Face on the Wall (13 page)

He pushed the bell. It failed to ring. No one came to the door. He knocked loudly. Again there was no response, but as he turned away, the door opened softly behind him.

“Oh, good afternoon,” said Homer, feeling like a Fuller brush salesman, “my name's Kelly. I'm looking for Mr. Small.”

“I am Frederick Small.” The man at the door was not built like his name. He was tall and broad-shouldered. The hands that hung from the sleeves of his sweater were like cabbages. Only his head was small, as though borrowed from the body of some undersized person. He sported a toothbrush mustache and a neat little beard. Behind his glasses his eyes were large and lustrous, like a rabbit's. “Are you here about real estate?” asked Frederick Small.

Of course Homer was here about real estate. “I understand you have land for sale. I'm—uh—looking for a lot. My wife and I—”

“Sorry,” said Frederick Small. “The entire estate is—uh—subject to a purchase-and-sale agreement, to be signed in the very near future.” But he backed up and held the door open.

The entrance hall was narrow and dark. The pictures on the wall were nearly invisible. Small's glittering glasses floated in the dark.

“I thought,” lied Homer, making a frolicsome leap into the unknown, “there was some question about the title?”

“Who told you that?” said Small sharply.

“Can't remember,” said Homer glibly. “Heard it somewhere.”

“Well, there isn't.” Small led the way into a narrow living room. At once a memory of the past welled up around Homer, because an old building was like a time machine. This one evoked memories of the 1920s. Not the fashionable decade of cloche hats and short skirts and cigarettes in long holders, but the one that appeared in old photographs—rooms crowded with brown furniture, women with odd haircuts sitting on porch swings, radios with matching veneer and lighted dials, chairs upholstered in brown plush. Some of Homer's aunts and uncles had lived in houses like this. They had sat in the dim light under sepia reproductions of
The Light of the World
and
Sir Galahad,
rooms in which the only spot of color was the Sacred Heart.

There was no Sacred Heart hanging on the walls of this room; in fact, the pictures—Homer turned his head from one to another—were quite extraordinary. He moved to look at one of them more closely, but Small was unrolling a map, spreading it out on a table, holding down the corners with a lamp, a couple of ashtrays, and a paperweight.

“What exactly are you looking for? The lots will not be available until the—uh—effectuation of the agreement with the developer. This is the plot plan of my—I mean
our
land.”

Homer pounced on Small's slip of the tongue. At once he asked a nosy question. “You live here alone?”

“Yes,” said Small, then, quickly, “No.” His soft eyes blinked. “My wife's away.”

“I see.” Homer wanted to explore the house and find the room in which Bluebeard stored the bodies of his murdered wives—hadn't he been widowed several times? But Small was pointing to the map, running his finger around the pink area of Meadowlark Estates, spreading a proud hand over the broad rectangle of Songsparrow. “Ninety-nine acres, sixty-five lots accepted by the planning board.”

“How much per lot?”

“Well, of course, that depends on the lot in question. Some are more desirable than others.”

“But the average price might be—?”

“Oh, say, two hundred and fifty, three hundred.”

“You mean three hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand dollars for a lot?”

“Yes, I'd say that was about average.” Small had a way of looking around the room as he talked, frowning at the backs of chairs and the glass knobs of doors.

Homer trailed his finger over the map and stopped at the lot farthest from the highway. “How much is this one?”

“Oh, well, that's a very choice lot, looking out over the pond. I'd say four hundred for that one.”

“Might I see it?”

Small looked surprised. “Well, I guess so. I don't see why not.”

The landscape of Songsparrow Estates was a monoculture of burdock. This year's growth was green and flowering, last year's bristled with burrs, which caught in the fabric of Homer's coat. Small evergreens emerged from the burdock, just visible above the prickly surface. “You planted those?” said Homer, pointing to a cluster of infant white pines.

“My wife—” began Small, then stopped and said feebly, “That's right.”

“Ouch,” said Homer, tripping over a lump of brick. He rubbed his shin and looked down at a low structure almost hidden by burdock.

“Feeding platform,” explained Small. “This used to be a pig farm.”

“Ah,” said Homer, the light dawning. “Of course.” He gazed around, imagining the landscape teeming with pigs. “How many did they have?”

There was a pause, as if Small were weighing the question, considering his answer carefully. “Oh, thousands, I think. They were long gone when my wife—when we came into possession of the property.”

“Was the other place here then?” asked Homer inquisitively. “Meadowlark Estates?”

Again there was a wary pause. Then Small said, “No, Meadowlark is only about five years old.”

“So, when your wife—when
you
got hold of this place, the whole area around here was rural Aren't you sorry to see what's happened to it?”

“Sorry! Oh, no!” Small looked shocked. “Property values, they've gone way up.” Instantly regretting this remark, he looked sidelong at Homer and took it back. “That is, the land is worth a little more. Individual parcels have more value.”

“You're still classed as agricultural, is that right? So your town taxes are way down? Even though the pigs aren't here anymore?”

Small turned his flashing glasses on Homer. “Of course we're agricultural.” He waved at the trees springing up through the burdock. “It's a tree farm. And I'm negotiating with a riding stable to pasture horses.”

“Oh, do horses eat burdock?” said Homer innocently.

Small ignored the question. He turned away and waved an arm. “This is the parcel you were talking about, from here to that line of trees.”

“Ah, yes, with a view of the pond.” Beyond the trees the sky opened up and the rusty towers of the sand-and-gravel company loomed beyond a chain-link fence. Homer went to the fence and looked down into the pit below. At the bottom there was a muddy pond between two huge heaps of gravel.

“Of course this operation is being closed down,” explained Small, hurrying up beside him. Impulsively, as though it had just occurred to him, he said, “I'm going to dam it up. It will be, you know, like a lake.”

Homer had had enough of Frederick Small and his grandiose plans for upmarket real estate. “Well, thank you, Mr. Small,” he said, turning away. “Goodbye. I'll tell my wife all about it.” Then Homer took his leave, hurrying back along the Pig Road ahead of Small.

As he got into his car the crow rose again from the ugly little cadaver on the rutted drive beside Small's house, and Homer remembered a story about twelve princes who had been transformed into ravens. Was this crow one of the brothers? Where was its sister, the princess, who was destined to restore it to its princely human form?

It was dark as Homer made the turn onto Route 2 on the way home. High in the sky to the west, he recognized a familiar star.
ARCTURUS SPEAKING—INHABITANTS OF EASTERN MASSACHUSETTS ARE KINDLY REQUESTED TO TAKE NOTE.

Homer, to whom celestial objects often addressed remarks, was glad to see Arcturus again. Its appearance in the sky meant that spring was here.

He had been oppressed all afternoon by the tawdry aura of Southtown. In the presence of Arcturus his depression dissipated and blew away.

Chapter 20

W
hen Minnie Peck arrived with the colossal sculpture she called
Millennial Woman,
Annie was beginning to work on the third division of her wall. It was more wonderful every day, the wall, with its wild juxtapositions and crazy clots of unity.

She had forgotten all about Minnie Peck. But suddenly there she was, rolling up in a Rent-a-Truck. Bouncing out of the front seat, she hailed Flimnap O'Dougherty, who was doing something to a bush. Two heavyset Rent-a-Guys began undoing the ropes securing a large cloth-covered object in the back of the truck.

“Where do you want it?” said one of the guys, getting a grip on one end, looking over his shoulder at Minnie.

“Wait a sec.” Minnie raced back and forth in Annie's front yard, looking around. “Not here—not here—what about here No, that won't do. Ah, wait a minute, let's try it over here. Yes, this looks good. It was destined to be here from the beginning of time.”

It was smack in front of Annie's new south windows. Flimnap pocketed his clippers, ambled across the grass, and tapped on the glass door.

“No,” said Annie, coming outside, taking in everything—Minnie, the two guys, the giant cloth-covered object sailing forward in their arms, clanking and rattling. “Stop! Minnie, I don't want it. Take it back.”

“No, wait,” cried Minnie. “You've got to see it in place.” She twitched at the cloth wrapping and it fell away.

The metal woman was twelve feet tall. She was entirely made of hubcaps. The concept was good, but the execution was faulty.
Millennial Woman
was a mess. Her iron armature was a tangle of welded blobs. Her hubcaps dangled on short lengths of rusty wire.

“Please, Minnie, I don't want anything on the grass. Nothing at all. I'm sorry, but you've got to take it away
.
”

Minnie laughed merrily. “No, no, you just need to get used to it. It has to settle in. You'll see. Later on we'll decide on a price, but not now. No obligation, honest.” She scuttled away.

The Rent-a-Guys exchanged looks and glanced at Annie. Her mouth was open, but she was speechless. They shrugged, stumped off after Minnie, helped her into the truck, and disappeared.

Flimnap laughed. “Don't worry. I'll drag it over there, behind the compost heap. Maybe the woodchucks will appreciate it.” He reached up and grabbed
Millennial Woman
under her iron arms. “Nothing to it. Come on, girl.”

Annie watched him move backward in the direction of the wilderness, where orange peels and grass clippings were rotting into compost, and piles of pruned-off water sprouts lay in a twiggy mass. She told herself the truth, that the presence of Flimnap O'Dougherty was the overwhelming fact of her life.

It wasn't that he was bossy. No one could be more self-effacing. It was as though he exuded a vapor she couldn't help inhaling, some sort of airy potion that filled the inner spaces of her house, a delicate secretion that stuck to chairs and tables and clung to Annie's nose and hair. Once again she played with the fancy that he was an emanation of her painted wall, while she, Annie, went back and forth between her playful images and the grubby facts of the real world—her overdue bills, her parking ticket, her occasional indulgence in booze. Annie winced, remembering last week's embarrassing dinner in honor of a big important librarian, when she had drunk too much wine. When they had asked her for a few words, she had sprung up and talked too fast and giggled too much at her own jokes and sat down suddenly, nearly falling off her chair.