Stonehouse

By Jessica Laker

Aleta got a husband, Eddy got a boat, and Jeffery got Europe—everyone somewhere else. So, Mike, John, and I had plenty of rooms to choose from. Mike took the servants’ quarters.

There was a small room at the bottom with a private entrance, and stairs leading up to the second floor and another small room at the top. My mother slept in a room with an adjoining kitchenette. There was a sofa where we could watch TV. It was also my mother’s bed. This was the only room we kept heated in the house.

In late fall and early spring there were many wintry days before the electric company turned the power on. For those days we used a kerosene heater. The room reeked of kerosene—but it was warm.

There is an oddity here. I was out of college, working and making good money. Many people thought I was sane, if a little odd. But to embrace destitution and smile gratefully is beyond odd.

Why didn’t I strike out on my own?

I had plenty of cover stories: I stayed for Mike, John, and Mom; it never occurred to me; I was saving money. The real reason did not come to me until I was old. I was stuck in orbit around my father. I could never stray far from him.

I was the one who believed all his wild hopes, ambitions, and promises. My need for his approval was implacable, so I denied his every fault and celebrated his genius. I believed that if I helped him succeed, I would bask in his approval—success and approval that never truly materialized.

The room I chose was a corner room with huge windows on both outward-facing walls—the farthest room from the main stairway. It was very secluded, almost hidden, or at least that’s how I saw it. And it was tiny. Just enough room for my things: a small bed, really no more than a cot; a delicate slant-top writing desk, the kind Thomas Jefferson might have used; and shelves—five or six—holding every book I’d ever read. Opaque curtains let me darken the room completely.

The walls of the Stone House were not run-of-the-mill. There was no insulation—only stone, which is a lousy insulator. The walls tapered from bottom to top: perhaps three feet thick at the base, two feet at the top. This meant the windows had deep sills wide enough to sit on. I would make a pot of Constant Comment tea, grab a book, and sit on the sill reading—half inside, half outside.

It was summer.

I don’t remember how, but the second floor became infested with legions of fleas. As luck would have it, I had to pass through the flea gauntlet to reach my room. Naturally, I made a contest of it. Wearing shorts and no shoes, flashlight in hand—since in summer we had no electricity—I’d walk to my room counting the fleas I picked up. The record was eighteen.

Fleas are hard to kill, but not impossible. I learned the trick was to wet your thumb and forefinger with spit—poor man’s needle-nose pliers. You’d look for a flea that had already sunk its straw into you; those were slower to escape. Fleas are tiny but have a distinctive shape and color. What makes them difficult is that they are tall and thin—crushing doesn’t work.

Once you find your prey, you pinched it with your wet fingers. The saliva made it impossible for the flea to hop away. You could feel it under your thumb, work it to the center of your thumbprint, then roll it back and forth between your fingers. That rolling action, combined with pressure, did real damage. Then you repeated the process seventeen more times. You had to be thorough. Miss one, and the night would be itchy.

On hot nights, I’d crank open all the windows. My room had cross-ventilation, a blessing. I’d lie flat and cover myself with a light sheet to keep the mosquitoes at bay—mostly. This was the best. You could hear the sounds of night: peepers, crickets, cicadas, and distant hoots and howls. You could see a few stars and hear the wind in the leaves.

Summer was easy street. And with the right spirit of adventure, you could put winter entirely out of mind.