But lately, something had changed, and she’d begun to see the house as, well … old. Unkempt, even. The rooms were always too cold, especially the bathrooms. The cushions on the living room couch were uncomfortable: a sharp spring managed to press into her butt no matter which position she tried. Some of the unused rooms smelled overwhelmingly like mothballs, others like sour milk, and there were visible gaps amid many of the bathroom floor tiles, desperate for grout. The most unsettling thing, though, was that when Joanna walked into certain rooms, it was as if someone—or something—was following her. The house and everything in it seemed human, if she really got down to it. And not like a sprightly young girl, either, but a crotchety, elderly man. The pipes rattled like creaky bones and joints. When she sat down in a chair, any chair, there was an abrupt huffing sound, like someone collapsing from a long day’s work. The radiators wheezed, coughed, and even spat out strange hints of smells that seemed to be coming from the house’s human core. A whisper of soapy jasmine seeped from its plaster skin. An odor of ham and cloves belched out of an esophageal vent.
She stepped down the hall now, gazing at the black-and-white photographs that lined the walls. Sylvie had taken the pictures during a trip to the beach when the children were young. In some of them, Charles and Scott, probably about eight and six, were flying a kite. Charles had an intense look of concentration as he held the kite’s string, as if a judging committee was watching, while Scott looked disdainfully off toward the waves. In the pictures of them in the ocean, Scott ran happily toward the waves, his arms and legs outstretched like a starfish. It was startling to see a photo of Scott so young and carefree, enjoying life. James skipped out to the ocean, too, equally exuberant, but Charles hung back, his expression timid and penitent. The last photo in the row was a close-up of the three of them. Scott and their father were soaked, but Charles’s hair was still neatly combed, bone-dry. Two genuine smiles, the third seemed forced.
“See anything interesting?”
Joanna jumped. Scott stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hands hidden in his sweatshirt pouch. His eyes glowed, as if she’d turned a flashlight on some wild animal in the woods.
Joanna pressed her hand to her breastbone. She could feel her heart through her thin sweater. “H–How did you get here?”
Scott gestured with his thumb toward the front door. The easiest way to get to the main house from his quarters was to exit through the door of his suite, walk all of four steps, and enter the house through the mud room, which led to the kitchen. Instead, Scott had walked the whole way around the outside of the house to this door, the front door. He had to know that Joanna and Sylvie and Charles were convened in the kitchen. The smell of banana bread was overpowering, penetrating the thick walls.
So he’d avoided them. Of course he didn’t want to see them. Was it because he didn’t want to answer their questions about the incident? Although that was laughable; they wouldn’t ask him questions. No one ever asked Scott questions. Sylvie would flutter about, shove a piece of bread at Scott, and hover over him obsequiously until he ate it. Joanna would make small talk, busying her hands with the bread knife or the catalogs. And Charles would sit silent, seething. Scott wouldn’t have to face anything. Everyone always tiptoed around him, even when he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Scott raised his chin, gazing at her unflinchingly. Perhaps he knew what was going through her mind, what she was trying to figure out. She dared to peek back. He looked the same as he always did—disheveled and self-assured, lazily handsome. He obviously looked nothing like the other Bates-McAllisters, with their wide eyes and thin lips and ears that stuck out slightly. While Charles and Sylvie’s skin were pale, Scott’s was more of an olive tone, easily tanned and never blotchy. His facial features a curious, intriguing mix of cultures. It was one of the many things the family never talked about—that Scott wasn’t white. It both was and wasn’t an issue for them. They acted as though it didn’t matter, yet Joanna wondered if, subconsciously, it affected their every reaction.
Scott didn’t seem any different in the wake of the boy’s death. Certainly not weighed down or guilty about anything. If he was hiding something, the shame would be written all over his face, wouldn’t it?
Joanna lowered her eyes, realizing she’d been staring at him too long. “I should …” she said, ducking her head and teetering, idiotically, toward the kitchen.
“Leaving because of me?” he teased. When he smiled, he showed off long, wolflike teeth.
“Um, no. No!” Joanna sputtered. Her face felt hot. She scrambled for a pressing reason to be back in the kitchen but came up with nothing.
Scott stepped forward until he was just inches from her. He remained there, appraising Joanna, making up his mind about something. He was close enough that Joanna could smell cigarettes and soap on him, so close he might kiss her. She could see the V-shaped fibers in his sweatshirt and that the drawstring for his hood was tipped with silvery metal. He breathed in and out. She barely breathed at all. She felt so small and vulnerable next to him. Hummingbird-frail.
“Boo,” Scott whispered.
“Ha!” Joanna exclaimed, as if she thought it was a joke, jumping a little.
Scott quickly receded. In seconds, he was at the front door. Once his back was to her, he held a dismissive hand over his head. “Later.”
The door banged shut. Joanna listened to his footsteps walking down the flagstone path. A car door slammed, the tires screeched. The heat kicked on, and an unsavory mix of dust, clove cigarettes, and varnish wafted through the vents. She remained in the hallway for a moment, raking her fingernails up and down her bare arms. There was a wet prickle of sweat on the back of her neck. Her skin felt flushed.