“Through there is the kitchen,” she said, pointing down the hallway bisecting the house. “Your room is upstairs.”
We dragged my things up to the second floor, which smelled even mustier than the first. A stray fluff of dust cartwheeled through beams of light from the windows. The hall held several doors on either side of the landing. She led me to the right, opening a door to a room that was clean, but nearly bare. It had basic furniture - a dresser, a bookshelf, and an old four-poster bed, but beyond a faded rug and a small lamp it really had nothing else. The walls were blank, the closet was open and empty, and even the bookshelf was vacant. A thin quilt and sheets sat in a folded stack on the end of the bed. A small electric fan sat on the floor, moving the air slightly. Even with that, the room was rather warm, I noted. But then I was starting to think that was a trend in the south.
“I had always intended to rent some of these rooms out,” Bea said, by way of explanation. “This house really is too big for me. So far haven’t had any takers. Hope it’s alright.”
“It - it is, thank you,” I stammered.
“The air conditioner doesn’t always reach all the way up here,” she said. “So I brought up a fan for you. That there - ” she pointed to the other door in the room - “is the bathroom. It connects to the other room. There’s towels and things in there for you.”
She looked at me shuffling awkwardly around the small room. My bedroom back in New York hadn’t been any bigger, but there I’d had my own things - my own soft comforter, my posters on the walls, my twinkle lights strung up around the ceiling. Here, there was nothing but blank whitewashed walls, the creaking of the wood floor under my feet, and the soft whir of the fan.
“Well,” Bea said, “I better finish up dinner. I hope you like pork chops,” she said shortly, and left. She was a small woman, but the stairs creaked loudly as she descended. There would be absolutely no moving quietly around this house, I thought.
I lifted my suitcase onto the bed and began unpacking clothes with trembling hands. Bea didn’t want to be anywhere near me. That was clear enough. I suppose it was stupid of me to have thought things might go differently. I’d read too many books with the kindly little old grandmothers who stuffed little children full of pie, knitted them ugly sweaters every Christmas, and bought them piles of dolls. Not that I wanted dolls or any of those things really...it was the idea behind it. That someone doted on you. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. It was stupid, really. I was much too old for this. I opened one of the drawers, intending to stuff my socks into it. Something at the back clattered. I reached in and pulled out a leatherbound journal.
The pages were an aged yellow, but still sturdy. Of good paper stock. The cover was old and weathered, but the pages inside were blank. I flipped through the pages. Who on earth would let something like this get this beat up, with nothing on the inside?
“Juliet,” I heard Bea call, “dinner.” Startled and guilty, I put the notebook back into the drawer and descended the stairs.
I had never felt less like eating in my life. My stomach knotted as I entered the kitchen at the back of the house. The room encompassed a breakfast nook as well, which had a wide window overlooking the backyard. The yard ended at a line of trees so orderly they must have been planted that way. I spotted fruit in several of them. An orchard?
Bea glanced at me standing in the doorway, and waved a hand toward the plain wooden table in the breakfast nook. “Go on, have a seat,” she said.
The chair creaked loudly as I settled into it. I felt useless, waiting for her to hand me the plate of food she was putting together. I was accustomed to serving myself. I did all the cooking at home - what little we did. My father mostly lived on take-out. He would pick something up on the way home from the university, take half of it, and disappear into his office for the rest of the night. I never knew what he was working on. The times I had worked up the courage to ask, I either got “Research,” or “None of your business.” He barely said anything to me unless I was in his way.
The police kept asking me, when I reported him missing, had he acted strangely lately? Had things changed somehow? Had he recently become secretive? Irritable? It would help the investigation, I knew, if they had something to go on. But the truth was that my father had always been secretive and irritable. Had he ever been otherwise? I didn’t know. Perhaps Bea did. Or perhaps he learned it all from her.
The appearance of a plate in front of me broke me from my reverie. Bea sat wordlessly at the other end of the table, with an identical plate. They were piled with mashed potatoes and a thin brown gravy, green beans, and a pork chop. The warm, rich aroma should have enticed me, but my insides recoiled at the idea of food. Then again, I hadn’t eaten anything but the in-flight peanuts in the last 24 hours, and it would probably be rude if I didn’t at least try something. I reached for my fork.
Bea coughed a rebuke; I recoiled from the silverware.
“We say grace first, young lady,” she said. “Bow your head.”
I obeyed, and as she spoke a blessing over the food, I wondered if this was really my father’s mother. As far as I knew he had never set foot in a church of any kind. I also wondered if I could grow accustomed to a long pause before eating while a small speech was given.
“Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, amen,” she finished, and lifted her head. She picked up her utensils, so I assumed that was my cue that it was safe to proceed.
We ate our dinner in silence. Well, I say “we.” I spent most of my time sculpting my mashed potatoes, sifting through my green beans, and avoiding the pork chop. I had a problem eating anything that used to have a face. Finally Bea seemed to notice my stalling.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
I mumbled a response.
“What was that?”
“I-I’m not really hungry,” I stammered.
“Don’t let good food go to waste now,” she said. “I don’t know what kinds of snacks you’re used to in the city, but I don’t keep them. We have three square meals a day. If you wake up hungry in the middle of the night don’t come looking for anything.”
“I won’t,” I said, wanting to disappear. I just wanted to hide somewhere until my dad came back. Which he would. He just had to.
She frowned at my untouched plate, commented, “Wasteful,” and continued to polish off her own. She then stood, and excused herself by saying, “I have to make a call.”
I stared out the wide breakfast window, eyes unfocused on where the trees met the sky. The orchard trees weren’t as tall as the ones that grew naturally in the forest on either side of the house. The sky was only just now showing hints of a sunset. I suppose I had the time difference to adjust to as well.
What was I doing here? Who would kidnap an anthropology professor? He had been prone to staying overnight at the university sometimes, sleeping on the couch in his office, so if it weren’t for the wreck the apartment had been in, it might have taken me days to realize something was wrong. But despite the chaos, there had been no sign of a break in. No forced lock. Because of that, the police weren’t treating it strictly as a kidnapping; they mentioned it was possible that he had run away.
Even if he had - even if he had up and left me without a word, without a note - surely there was a good reason. Something horrible must have happened. Something to do with his research, I was certain. He wouldn’t have abandoned me unless something extraordinary had intervened. But how could I find out what that was? Maybe there had been a clue at home, but I hadn’t been able to find one before they’d shipped me here. How could I help him half a country away? How could I go home again?
My gaze moved back to the table. Maybe I could make up for not eating anything by washing up. Then I realized that I had no idea what I was expected to do with the plates. Put them in the dishwasher? Wash them by hand? Leave them on the table? I went in search of the woman who was my grandmother.
Passing the door to a room full of beautiful, delicate teacups with saucers, I heard her voice towards the front of the house. I would ask her what to do.
I approached the front sitting room and saw her pacing, phone in hand. “You can’t expect me to deal with
