2005-06-08
the house at the end of the street
There's a house at the end of the street. It's so close to the bay, you can smell salt when the wind blows east. I always wondered about the house. How much land is hidden behind its fence? What's the sense in those surrounding ditches, the ones that circle it like a moat? Mama calls it "the goldfish pond" on account of those coral rock crevices. As seen from above, would it spell a secret message or compete with crop circles?
Last summer, I learned their true history, that the elegant, turn-of-the-century mansion in the Deering Estate was carved from my neighbor's backyard. It boggled my mind, even more than the indian well in our front lawn, because its purpose, unlike the goldfish pond, was no mystery to me.
I imagined an enchanted kingdom beyond the weed-infested fence. The owners, a couple of shotgun-toting crackers (picture Ed Clampet with a ponytail and gold-plated teeth) only lived there during winter months. They never rented the place. Just let it rot until they returned.
After the hurricane, they went West and didn't come back. Thick vines dropped from the oaks and dangled like pendulums. Tomato plants sprouted near the door. Sun-stripped beer cans appeared at the bottom of the goldfish pond, their labels curling from too much sun. One day, I noticed some kids on go-carts racing around the property. I wanted to sneak inside. I tried on many occasions but always got caught by prospective buyers. Rumors said the owners were hacking the two-acre property into multiple lots. The thought of it made my stomach back flip.
Somebody has just bought the house. I don't know who. I only know they plan to keep it intact, which is a good sign. I decided to snoop past the fence and investigate. Some idiot had left it unlocked, much to my delight. A barricade of unopened mail tumbled beside the plastic recycling bins. I slid open the gate. Spiders clogged the spaces between trees. I tiptoed with outstretched hands and wiped away the webs. The size of the property amazed me, not to mention the enormous oak trees, too big to embrace. I pictured Tequesta indians hunting wild boars with spears cut from broken seashells.
The house was a small, rectangular slab of coral rock. It reminded me of places built by Floridian pilgrims in the 1800s. The previous owners had latched some kind of barnlike structure to the side. A decrepit trailer, that proverbial redneck accessory, leaned like a caboose at the end. Or was it the front?
I explored all around and found no entry. Crab husks, devoid of legs and other essentials, littered the rotten porch. I shook the door. It didn't budge. Neither did the windows, still boarded shut against the storm. Wind chimes swayed in the breeze, all rusted and riddled with knots. I tried the other side. The door crashed open, spilling clouds of dust. I had assumed it belonged to the shed, which was actually the main house.
I stepped inside, my flip-flops crunching unseen things. It was so dark, minus windows or electricity, and smelled of cat piss. The rednecks hadn't bothered with modern conveniences, including air-conditioning. Everything was left eerily in place, just before they fled the hurricane. Yellowed slips of paper fluttered off the fridge, advertising a lawn service of all things. Chinese lanterns hung from the hole-riddled ceiling, as if the mess needed decoration, especially the sort that belong outside.
In the sink, a heap of dead lizards stuffed the drain. It made me queasy, the way their empty eye sockets gaped at nothing. Their delicate skeletons crumbled like dried ferns when I touched them. The concrete floor made a dusty noise as I moved into the next room, divided by a dirty fireplace. A stained mattress took up space beside a dresser. I found a few more crumpled notes dotted by numbers, either for cell phones or secret codes, but I couldn't unlock the drawers. I slid on what appeared to be a bathmat. The only source of light was the front door, though which I escaped.
The temperature had dropped considerably. A cool breeze mussed my hair, carrying the scent of cut grass. I snuck a peek at the goldfish pond, my first inspection from the opposite side of the fence. Did the house rise up from this sacred spot? I tried to match the cutout shapes over the structure, a mental jigsaw. Just above the trees, I glimpsed my neighbor's mint-green townhouse and felt disoriented for a moment. It was like looking at two different time zones.
The gate squeaked and slammed. I stood in the middle of the road. Cars cruised by, oblivious to my bewilderment. A black cat slunk into the bushes. I was very much alone.
f-i-n at 11:28 a.m.