Pent Up House

by Leah Wollenberg

It was a dark and stormy night.

Which was odd, because this was Berkeley California in late August. It was the time of year when the grass on the hills would catch fire if someone with glasses looked at it long enough. Yet the rain fell down in with a gusto that would have been surprising in the wettest of seasons, merrily drenching my dog and I as we walked up through the wilds of the Berkeley Hills.

“Well this sucks,” I told the husky at my side.

A walk had seemed like a good idea a few hours ago, with Diefenbaker following me around the house nudging my legs at every turn. So we had set off from our West Berkeley home, walking all the way up the roads until we reached Tilden Regional Park, Berkeley’s vast greenbelt which makes up most of the city’s eastern border. My parents had taken the car to LA, and after spending a day doing last minute summer homework, I was ready for a walk and a taste of the fading vacation independence. There was hardly a block of Berkeley that Dief and I hadn’t charged down; the fact that Tilden was three miles uphill from us wasn’t an issue. I needed the exercise if I wanted to be ready for rugby this year.

Needless to say, it hadn’t been pouring then. Now we were plodding along one of those obscure roads in the boonies of Berkeley that winds up, up, and away until it can’t wind anymore with the water dripping down our backs and noses. Dief kept looking at me as if he was trying to say, “Home is the other way, moron.” But we kept going. Not because of some ridiculous commitment to a fitness regime. I knew I had relatives somewhere in these hills, and damned if I was about to walk three miles home in this. Under any other circumstances, I might have felt uneasy about busting in on a bunch of people I barely knew with a big, wet husky. But hey, I reasoned, if Arthur came knocking on my door in the middle of a freak storm, I’d let him in without a second thought.

I hadn’t seen my second cousin since school got out. We were on hallway terms with each other, and he seemed like a nice, quiet guy, but we had our own different circles of friends, so we didn’t mix much. I hadn’t seen his parents since his brother’s memorial about six years ago. I had a good memory for places, though, and unless they had moved, (which, I realized with a jolt, was an all-too possible scenario), we were only a few blocks away from a warm, dry house.

I sniffed and wiped the rain out of my eyes, trying to find the turn you had to take off the road and onto the dark, dripping trees to get to the old Victorian. Arthur had described it to me once: “Well, it’s a bit arduous. You go all the way up the Albert Rd, past all the other houses until it just seems like you’re in Tilden again with a bunch of trees; we’re right on the edge of the park, so I suppose you might as well be. Aaaaanyway, near the end of the road, next to a large oak and a variety of rather ugly trash cans. That’s where the path turns off the road. Follow that up a ways and you’ve found us.”

I shook my head, sending the drop of water on my nose flying. Some people start talking shit when they get drunk. Arthur Carroll starts talking. The fact that my directions had come from a man who had been, (how had he put it?) inebriated at the time was not something I wanted to think about at this point, so I shook my head again and kept walking.

The trashcans and the path were easy to find, even with the creaking trees obscuring the lights from the few street lamps. I braced myself for mud and began the “arduous” (who the hell says “arduous” outside of English class these days?) scramble up the path. I was a good ways up the trail before I realized Dief wasn’t behind me.

“Dief, don’t make me come down there.” The dog growled and gave a small yelp but held his ground at the bottom of the trail.

“Diefenbaker!”

He growled again, then skulked up through the mud towards me. When he had caught up, he refused to go in front, so I stumbled along, falling once or twice (or maybe three times), ending up completely covered in muck and worried my cell phone would never be the same again. But I could see lights poking through the trees, soft, dancing . . . candlelight? Was there a power outage? Parts of the house were emerging from amidst the brambles and bushes, high arches and tall windows, dark save a few near the front. Finally, the trees cleared. The house stood impressively before me. Victorians were fairly rare in the hills, but this one looked more authentic than any others I had seen. It had a weathered look, like the paint was a few coats behind schedule. I ran up the rickety steps to the front door practically laughing with relief as I fell under the awning and out of the rain for the first time in hours. With an effort, I pulled myself off the soaked stairs, grabbed the bronze knocker, and hit it against the wood. I held my breath.

Footsteps. The light of a candle in the window. And the door opened.

My first cousin once-removed, (I think that’s how we’re related), had changed since we had last met, but I didn’t really register the gray hair, the blank expression, or the long, old-fashioned dress. I gave another strangled laugh and took her hand.

“Angela. Hi. You might not recognize me. I’m Carrie Parch, your cousin. Arthur and I go to school together. It’s been a while.”

The huge smile that spread across her face crossed the few feet between us to warm my chilled bones. “Dear cousin Catherine!” she exclaimed. “Of course! How delightful. We do not get many callers these days, my goodness! You’re soaked through! Come inside dear, or you’ll catch your death. Yes, we’re about the same size, you can borrow some of my clothes- we’ll hang your wet ones on the mantle.”

“Thank you so much. Oh, um, do you have a towel I could use? My dog is soaking wet too.” Dief peered in around my legs at the house, tail drooping. Angela put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh good lord! John! We have a visitor here with her dog. Would you mind taking the animal down to the cellar?”

The stairs directly in front of the door rattled as a John Carroll descended, buttoning up a worn red vest over a white shirt that puffed out at the end of the sleeves. Was that a cravat around his neck?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you going somewhere? I can leave . . .”

“Not at all, my dear child! John, you remember our cousin Catherine?”

“Of course! It has been a while, has it not?”

I took the hand he offered. “Yeah, I think the last time I saw you was six years ago, around Chris’s funeral.”

“Quite the beast you have there, Miss Catherine! From the Northern Territories, if I am not mistaken.”

I couldn’t help but laugh slightly as I looked down at the wet dog sitting demurely at my side. “Er, well, yes, I think that they’re originally from there--”

“Fascinating creatures. Did you know, Angela, they use them much like horses, for pulling sledges through the snow! During the winter, it is their only mode of transportation. I believe it is a trick they borrowed from the natives. I’m very curious to know how you got one here.”

“Later, John, can you not see the girl is freezing? Come dear, we must get you dry before you catch a chill.”

Angela took my arm and led me up the dark wooden stairs, which were lit, I noticed, by gas lamps. Deif tried to follow, but John caught him by the collar and pulled him away. His barks echoed eerily through the house.

“I do apologize for my husband- he is so interested by the world at large. Anything that is out of the ordinary is something that must be examined and discussed at great length.”

“Really . . .” I rubbed my arms and pinched myself. “Well, I don’t think dog-sledge is the only way to get around Alaska and Canada in the winter--”

“I tell you this so you may gather your wits about you. He will no doubt barage you with questions regarding the use of sledge-dogs in the north.” We had reached the top of the stairs, and were standing on a dark landing that led off into more gas-lit halls. Angela ushered me through the first doorway on the left, saying “Now, let me see. Yes, I think my old empire will fit you well. I must apologize for it being slightly out of fashion, but I think you will find it the most comfortable in my humble wardrobe . . .”

When I left the room ten minutes later, I was dressed in buckled ankle boots, a shawl, pantyhose, and a lavender, floor length empire-waist dress.

I walked down the stairs, jaw clamped shut so that the laughter bubbling up in my throat wouldn’t get out. Angela asked me if I was ill. I shook my head and tried to get my bearings.

The house was, for the most part, dark, lit only by candles and gas-lamps. I followed Angela into the living-room, weaving through old fashioned dark-wood desks, couches and winged arm-chairs with worn upholstery, and stained coffee tables, all crammed in together, about twice as many as were needed in an average living room. Angela kept up a constant stream of commentary on something, but I was more focused on keeping my mouth shut and looking at the pictures on the walls. Kid’s drawings, done with pencils, crayons, all by the same child, hung in mismatched elaborate frames. I peered at them in the flickering light. They all seemed to be of people in top hats and tailcoats.

“Fascinating creature, that dog of yours!” John said as he walked into the room. Angela pulled me down onto one of the many couches, and John sat in an armchair across from us.

“How exactly did you come to have him? I would have thought they would be extremely difficult to get down here. I must say you surprise me, a young lady of your age and stature, able to handle such a beast!”

The affront must have shown on my face, because John’s eyebrows went up with worry and he said, “Oh my dear cousin, I do not mean to be ungallant towards your sex. I have nothing but respect for females-- only a fool would not, with her majesty on the throne--”

The hand fell from my mouth and the laugh escaped. “Please. Wait. What--”

“Good evening, mother, father- cousin! What a surprise!” And the third Carroll sauntered into the room, dressed in a vest and shirt like his father, brushing his dark wet hair back from his face. His timing was impeccable, as if he had been waiting in the other room for this very moment to intervene. He held out his hand, and the smile was just a little too wide. “Catherine, I was hoping to run into you at some point over the holidays! We really do not see enough of each other. Our school is large, but it is truly ridiculous that we do nothing but exchange greetings in the halls every so often . . . ”

Arthur sat on the couch between us, talking about school and then the weather and then the line at the market and the fact that he had run into Andrew Smith while he was out. I sat quietly next to him, staring at his slightly damp vest, pinstriped pants, and yes, hastily tied cravat. I opened my mouth. Arthur kicked me under the couch.

“Oh by the way, is that a dog barking in the cellar? I thought I heard noises when I came in.”

“Ah yes, Ms. Catherine has a fascinating specimen from the north. Really, how did you come across--”

“Perhaps John, we should move this to the dining room? Dinner has been ready for some time. You must excuse our lack of a maid. We have limited funds, and John insists on frugality. I must admit I fancy myself an amateur cook. You will not think any less of us, I hope?”

I could feel the peach fuzz on my face singe under Arthur’s gaze.

“O-of course not. I, er, enjoy cooking myself, on occasions.”

Angela clapped her hands. “Marvelous. Shall we go to the dinning room then?”

The table was large, and had probably once been beautiful, but it was covered in scratches as water stains. We sat. The soup was placed before us by a beaming Angela. I poked at it nervously, wondering if there was maybe something in the water in this part of the hills that I shouldn’t be ingesting. The conversation kept going merrily despite my lack of enthusiasm.

“Now Angela you cannot blame me for practicality! In fact, you really cannot hold me accountable for any of the monetary issues in this household, seeing as I rarely come into contact with our funds.”

Angela patted her husband’s arm. “Very true, my dear.” She looked over at me. “Arthur manages all our affairs- John and I are useless when it comes to money!

John chuckled. “Poor boy, too smart to be penned up going figures! What he needs is to find a nice young lady, then he’ll have a bit more excitement in his life.” He gave a sly glance to his son then to me. “Why Arthur! There appears to be a very nice young lady sitting right next to you! How the devil did she get there?”

Arthur closed his eyes. Angela said, “Now, John!” in a joking voice.

I turned sharply to my cousin. “ We’re going to be in the same math class next semester, right?”

He couldn’t quite meet my eyes. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Good. I wanted to ask you about some of the summer homework. There was one problem in particular I was having difficulty with.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “All my work is in my room--”

“I’ll go with you. I can’t believe I’ve never seen where my own cousin lives!”

“Now now you two . . .”

“Oh come cousin John, Arthur and I known each other since we were born. Surely we can be trusted to be in room together unchaperoned?”

John gave a mischievous grin. “Oh, very well!”

I jumped out of my chair. Arthur rose slowly, then marched towards the stairs, his long legs carrying him through the obstacle course of a living room much faster than I could manage in the ridiculous dress. This time through, I noticed the several outlets and vents peeking out from behind strategically placed furniture. Why bother?

Up the stairs again, on the dark landing, then down to the end of the corridor. Arthur opened the door, and I went through without looking at him. He moved a wall hanging aside to reveal a switch and turned on the electric light, then closed the door carefully behind him. I glanced around the room, to his four-poster bed and dark wood desk. I could see a laptop poking out from underneath his pillow. A pair of jeans was shoved under the bed, and a gray tailcoat hung on his chair. A kerosene lamp sat on the bedside table, and a candle was ready to burn on the desk. Finally, I turned full circle and faced my cousin.

If I had doubted the fact that I had walked unknowingly into a serious situation and not a well-orchestrated joke, the look Arthur gave me now erased them. I didn’t know what to say, so we just stared at each other. The confusion, hopelessness, and fury in the room was stifling. I almost wanted to go back down the stairs to the insanity below, but Arthur and The Look were blocking the door. Somewhere below, Dief started to bark.

“We can hear him in the cellar up here, but not downstairs?” I asked, looking out the window where the noise seemed to be coming from.

Arthur snorted and looked at his feet, running a hand through his hair. “People in the Victorian era didn’t have garages, they had cellars.” He looked up again, and the fury was back, just daring me to laugh. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I . . .” The answer was too ridiculous. This whole thing was too ridiculous. “I was caught in the storm, and I knew you lived nearby, so, so I came to see if I could . . . sit it out with you guys.”

He snorted again. “Sit out the storm with the crazy cousins. Great plan.”

“ Yeah, I didn’t actually know I had crazy cousins until a few minutes ago.”

He looked at me sharply, as if insulted that I had called his family crazy, then shook his head and sat down on the bed. The burning anger that had radiated from him a moment ago seemed to have gone out suddenly, leaving him drooping and weak.

“You’re the first person. In six years. Can you believe that? All the people that could have knocked on the door, all the people that could have just dropped by, they never did. All our immediate family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, are gone-- it was so easy for them.” He laughed softly. I sat down next to him. “I put the trash cans in front of the path, so people wouldn’t go up. I do all the shopping, all the banking, all the, all the, everything to make sure they don’t have to do anything in the real world.”

“Six years ago. When Chris . . .”

He nodded, eyes closed, head in his hands. “They wanted to live in his world. They went in, and they never came out.”

I frowned, then looked up at the wall across from us. On it was another drawing, done in the same scribbled style as the rest, of two round-headed boys in tailcoats and top hats. Written with a child’s shaky hand were the words “Arthur and Christopher, 2 Gentlemen by Mr. Christopher Carroll.”

“He liked Victorians?”

“He was obsessed. My parents read him Oliver Twist and Great Expectations every night. I didn’t think it was healthy for al little kid. I mean, have you ever read those? Some seriously messed up shit happens in Dickens, but he loved it, and my parents did too. I . . . it scared me. Everything was so oppressive, you know? It was weird, being afraid of the stuff my little brother loved. He didn’t get it.” Arthur clasped his hands, talking to the floor in a soft monotone.

“You don’t really get over a child dying, I guess. They were just as dead as he was. They didn’t see anyone, not even the people that came over to try to help them. I made all the food, cleaned, bought the groceries, did everything to keep them alive, because back then, I seriously thought they would have died for real if I hadn’t. Maybe they would have.” He was talking fast now, as if he had held everything he was saying inside him for the last six years and now that the dam was breached, there was no way to stop the words from flowing out.

“Then this stupid therapist friend corners them in the street one day and says that it might help them if they surrounded themselves with stuff that reminded them of him, kind of like sweating out a fever.” He snorted. “They were blank slates at this point, really. Open to anything. They went to furniture stores, antique shops, bookstores, everywhere they could find anything old-fashioned. I was actually kind of relieved, because at least they were doing something . . .” There was bitterness now. I was surprised he’d managed to keep it from his voice for so long.

“Your friends? They never figured it out?”

“I haven’t had a friend close enough to find out since I was eleven.” And he started laughing. “God, I sound like some emo kid, don’t I?”

I frowned. “I hope that’s not you trying to be funny.”

He laughed again, though this time it seemed like it was verging on genuine.

“Arthur.” I said. He looked up, eyes slightly glassy. “You . . . you can’t . . . keep this up. At some point, you’re not going to be able to look out for them. What are you going do in a year?”

“If I don’t get into Cal, I’ll go to Berkeley City College.”

I shook my head. “It’s not your responsibility to take care of them. I doubt Chris would have wanted--”

Arthur cut me off. “Sorry Carrie, but how the hell do you know what he wanted?”

“Because I don’t think any good brother would want you to be trapped by their death! There’s no way you can live your life like this!”

He got up, some of the anger returning. “Like this? You mean with my parents around? Look at what happened when Chris died. Can you imagine what would happen if their other son disappeared too? They need me--”

“You could still see them--”

“What, if they were in a mental hospital? I’d rather go crazy myself then see them in straight jackets! I owe them my life, everything. The family’s been through enough shit, and if you think that just because you’ve been let in on the secret you can just, just take matters into your own hands, you’re damn wrong!”

But he couldn’t bring himself to look at me as he said it. Instead, he paced around his small, cell-like room, wringing his hands. I sat silently, wondering what gave me the right to say any of this, what gave me the right to be here at all.

“I may only be seventeen, but . . . in my experience, no one is that selfless.”

“You’ve led a sad existence them.”

I looked at him and his double life and snorted. He sat down next to me again. We listened to the rain and the distant sound of Diefenbaker barking for a full minute before he spoke again.

“I have to be this selfless. They’re my family.” There was a pleading note in his voice, as if a small part of him almost, almost wanted me to convince him that he was wrong. But then he shook his head and looked at me, the doubt shoved aside. “For now, this is what I have to do.”

I sighed, then nodded. “If I can help at all, just let me know, ok?”

“You really want to get drawn into this mess?”

“As long as you can get your dad to stop playing match-maker.”

He laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. And you won’t try to convince me to . . . do something with them?”

I shook my head. “I can’t promise that. But, God help me, I won’t tell anyone either, even if it is for your own good.”

He hugged me tightly, until it almost hurt, then suddenly let go.

“Is your dog’s barking louder?”

I listened for a moment, then turned towards the door, yelling, “Shithegotout!”

We ran down the stairs, past Angela and John (“Sorry cousin, it appears Diefenbaker has escaped for the ga—cellar. We shall have to work on his separation anxiety for future visits. These sledge-dogs are truly incorrigible!”), just in time for Dief to burst through the old door, which was apparently no match for a huge determined husky. I rugby tacked him to the ground, wondering what the hell John and Angela were thinking of my un-lady-like behavior while Arthur chucked merrily.

“Perhaps, cousin, this is Diefenbaker’s way of saying he is ready to go. Look at the time! I shall escort you home.”

I got up in as dignified a manner as I could, keeping a firm hold on Dief’s collar. Angela, (looking slightly shaken), came up to me and kissed my cheek. John held out his hand. “Ms. Catherine, it has been a pleasure. Will you call again sometime?”

“Of course she will, John! She must return my dress and shoes, after all!” Angela said, handing me a bag with my own clothes in it. I promised her I would return within the week, and Arthur and I stepped out into the downpour.

“Incorrigible? Really?” he laughed, opening his black umbrella.

“Sorry, I got inspired. Are we going by horse drawn carriage or dog-sledge?”

“I was thinking something more alone the lines of a Volvo Station Wagon. That sound ok?”

He got a Northface jacket out of the back seat and offered it to me, pulling a second onto his own shoulders. “I keep a lot of spare clothes in the car, just in case I run out of the house in a tailcoat again.”

“This is a story I have to hear sometime.”

I couldn’t help but feel something akin to awe, and maybe even pride, as he pulled out of the driveway, avoiding the trashcans with the ease of a driver twice his age, slipping effortlessly into this other life like it was nothing more than putting on different coat. We drove down the hill with the rain pelting against the windshield, but we didn’t care. It couldn’t rain forever.