and the right word to say it. Then I had it. It was a sort of benediction.
He wasnât listening. âA what?â
I repeated slowly.
Ben-e-dict-ion.
His blessing, a cool one. It was as much as he could give, something like a light kiss on the forehead by someone whose focus is elsewhere. There was no hint that day of what he really thought, what he might do.
Take what you get,
I could hear my mother saying.
And like what you take.
CHAPTER
8
Pennies and Nails
UP ON THE ROOF, IN THE FIREPLACE, UNDER THE PORCH, pennies by the hundred were everywhere. Good luck, I hoped, and left them there. There were nails everywhere too, in the floors, doors, walls, and ceilings. Hugo pulled out hundreds of old, hand-forged nails and piled them up in buckets.
Why anyone needed that many nails was a mystery. And why did every wall in the house look like someone had kickedit or thrown something at it? I had time to consider the question as I worked on repairs. Most of the time we divided up the chores, except for the very, very dreadful ones that neither of us could bear to do alone, like collecting discarded syringes, contraceptives, and plastic bags from around the yard. We filled seven trash cans with empty beer and soda cans.
Once all this was cleared, smaller objects began to emerge, shards of blue and white dishware, spoons, childrenâs marbles, old bottles, and a tiny porcelain friar, a bright expression glimmering on his round, grimy face. The house mascot. I washed off the dirt and set him on a shelf surrounded by pennies.
There were oyster shells, too, a commonplace along the bay, where shell mounds mark early Indian settlements and later centers of commercial oystering, times when oysters were so abundant that a good eater might devour as many as a hundred at a sitting. The quantity of shells I saw suggested that previous residents, including the minister who first lived in our house with his mother and sister, and those who followed him enjoyed oysters as much as anyone.
Our attempts at rescuing the house from nature were apparently unending. A tug-of-war was in full swing long after we thought we were in charge, with snakes, vines, wasps, and wood rot all trying to claim shares. Six brown turkey buzzards, beaked ellipsesâIâm sorry to use the wordâ
lurked
in a half-dead cherry tree near the front door.
I regretted a lack of sympathy for these fellow travelers but couldnât help it. The sight of them perched high in the branches day after day sent shivers of foreboding through me. Fortunately, a storm blew the cherry tree down and the buzzardsdeparted, at first for a tree next door, then, as activity peaked around our place, they moved farther away and stayed there.
Reclaiming the house from former inhabitants seemed easier than taking it back from nature, but in the end it took longer and called for different tactics.
One Saturday afternoon an attractive thirtyish man came by and sat down on the porch floor, yoga-style in the half-lotus. He heard we were looking for a painter. He spoke well and was cleanly dressed in khakis and a white shirt that hung too loosely on him, as if he werenât eating enough. He said he used to live in our house and would really like to be around again. He was having trouble getting his head together, but when he did, he wanted to do some of the painting. Hugo finally got rid of him by suggesting he write up a proposal for his work.
Another Saturday, which seemed to be the day for visiting, a man wearing a sleeveless undershirt, short shorts that could have been underwear, and flip-flops showed up. He sported tattoos head-to-foot of pirates and coiled snakes with long forked tongues.
Hugo noticed him first and went forward. This man also said he used to live in the house and if we wouldnât mind, heâd like to take a look around.
âMaybe some other time,â Hugo said, holding his ground on the path between the man and the kitchen door. Hugo
He wasnât listening. âA what?â
I repeated slowly.
Ben-e-dict-ion.
His blessing, a cool one. It was as much as he could give, something like a light kiss on the forehead by someone whose focus is elsewhere. There was no hint that day of what he really thought, what he might do.
Take what you get,
I could hear my mother saying.
And like what you take.
CHAPTER
8
Pennies and Nails
UP ON THE ROOF, IN THE FIREPLACE, UNDER THE PORCH, pennies by the hundred were everywhere. Good luck, I hoped, and left them there. There were nails everywhere too, in the floors, doors, walls, and ceilings. Hugo pulled out hundreds of old, hand-forged nails and piled them up in buckets.
Why anyone needed that many nails was a mystery. And why did every wall in the house look like someone had kickedit or thrown something at it? I had time to consider the question as I worked on repairs. Most of the time we divided up the chores, except for the very, very dreadful ones that neither of us could bear to do alone, like collecting discarded syringes, contraceptives, and plastic bags from around the yard. We filled seven trash cans with empty beer and soda cans.
Once all this was cleared, smaller objects began to emerge, shards of blue and white dishware, spoons, childrenâs marbles, old bottles, and a tiny porcelain friar, a bright expression glimmering on his round, grimy face. The house mascot. I washed off the dirt and set him on a shelf surrounded by pennies.
There were oyster shells, too, a commonplace along the bay, where shell mounds mark early Indian settlements and later centers of commercial oystering, times when oysters were so abundant that a good eater might devour as many as a hundred at a sitting. The quantity of shells I saw suggested that previous residents, including the minister who first lived in our house with his mother and sister, and those who followed him enjoyed oysters as much as anyone.
Our attempts at rescuing the house from nature were apparently unending. A tug-of-war was in full swing long after we thought we were in charge, with snakes, vines, wasps, and wood rot all trying to claim shares. Six brown turkey buzzards, beaked ellipsesâIâm sorry to use the wordâ
lurked
in a half-dead cherry tree near the front door.
I regretted a lack of sympathy for these fellow travelers but couldnât help it. The sight of them perched high in the branches day after day sent shivers of foreboding through me. Fortunately, a storm blew the cherry tree down and the buzzardsdeparted, at first for a tree next door, then, as activity peaked around our place, they moved farther away and stayed there.
Reclaiming the house from former inhabitants seemed easier than taking it back from nature, but in the end it took longer and called for different tactics.
One Saturday afternoon an attractive thirtyish man came by and sat down on the porch floor, yoga-style in the half-lotus. He heard we were looking for a painter. He spoke well and was cleanly dressed in khakis and a white shirt that hung too loosely on him, as if he werenât eating enough. He said he used to live in our house and would really like to be around again. He was having trouble getting his head together, but when he did, he wanted to do some of the painting. Hugo finally got rid of him by suggesting he write up a proposal for his work.
Another Saturday, which seemed to be the day for visiting, a man wearing a sleeveless undershirt, short shorts that could have been underwear, and flip-flops showed up. He sported tattoos head-to-foot of pirates and coiled snakes with long forked tongues.
Hugo noticed him first and went forward. This man also said he used to live in the house and if we wouldnât mind, heâd like to take a look around.
âMaybe some other time,â Hugo said, holding his ground on the path between the man and the kitchen door. Hugo
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