The House
Everyoneinthecityspeaksofthehouse.Itsgildedwindowsandrococoface.Itssingleporchlightblinkinglikeafishtogreetthenight.Thewayitstandsatthecrestofthehilllikeanomen.Thewaythelawnslopeslikeadyingdrunkslowlytowardthesea.
Everyonespeaksofit,butnoonegoes.Fearisnotthething.Distanceisaconsideration;thefreewayasbloatedandbottleneckedasabruise.Respectisavirtue.It’sprivateproperty,theyguess.Someonelivesthere,theyspeculate.Theymust.Howelsewouldtheroofenduretherelentlesslashingofrain?Howelsewouldsmokerisefromthechimneywithoutasound?Buttherearewhispersaboutthewallpaper.Abouttheroomsthesundoesn’tsee.
Theboywentonce.Justtotouchthevoid.Hewaiteduntilduskwasfallingontheedgesoftheday,settlingarounditsstubbornframelikeaveil.Itwassmallerthanhehadimagined.Larger,too.Fromfarawayyoucan’tseeathing.Butfromupclose,itwasastransparentasacarafe.Hecouldseestraightthroughtotheotherside.Shapesshiftinginthepane.Thedoorwasdifficulttofind.Hishandslikeclams,gropingforthebrassinthedark.
Thesmellissaidtostingyournostrils.Acidicandabsolute.Thewayaclementinescreamsthemomentbeforeitrots.Theremightbesomethinggrowinginthere,wherethefloorboardsusedtobe.Theremightbesomethingfeedingthefire.Theremightbesomethingsunkenthatwishestorise.
Wedon’tknowforcertain,though.You’dhavetofindtheboy.