I took in the perception of low mumblings, the fine rumbling of delighted conversation, the warmth of a young woman's flush and the boisterous laughter of her fellow. The air of the room shook off its more modern redolence and claimed the sweet odor of Perique, the sharp pangs of alcohol and the sweat of many finely dressed denizens pressed together in intimacy. Family members, close friends, business associates and lovers gathered in a fete of jubilant decadence, shaken not by the weather or the present foreboding which, in turn, grasped at my heart in a sudden twinge.

My anxiety and the rich, liquid voice of a woman dripped into the room, and I, shaken from my fancy, turned to see the slight figure leaning at the entrance of the parlor. The lady of the house, or so I assumed, gazed at me with the cold solicitude.

"Good sir." Said she, her voice deep and melodic "It seems you are dripping water upon my floor."

Surprised, I looked down at the ends of my duster and saw this was so, evidence of the deluge outside collecting into a large puddle at my feet.

"Forgive me." I cleared my throat as the woman entered, circling me once; then, upon inspection came behind me as a hostess would and removed my coat from me, fine dexterous fingers wrapping daintily about its lapels as it slid off my back. Taking the coat she gestured to the chaise by the fire.

"Please. Do sit."

Note: This piece is not yet finished. It is a Henry James inspired ghost story without a ghost... or a story. If you have any ideas to help me move forward with this, please post them! Thanks!

Mithy Pithy

Grouper

Hal's bed is empty, but it is night.

I am not surprised... less and less surprised by the things Hal does in the night. I have stopped looking for him when the street lights begin blinking the hour and the warm seeps out of the house out into the street. The dark is so much like a blanket of loneliness. My eyes perk up for car sounds or people laughing, or for footsteps on the hard concrete outside the building. But at night, the car engines cool and, the people sleep. At night no-one calls the name "Grouper" or whistles for me to come. I urge to find the one who is not asleep, who should be breathing slowly and heavily before the sun rises and the world comes back to life. But it is too much, to feel the cold floor against my foot pads, the shrunken frigid air against my belly, all to look for a man. I don't whine anymore either, instead I just sleep in the sheets lumped together at the foot of the bed. If I cannot sleep, I lick myself out of boredom and wonder when he will come back.

Hal had another bitch two nights ago. When the two of them had banged open the door, laughing and talking loudly, she had shrieked when she saw me. She threw a bottle at me, yelling. Hal tried to calm her down, but she kept at it, dancing up and down on her toes and screaming as loud as she could. Hal took her into the room, distracting her, pulling her clothing off. I crouched at the door. I had seen Hal with a bitch before, writhing, naked. When the people mate, It's always lurid, Lucid. They look into each other's eyes, meet mouths, touch, tangle. They flop like fish away from the water, they whisper, they moan. The bitch whines and bends herself, she trembles, shakes. The man pounds her, forcing her into submission. The two roll like octopi, heavy with sweat. This bitch was so much like the others. I lay on the carpet outside and gave a small whine. A small, but a good whine.

Now, He will be sitting in his chair in the living room, watching man and bitch writhe together on the television. Or he will be cross legged on floor, hunched over the short table, wiggling his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Other nights, I have caught him at this ritual, sniffing madly at lines of white, becoming glazed and angry. His eyes stare into nothing. I have nudged his foot and received the word "stupid" accompanied by a smack on the nose for interrupting.

When morning comes, I stretch out of the bed, forelegs then hind, onto the cold floor. I shake. It feels nice to shake, it feels like new things coming, old things gone. I walk out, slow, tired. I am much older than I used to be and do not move as quickly. There were some times, before, when my bones did not creak, when my eyes worked better, when I didn't shed as much. I try not to think about it. Hal has left food for me in the corner of the kitchen, and water. I listen to my nails click across the tile. Hal is a good man; he has added broth to the kibble. This makes me feel optimistic, and I wag a little. He's a good man, my Hal. I chew in time to the hum of the refrigerator and the gurgle of pipes as Hal takes his shower.

Once there was Sarah. Once there was Sarah and Hal, Hal and Sarah. When I think of Sarah I think of

the big house in town; the lawn, the trees. Sarah had flowers, and she would crouch down in big shoes and a big hat and dig. I liked to dig too, and she would let me. Only sometimes, if I dug wrong, she would yell and wave the spade. During the summer, the big house had a crawlspace. I went under there and slept to get away from the heat. Down there, it smelled like cool, damp dirt and mold, and it was all very good. Even the insects were good. Spiders used to crawl up into my fur and explore. There, I thought. if you find anything, let me know. Hal often got angry when I came out from under the house because I was dusty and needed a bath. While he scrubbed me down, I would watch as the poor little black spider-specks drifted down the drain. I whined in mourning and Hal would order me to be still as he shampooed and conditioned. He toweled me off, let me sleep in the big room. He put broth in my food even then. He's a good man, my Hal. She was a good woman, my Sarah. It was all very good.

Then there were the pups. Hal and Sarah's boys were like tennis balls, bouncing, loud, exciting. They had chubby little appendages and round fat faces and looked so different from bigger people. They grew at different times, The smaller one yelling "GROO!!!" and pulling my fur and squashing my ears against his little round belly, the bigger one rubbing finger-paint in my coat and giving me kool-aid to drink up. The children smelled like sour milk, and chocolate, and mud, and soap and all good things that the children of people smell like. They liked to run, which pleased me, and they liked to pet, which pleased me more. Sarah used to read them stories, would sing to them at night. Her voice was gentle and sweet always, but took on a different sound when she was with them. It was a vibration, a humming that filled me with comfort. When she left, after kisses and last minute bathroom runs; after she pet their heads and they closed their tired eyes. I would sleep pressed against their backsides on their little beds with fluffy blue comforters, glow in the dark stars and soft night-light illuminating their small forms and sleeping faces.

But Hal was gone more from that big house. Sarah sat up in the couch in the front room, sighing, the television flickering across her face, tired eyes, bitten lips. Another kind of night where the people were supposed to be at ease, and yet mine walked without sleeping. I nudged her slender fingers with my snout, licked her wrist, met her eyes. "ah, Grouper." Her voice was less than a whisper, she acknowledged me like breathing. She patted the cushion beside her, let me up on the couch. I let her pull me to her, let her hug me until it hurt, let her cry into the deep parts of my back until my fur was soaked through.

In the deeper part of my memory, It was spring and the big house allowed light to come in through spotless windows. It shone over the dining room table, the chairs. The light made a warm spot on the floor next to where the bigger boy played with tiny cars. I bathed in the filtered sun and watched as he pushed the cars with their wheels across the floor, as he tried to make engine sounds by blowing raspberries with his lips. He made noises like horns, I let him push one little car on my tail like a highway. Hal and Sarah were in the kitchen talking.

"GROO!" yelled the smaller boy up in his high chair. He dropped a spit soaked cracker off his tray and leaned over to look for it. It had landed near my snout and I crunched it easily, licking the salt of my muzzle, liking how dry it was. The smaller boy giggled "GROO! GROO!!". Ignoring the bigger boy's protests that I had moved my tail and propped myself up on the highchair leg, hoping to get another cracker. Instead the little one grabbed my ear and yanked, giggling. I tried to move my head from beneath his chubby fingers when a crash from the kitchen made me flinch. I barked as the yelling in the kitchen turned into uncontrollable screaming. Then it stopped. Sarah came into the dining room, shoving me away to unstrap her little boy from his chair. Her eyes were red, a dark bruise spreading across her cheek. She kicked the bigger boy's cars aside, and with one boy on her hip, one held by the wrist, left the house. The door slammed behind her. Moments later, the car engine started and I whined, wondering. I turned back to see Hal in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest. I layed down by the door, still tasting cracker salt.

Hal gets out of the shower and comes dripping into the kitchen. In just his towel he digs around in the refrigerator, finds a bottle and pops it open in the edge of the sink. He takes a mouthful, pauses and looks straight ahead of him before slugging it down. I go over and lick the shower water off his feet. I wonder what he's thinking. He ignores me and makes his way to the bedroom where I watch him dress. He is getting older too, I can tell. He stands naked, The early, dim light that comes through the slats in the blinds shows the drooping of his thin stomach, the deep cavern of his chest, the shadows of his sinewy arms. His hair is a different color. His face sags in a way I never noticed. He sniffs as I walk up to him. I wag my tail in an effort to rise him from his waking sleep. Hal. Awake when he should be sleeping, sleeping while awake. He looks down, only just realizing that I am here, have been here. "Ah, Grouper". His voice comes out in a deep rumble. It sounds like wishing.

There aren't too many doubts about when a man is lost. Out in the field, the sky can go on for days. I can smell shit, inhale the aroma of another, displaced kind of life. I can piss on trees and grid-lock fences. When the grass is wet with dew or rain, I can feel it on my belly. My forelegs cover that special place in my chest and it forever faces that fevered channel of earth. That’s the thing about the people, they cannot feel the wet grass on their bellies. Men are too far from the ground on their stilt-like legs. They walk with their undersides facing out, they put their hands on their hips, swearing invincibility. Never do they touch palms to dirt as we do, feel the rich soil on the pads of their feet, live the strings of earth run up to fit, pulse to pulse. So when a man holds himself high on the soles of his shoes, when he walks too long with his arms at his sides, arms on his hips, arms forever at the ready, that is when he is tangled, mashed, Bunged up; dashed to pieces. Such is my Hal.