Chapter 10. Upstairs
The stairs send up a symphony of squeaks as Demetrius climbs them. Grimy blue paint has flaked off the wall to his right, exposing patches of faded green like islands in a blue sea. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he notices sketches of tiny big-eyed people sailing little boats. He smiles, picturing Samantha crouched on the stairs sketching them. His opinion of Marlie rises: she doesn’t care if her grandchild gets creative on the walls. Then he has an opposite thought: she appears not to care, perhaps not even notice, how her house is crumbling.
Marlie steps onto the landing and leans forward into a door at the right. Behind her, Demetrius reaches the top step. Standing a couple feet back, he peers over Marlie’s shoulder into the room and see Samantha sitting cross-legged on a faded shag rug, engrossed in a book.
“Nena!” Marlie calls.
Samantha looks up with innocent eyes.
Marlie fires off a Spanish question containing the word “dientes.”
Samantha nods vigorously and bares her teeth for her grandmother’s approval.
“Bien, chulita, a la cama. I’m tired of that stupid truancy computer calling me when you’re late.”
“Let me just finish the book, Abue!” Samantha holds up a slim paperback with a glossy cover showing a blond girl Samantha’s age in a cloche hat. “It’s the one about Kit’s boarding house. Remember? The teacher lodger sneaks food for her husband who lives in the migrant camp ‘cause they don’t have money for both of them to live at the...”
“You can finish it tomorrow,” Marlie says, drawing the book out of her hand. “But that’s interesting,” she adds, flipping through the pages. “These American Girl books paint a fairly realistic picture of life, I have to say.”
“People had to wait in line to get bread,” Samantha continues breathlessly. “Jillions of guys were hobos, I mean misplaced persons; girls, too, and…” She scrambles into bed, still chattering about the story.
Marlie turns her head slightly to glimpse the man, Cole. He stands at the top of the stairs, looking uncomfortable, as is proper for someone upstairs for the first time in a strange house.
“And Kit’s mother serves the boarders cod cakes and cottage cheese salad with one canned peach slice,” Samantha is saying. “Do you think Cole likes that?”
“I don’t know, but to me, it sounds hideous. I can tell you right now I am not cooking for the boarders, I mean, collective mates—for their own good and mine. Anyway,” Marlie lowers her voice and says, in Spanish, “We don’t know if he’s staying. ¿Que opinas, chulita? Do you like Mr. Benson?”
“Yeah,” Samantha whispers, “But I can tell he’s not what he seems. Me and Detective Drunella will get to the bottom of it.”
“Mi vida, those mysterious boarder stories have filled up your head. You tell Drunella to save her talents for real mysteries, like why my bank account is always empty.”
“You only think of boring mysteries,” Samantha says. “King Cole is an exciting one.”
“Samantha, if he stays,” Marlie whispers sternly, still in Spanish, “I don’t want you or Drunella pestering or spying on him. It will ruin our espíritu colectivo.”
“Okay, Abue,” Samantha concedes. “But if I see any mysteries–strange notes in code, things like that—me and Drunella are gonna investigate.”
Better notes in code than letters from Blake is the thought that crosses Marlie’s mind. But she has to nip Samantha’s sleuthing in the bud. “Escucha, amor,” she says, sitting down on the bed and fixing her granddaughter in a serious gaze. “The kids in your mystery books are always running around fighting the forces of evil and saving the stolen jewels or the world or whatever. They never tell the adults what they’re up to, and the stupid adults never seem to notice.”
Marlie has read many of Samantha’s books, entertained, but often irritated. “In real life, mi vida, the forces of evil are way too strong and dangerous for individual heroes, even superheroes, to mess with on their own. Plus, they’re usually not so obvious as in the books, but often appear nice and…” Marlie looks down at Samantha’s quizzical face and stops herself. With a sigh, she smooths back the child’s tangled hair. “Just promise you’ll tell me about every single mystery you encounter, chulita. Notes in code or whatever else.”
The girl’s breezy nod of assent does not entirely satisfy Marlie, but it will have to do. “Okay, mi amor. Buenas noches. Sueña con los animalitos.” The Mexican saying is “dream about the little angels,” but Marlie believes little animals are more suited to Samantha’s temperament and to their religion, such as it is. She rises, gives Samantha a kiss, and pulls the blanket up around the child. As she turns toward the door, Samantha’s voice, already thickening with sleep, says, “Abue?”
“Sí, amorcito?”
“Can Cole say ‘good night’?”
In the weak light from a dingy fixture, Demetrius studies the wide upstairs hall where he’s standing. Besides Samantha’s open door, the hall is ringed by several others, all closed except for a half-open one he guesses is a bathroom.
From inside Samantha’s room, he can hear the child talking about a boarder stealing food for her “misplaced” husband. Interestingly, Marlie doesn’t condemn the stealing, the way his own mother surely would have, and instead makes a positive remark about the story.
“Mr. Benson? Samantha would like to say good night.”
“Oh! Sure.” He moves to the doorway and puts his head through, observing that Samantha’s room is quite large, with a couple of tall windows hung with more tie-dyed sheets. The girl is curled up in a double bed with a leopard-spotted bedspread, her pixie face bright amidst a motley collection of stuffed animals. He recognizes the long limbed rabbit, Georgina.
“Sleep tight, King Cole!” she bellows. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
“Samantha!” says Marlie, mock-sternly. “We don’t have bedbugs!”
“The spiders, then,” Samantha replies, unflappable. “We have nice spiders like Charlotte.”
“Most spiders are good,” Demetrius agrees. “Like most bats. Good night, Samanther Anther Panther.”
“Hey, I’m the Anther Panther!” Samantha exclaims, swiping a hand through the air like a panther claw.
“That’s right.” He chuckles and moves back toward the door.
Samantha catches hold of her grandmother’s arm. “So King Cole is going to stay?”
Marlie bends down. Under the pretext of freeing the balloon tied to the girl’s hair, she hisses, “I don’t know! We have to figure it out.”
She watches Samantha glance over at the man, who gives her a wave as he backs out of the doorway. “He’s not quite fat enough for a king,” she remarks, lying back among her stuffed animals. “He’s the king’s son, no, his nephew, a mysterious nephew prince in disguise.”
“We’re demócratas here at Rainwood House. No royalty allowed.”
“Okay, he’s a duke.” Samantha’s cheeks dimple. “A democratic duke.”
From out in the hall, Demetrius hears snatches of their conversation. He guesses they’re discussing him, but he can’t understand the words. He recalls his boss at the Arboretum complaining about some Latino workers conversing in Spanish. “How do I know they’re not talking dirt about me?” the man groused. At the time Demetrius had felt surprise at his boss’s small-mindedness. Now he finds himself empathizing.
Samantha’s grandmother exits the room, turning out the light and drawing the door partially shut. She turns to Demetrius with an apologetic shrug. “I think I’ve done this all backwards. Business is not my strong point, to put it mildly. But since we’re up here, let me show you the room.” She opens the second door on the right, next to Samantha’s.
Demetrius steps in after her and gazes around the spacious room. A double bed in a tarnished brass bedstead stands by a window, single paned like all the windows he’s seen in Rainwood House. He crosses his arms over his chest against the chill.
Opposite the door is an alcove with a low peaked roof and a window seat, entirely occupied by potted plants on trays and saucers. A wooden bureau holds a framed photo of a cute olive-skinned young woman holding a baby, standing beside a school bus, the sun in her eyes. Beside the bureau is a chock-full bookcase.
Returning his gaze to the bed, he notices shoes lined up underneath it: sneakers, sandals, slim boots, a pair of pretty red shoes with ankle straps and little high heels. “But this is your bedroom!” He turns to face her.
“Well, yes,” she admits.
“You’re renting out your own room?”
“The other rooms are… they aren’t ready,” she falters. “Once we get them ready, we’ll rent them, too. I mean,” she amends, “we will invite people to come and be part of our collective household.”
Pivoting away from the man, Marlie scrutinizes the room. She’d be relieved not to sleep here among echoes of Blake’s voice pointing out her faults. She might miss the vista of plants in the dormer nook, but she hardly sees them in her early morning rush. She gets her houseplant fix in the kitchen, where she and Samantha really live.
Marlie regards her visitor. “I’m happy to make this room available. Look, it has its own bathroom.” She crosses the room, opens a narrow door, and waves him in with a flourish.
Demetrius enters, observing with pleasure the old-fashioned black and white tile and ornate fixtures, scratched and stained though they are. He turns on the tap. It vibrates under his hand with suppressed energy, then lets out a dissonant peal. Hastily, he closes it again and steps back into the bedroom. “Up here, it’s just a baby elephant.”
She smiles in the manner he’s already observed, with the corners of her mouth turned down, and begins crumbling brown bits off the skinny leaves of one of the spider plants on the bookshelf.
Finally he says, “So, uh, how much are you asking?”
She straightens. “Well, let me finish showing you the room.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes, there’s the closet and the, um, dressing room, I guess you’d call it.” Marlie crosses the room and tugs open a door Demetrius hasn’t noticed. She enters, flipping a light switch and motioning him to follow. It’s a huge walk-in closet. Marlie’s clothes barely fill a fraction of it. “Wow,” he says. “This is quite a closet and dressing room.”
“Actually, it’s just the closet.” She strides between the nearly empty clothing rods, opens another door at the back, and disappears through it.
Demetrius hurries after her into the dark just as he hears the crunch of a chain pull. A light comes on, revealing a small room—small for Rainwood House; it’s about the size of the living room in his DC apartment. It has a single tall window with a broken pane.
Marlie is gazing around the space, transfixed. Finally he says, “Um, Marlie? Marlena?” He steps toward her. “Ms. Mendíval?”
“Sorry.” Marlie shivers, remembering four-year-old Ana Violeta throwing a ball through that window over twenty years before.
“Wow! If there’s Internet access here, this would make a great office.”
“Probably,” she replied. “We have a strong connection.” The only system in the house that works properly, she nearly adds, but manages to keep that thought to herself.
“Wow,” he repeats, sounding both impressed and extremely weary. He turns to face her. “So, the rent…”
No more stalling, Marlie tells herself. “How about five hundred?” “Too little,” she can hear Vivi saying. She adds, “I guess that’s low for such a lot of space, but you could help with the cooking and such.”
“Sure.” He’ll agree to anything just to lie down in a bed. “Five hundred. Fine.” He molds his face into an expression of casual satisfaction with the offer. This has to be the most attention he’s paid to facial expressions and body language in his entire life. “Um, okay if I go ahead and move in, like… tonight?”
Her brows draw in. “Where’s your stuff?”
“In the kitchen.”
“That little bag is all you own?”
“No, but it’s what I’m working with right now. The other stuff is...with my grandmother on the Eastern Shore. I don’t need most of it.”
“So all this space is kind of wasted on you.” She turns and heads back through the closet to the main bedroom.
“No!” He smiles to smooth over his panicked tone as he follows her. “On the contrary. A few things in a beautiful, orderly space are good for Feng Shui and balance and all that. Creates the best kind of energy.” He feels idiotic, but hopes a little fuzziness might blunt whatever edges she might sense in him. “No need to empty the bookshelf,” he says and then regrets it. He doesn’t want to suggest she can have free access to his room.
“Oh, I don’t read them,” she replies, gesturing ruefully toward the books. “In Mexico, I read a lot of philosophy and politics, and of course anthropology, which is what I studied, as I was telling you downstairs. But after spending a bunch of money to bring my books with me when I came back to this country, I never look at them.” She shrugs. “I used to devour self-help books”—she waves toward a shelf of them—“but now I’m thinking they’re a conspiracy to make people forget about class struggle. I like mysteries, too,” she adds conversationally, “as long as they’re not violent.”
They’ve slipped off the subject of the room rental once again. If the conversation doesn’t end soon, he’ll collapse in a heap in front of her. “What about chores?” he asks, to bring her back to the here and now.
“Well, assuming you stay, you’d help with the communal chores.” With a tentative smile, she adds, “And I think we’ll each have our own particular focus area, subject to democratic discussion in our weekly assemblies.”
Assemblies of two? he wonders woozily. No, three, including Samantha. Unless we invite the bats to inter-species discussions. He folds his arms over his stomach and forces himself to pay attention.
“I’m not bad at cleaning,” she continues, “so your area could be cooking, since you like it.” She waits for his nod. “And there’d be special projects, like preparing other rooms for new housemates. “And maybe,” she hesitates, “assuming you stay, maybe you could look into the plumbing.”
Marlie sweeps her gaze around the room and sighs heavily. “Owning Rainwood House is like having a disabled child,” she says. “You love the child, but caring for it is overwhelming. You muddle along, but in the back of your mind you know you can’t do it alone.”
She places an affectionate hand on a thin pipe snaking up the wall behind the cast-iron radiator.
Demetrius touches the pipe. It feels barely warm.
There, Marlie thinks, she has laid it out. The collective can only work if he understands the situation and is willing to help. She’s held back only Blake’s threat to take the house. Perhaps that’s dishonest, but he won’t stay if she tells him. Watching his dark eyes, the long lashes drooping, she realizes she doesn’t want him to leave.
Juliana Barnet is a long-time activist and writer who writes about activism and social movements in both fiction and nonfiction. The Rainwood House movement mystery series follows the struggles of a group of activists in a old house filled with history, houseplants and musical plumbing.
I am loving this story. Can't wait for the next installment.
It's refreshing to have these well-written and relevant stories, Juliana. Thank you.