In One Person

Richard had told me to hang on to it. "You'll get more for it if you sell it later, Bill," he said. (Grandpa Harry had left me a little money, too; I didn't need the additional money I could have gotten by selling that River Street house--at least, not yet.)

Martha Hadley vowed to organize an auction to get rid of the unwanted furniture. Harry had left some money for Uncle Bob, and for Richard Abbott; Grandpa Harry had left the largest sum for Gerry--in lieu of leaving her a share of the house.

It was the house I'd been born in--the house I'd grown up in, until my mom married Richard. Grandpa Harry had said to Richard: "This house should be Bill's. I guess a writer will be okay livin' with the ghosts--Bill can use 'em, can't he?"

I didn't know the ghosts, or if I could use them. That Thanksgiving, what I couldn't quite imagine were the circumstances that would ever make me want to live in First Sister, Vermont. But I decided there was no hurry to make a decision about the house; I would hang on to it.

The ghosts sent Elaine from her bedroom to mine--the very first night we slept in that River Street house. I was in my old childhood bedroom when Elaine burst in and crawled into my bed with me. "I don't know who those women think they are," Elaine said, "but I know they're dead, and they're pissed off about it."

"Okay," I told her. I liked sleeping with Elaine, but the next night we moved into one of the bedrooms that had a bigger bed. I saw no ghosts that Thanksgiving holiday--actually, I never saw ghosts in that house.

I'd put Larry in the biggest bedroom; it had been Grandpa Harry's bedroom--the closet was still full of Nana Victoria's clothes. (Mrs. Hadley had promised me she would get rid of them when she and Richard auctioned off the unwanted furniture.) But Larry saw no ghosts; he just had a complaint about the bathtub in that bathroom.

"Uh, Bill--is this the tub where your grandfather--"

"Yes, it is," I quickly told him. "Why?"

Larry had looked for bloodstains, but the bathroom and the tub were spotlessly clean. (Elmira must have scrubbed her ass off in there!) Yet Larry had found something he wanted to show me. There was a chip in the enamel on the floor of the bathtub.

"Was that chip always there?" Larry asked me.

"Yes, always--this bathtub was chipped when I was a small child," I lied.

"So you say, Bill--so you say," Larry said suspiciously.

We both knew how the bathtub had been chipped. The bullet from the .30-30 must have passed through Grandpa Harry's head while he had been curled up on his side. The bullet had chipped the enamel on the floor of the bathtub.

"When you're auctioning off the old furniture," I told Richard and Martha privately, "please get rid of that bathtub."

I didn't have to specify which bathtub.

"You'll never live in this terrible town, Billy. You're crazy even to imagine you might," Elaine said. It was the night after our Thanksgiving dinner, and perhaps we were lying awake in bed because we'd eaten too much, and we couldn't fall asleep, or maybe we were listening for ghosts.

"When we used to live here, in this terrible town--when we were in those Shakespeare plays--was there ever, in that time at Favorite River, a boy with the balls to play Juliet?" I asked Elaine. I could feel her imagining him, as I was, in the darkness--talk about listening for ghosts!

"There was only one boy who had the balls for it, Billy," Elaine answered me, "but he wouldn't have been right for the part."

"Why not?" I asked her. I knew she meant Kittredge; he was pretty enough--he had the balls, all right.

"Juliet is nothing if she's not sincere," Elaine said. "Kittredge would have looked the part, of course, but he would have hammed it up, somehow--Kittredge didn't do sincere, Billy," Elaine said.

No, he didn't, I thought. Kittredge could have been anyone--he could look the part in any role. But Kittredge was never sincere; he was forever concealed--he was always just playing a part.

AT THAT THANKSGIVING DINNER, there was both awkwardness and comedy. In the latter category, the two Korean girls managed to give the Japanese boy the idea that we were eating a peacock. (I don't know how the girls conveyed the peacock idea to the lonely-looking boy, or why Fumi--the boy--was so stricken at the thought of eating a peacock.)

"No, no--it's a turkey," Mrs. Hadley said to Fumi, as if he were having a pronunciation problem.

Since I'd grown up in that River Street house, I found the encyclopedia and showed Fumi what a turkey looked like. "Not a peacock," I said. The Korean girls, Su Min and Dong Hee, were whispering in Korean; they were also giggling.

Later, after a lot of wine, it was the vivacious, chatty mother of two--now Gerry's girlfriend--who gave a toast to our extended family for welcoming her to such an "intimate" holiday occasion. It was doubtless the wine, in combination with the intimate word, that compelled Helena to deliver an impromptu address on the subject of her vagina--or perhaps she'd meant for her remarks to praise all vaginas. "I want to thank you for having me," Helena had begun. Then she got sidetracked. "I used to be someone who hated my vagina, but now I love it," she said. She seemed, almost immediately, to think better of her comments, because she quickly said, "Of course, I love Gerry's vagina--that goes without saying, I guess!--but it's because of Gerry that I also love my vagina, and I used to just hate it"; she was standing, a bit unsteadily, with her glass raised. "Thank you for having me," she repeated, sitting down.

I'm guessing that Uncle Bob had probably heard more toasts than anyone else at the dinner table--given all the glad-handing he did for Alumni Affairs, those back-slapping dinner parties with drunken Favorite River alums--but even Uncle Bob was rendered speechless by Helena's toast to at least two vaginas.

I looked at Larry, who I know was bursting with something to say; in an entirely different way from Tom Atkins--who had routinely overreacted to the vagina word, or to even the passing thought of a vagina--Larry could be counted on for a vagina reaction. "Don't," I said quietly to him, across the dinner table, because I could always tell when Larry was struggling to restrain himself; his eyes opened very wide and his nostrils flared.

But now it was the Korean girls who'd failed to understand. "A what?" Dong Hee had said.

"She hates, now loves, her what?" Su Min asked.