Filter House Read online

  After they ate Gransie headed to the little yellow room, so she went into the “morning” one. Bare boards stretched before her. There used to be a big pretty rug here, with so many colors she didn’t know all their names. There was still a dark spot on the floor where it used to keep off the sun.

  The wall to her left was made up of glass doors with sparkly handles, so that one was not worth checking. But to her right square panels of wood promised great things. She pressed along the trim with patient, sensitive fingers. There would be a whir, a click. Something would give way, and a new aspect of the house would be revealed, mysterious facet of a familiar stone.

  She came to the end of the wall without discovering anything. Maybe higher up…but she couldn’t reach all the way unless she had a stool. She would have to see about that later.

  The bathroom next. Black and yellow, like her shirt. The tile gleamed royally. The shiny black toilet was just a little bit scary.

  “Did you find it yet?” The boy leaned against the sink’s butter-yellow pedestal.

  “No,” she answered. “I just started. Is it in here?”

  “I’m going to teach you a song.”

  “Okay.” She had learned from past experience, it was best to let them take the lead. Some questions they just ignored.

  “It’s a very bad song. Promise you won’t tell anybody that I taught it to you, or I’ll get in trouble.”

  She felt a thrill of guilt as she hunkered down next to him, shoes scuffing damp echoes from the floor. “Promise.”

  “It goes like this:

  Well, it’s wine, wine, wine

  that makes you feel so fine

  in the corps (in the corps), in the corps (in the corps);

  Well, it’s wine, wine, wine

  that makes you feel so fine

  in the good old actor’s co-o-orps!”

  Anniette loved it. The boy’s voice went down real low when he sang in the core, in the core. Then it swooped all around like a circus band on the last word. Very satisfying. Too bad it was bad. It would be a wonderful song to sing real loud while marching around. She learned all the verses.

  In the library she pulled all the books from the shelves one by one, then put them back. Nothing moved or turned or revolved. Nothing lurked behind the red leather couch except dust and old chew toys left from Turk’s last sojourn. The Raineses didn’t bring him up much anymore. She asked Gransie why as she ate her bologna sandwich in the kitchen.

  “Gettin old,” Gransie said. “Same as me, he just doesn’t want to move around much anymore. Eat your salad; it’s good for you.”

  Anniette pulled a pickled bean from the crystal bowl next to her plate. One was enough, she decided, as the vinegar bit its way up through her sinuses, bringing tears to her eyes. A sip of Kool-Aid, a bite of bologna and mayonnaise, and she was all better.

  “Gransie, can I have a stool?”

  “A stool? What you want a stool for?”

  How much to explain? “I want to reach up on the walls, in the morning room. Up where that pledge sticks out.”

  “The pledge? You mean the ledge, don’t you? Where they keep the keys?” She nodded. “What on earth do you want up there?”

  Anniette paused. Should she tell? There was no other way to get what she wanted. “I want to find a secret passageway,” she said.

  Gransie snorted, pushed herself away from the table, and rose ponderously. “Child, however do you manage to fill your head with such nonsense? Must be all those books you read.”

  Anniette lowered her eyes in shame. It was a silly idea. She was a silly girl to have had it.

  Metal legs scraped lightly on the linoleum. She looked up. Gransie was pulling the white enameled step-stool from its place next to the fridge. “That room could use some dustin anyway, I guess.” She reached into a drawer for an apron. “Now don’t you go touchin any Miz Raines’s things, Anniette. She forgave you over that leopard, but if you ever break a real expensive piece, I don’t know what’ll happen. Some of those things are real nice. Worth more than I make in a month.” She tied the apron on Anniette, folding it up at the middle so it wasn’t too long.

  “Now.” Anniette stood still for inspection. “Go get me a head-scarf,” said Gransie.

  She shot up the stairs and almost collided with Miss Margaret, talking and laughing on the telephone. “Sorry,” said Anniette. Miss Margaret patted her on the head to show that it was all right and went on talking.

  “Honestly, Roger,” she said to the receiver. “You really should come up. What does it take to convince you? It’s the most frightful old place—you’d love it. It was actually a stop on the Underground Railroad. Just a moment, dear. Anniette, is there something you wanted?”

  Anniette realized she had no reason to be standing there besides her utter amazement. She shook her head and continued slowly down the hall to her room.

  “Oh, that was just our maid’s little granddaughter. The cutest thing. Yes, Nancy’s been with us practically forever, like family really….” Anniette heard Margaret’s voice trailing off behind her as she walked away. But there was nothing more about the Underground Railroad. She tried to remember all about it, what she knew from school. It was how they got colored people out of the South, away from Slavery. White people helped the colored. They had to; it must have been a lot of work to build so many tunnels and lay all that track.

  She rummaged in her drawer for several minutes before she remembered what she was supposed to be looking for. A scarf. Here was one, white with yellow flowers. She carried it downstairs, deep in thought.

  Gransie tied the scarf over her pigtails to keep off the dust. She grumbled that the scarf was so light and would surely show the dirt, but she didn’t send Anniette back for another. She gave her two cloths and a bottle of lemon oil and showed her what to do.

  The panels did look much nicer after they’d been polished. She liked the candy shop smell she spread around herself. And best of all she had a perfect excuse to press and finger every inch of wood on the walls. Only, there was no response.

  She had to leave the stool behind when she went into the yellow room. It just wouldn’t fit. All that glass. It made Anniette nervous, since the leopard broke. She was very careful, really she was, but still she dropped the goblet.

  Not because she got startled. Nothing was sudden like that; first there was a dry, sweet, scent, like burning flowers, and then a golden flame. The dark lady showed up slowly, like a shadow growing from the light of the candle that she held. There was nothing sudden or scary about the way she came or how she looked. But looking, Anniette forgot to hold onto the glass. It fell and rolled along the white lace table cloth, turning over and over till it came to the other end, to where the lady stood.

  The candle wavered and sank, so Anniette could see the lady’s smooth, dark face. Not one that she had ever seen before. Her chin was sharp and pointy, like Anniette’s.

  “You the maid?” Her voice was sharp and pointy, too.

  “No.”

  “You live here, though, don’t you?”

  “No, I’m on a visit.

  “How long?”

  “All summer, if I want. Mommy says—”

  The lady interrupted. “How long?”

  “The end of August, when school’s gonna—”

  “How long? How long? HOW—” The lady stopped herself from shouting and looked down at the table. “Rufus gave his word. It ain’t broke. It ain’t. Yet.” She raised her candle and looked at Anniette again. “You come on along. I can show you.”

  When Anniette got to that end of the table, the lady and the light were gone. But she could still see by the windows. Like the lady said, it was all right. The only marks on the goblet were ones that were supposed to be there: flowers, carved twisting up the curving sides.

  Gransie grumbled, but Anniette was able to go over the kitchen without getting too much in the way of dinner. Miss Margaret had a tray in her room. After they ate, Anniette had to bring it
down.

  Then she tried the archery range. There weren’t many possibilities there, so she finished quickly and went to bed. As she knelt to pray she remembered what Gransie was saying as she left Anniette to her task that afternoon. Grown-ups always said strange things, especially as they got older and closer to being one of them. Like Grandfather. But this stuck in her head and went along with the prayers. She had said something like in church: “Not mine, but Thine, oh Lord.” Then: “But still, it’s such a shame. For the sake of the child alone, it’s a sin, and a cryin shame.”

  A cryin shame. Not mine, but thine. Oh, lord.

  It rained again next morning. Miss Margaret ate in the kitchen with Anniette and Gransiwe. She had cornflakes. She was up early so Uncle Troy could take her to the station to meet her friend.

  So Anniette could explore upstairs.

  The Red Room. It was so pretty. She always wanted to sleep in here. Once, she did. It was in winter, and this room had a fireplace that still worked. She checked there first, running her hands over the cool, rough stone. No. And the closet was nothing but a closet. Disappointed, she solaced herself with the feel of the silky red curtains hanging down over the bed. They rustled, whispering of beauty. She rubbed her face in them, wished she could wear them, nothing but red silk, like a lady, a queen.

  “So. This is what comes of recklessness.”

  It was a man. One of them? Another new one? Or was Uncle Troy back already with Miss Margaret and her friend? Couldn’t be.

  The man smiled under his curly moustache. He walked away from her, toward the fireplace, then turned and looked back. He wore funny old clothes, like an ad for an ice-cream parlor. Them. “Well,” he said, “at least you are a fairly good-looking pickaninny. If I do say so myself. Rachel was true unto me, and I was true unto my word.”

  “What’s a pickaninny?”

  “That you can see me at all is proof, I suppose.” The man frowned. “You haven’t seen her, have you? Rachel? Rachel?” His voice faded and he was gone.

  How come they were around so much right now? She searched the other rooms listlessly, strangely disturbed. The one with the green wallpaper, called the Nursery. The Rose Room, where Miss Margaret’s bags still waited to be unpacked. The Study. The Master Bedroom, white and untouchable. All were void of mystery. She gave up and retreated to her room. As she put her hand on the doorknob she suddenly thought, “It might be in here.”

  She went straight to the window seat. With growing sureness she searched along the woodwork, pressing, pressing.… Ah. A small section of trim moved under her touch. She looked around the room. No dim, dusty openings, no magically appearing stairways. The change was much smaller and closer. Below the seat’s blue-green cushion a wide crack showed in the enameled wood. Anniette put the cushion on the floor and jammed her fingers into the crack. She pulled. A board flipped up. Two boards.

  She was looking in someone’s hidey-hole. Nice, though not as exciting as a secret passage. She reached into the darkness and pulled out a wooden box, tied around with pale blue ribbon. Underneath the box was a fan like ladies used in church. Only this fan was made of cloth. Silk, deep red silk, like the curtains in the Red Room.

  She untied and opened the box. Papers. She could read print. But these were mostly letters. The writing was sharp and difficult looking, not the round, loose script she had sneaked a look at in a third-grader’s book. Regretfully, she set the letters aside.

  Underneath was something mostly printed, with words and numbers written in. The printing was fancy, like on the cover of Gransie’s bible. She decided the short word at the top was d-e-e-d, deed.

  A deed was what you did, if you were a boy scout or a shining knight. Maybe it would be exciting to read, but the alphabets were all twiney and hooked together, and anyway, what about those numbers? What would they have to do with an adventure?

  “Lot 392…16 circle East…by 90 circle South…3 chains…” It didn’t make sense. She scanned the page for what did. “I, Ruff-us Raines, do grant, war-rant and con-” con-something.

  The word Rachel appeared several times. Like the man had said. She knew how that name looked, print or cursive. It was her own. Anniette Rachel Hawkes.

  The rain stopped around noon.

  Miss Margaret was back for lunch. She ate on the verandah with her friend, Roger. He had big yellow teeth. Anniette didn’t like him, but that didn’t count. He was going to stay in the Red Room.

  Uncle Troy and Gransie and Anniette ate in the kitchen, after Miss Margaret and her friend. While they were still having their dessert Miss Margaret stuck her head in and asked Uncle Troy if he would mind terribly getting the boat ready to go out. He said no, of course.

  Anniette went with him, for lack of anything better to do. The papers were still up in her room, in their box. Later, when Gransie wasn’t so busy, she would ask her to look at them. They were probably even important. They just weren’t a train station.

  The boathouse was spooky in a nice way. The boat made big booming sounds as Uncle Troy lowered it to the water. The sun came out while they were still inside, shining in little star-shapes through holes in the ramshackle walls. They sagged so much that Uncle Troy had to duck as he rowed out under the lake side.

  Miss Margaret had changed into a pretty white dress. She was smiling and said that Anniette could come along. Anniette ran back to the boathouse for a life jacket. They smelled bad, but Gransie wouldn’t let her on the lake without one, even though she could swim.

  The sun was all the way out to stay. Anniette relaxed in the warmth, watched the water lilies unfolding in light that the rain had newly purified. She was happy. So she sang.

  “Well, it’s wine, wine, wine

  that makes you feel so fine

  in the corps (in the corps), in the—”

  “Anniette!” Miss Margaret snapped. “What’s that you’re singing? Where did you learn that song?”

  She had promised. She couldn’t tell her. She felt really bad, since Miss Margaret had let her come in the boat.

  “Speak up, child.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Roger. “Insubordination in the ranks?”

  Margaret laughed. It didn’t sound like she thought anything was funny. “Not that it matters, only it seemed sort of…creepy.”

  “What seemed creepy?”

  “That song she was singing. I suppose she could have learned it anywhere. It’s just that I associate it so strongly with Cousin Freddy; I guess because he taught it to me when we were kids here.”

  “So what?” said Roger. “So he taught it to the help, too.”

  “Hardly,” said Miss Margaret. “He died three years before Anniette was born.”

  “Oh.”

  “As I said, it’s not important. I just…wondered.”

  “I taught her,” said Uncle Troy suddenly from where he sat rowing. “Mr. Fred taught it to me and I taught it to her.”

  Everybody in the boat stared at him. Miss Margaret and her friend looked like they had forgotten he was even there. Anniette stared too, because Uncle Troy hardly ever talked unless you asked him something. And he never told lies.

  Without another word from anyone the boat returned to shore.

  After supper Anniette sat at the top of the stairs, looking down. Down. How could she have been so stupid? The train station was underground. That’s why they called it the Underground Railroad. And here she’d been looking for the entrance on the second floor.

  The problem was, she wasn’t allowed to go into the cellar.

  She always tried to be good.

  Gransie was with some ladies from church. They were writing invitations to the ice-cream social. They wouldn’t let her help, even though she colored real good. And she couldn’t show the papers to Gransie while she was having company.

  There was nothing else to do.

  There was no place else to look.

  She could hear Roger and Miss Margaret talking on the landing. He said, “Parrish is a fine illust
rator. But that’s all he is.” She said, “I suppose you’re right. Still, it’s so pretty.”

  They must be talking about the girl on the swing, Anniette decided. Anniette didn’t know who the girl was. Not one of them, like a lot of pictures in the house.

  “Pretty. A pointless, stupid word. A shallow compliment. I, I must confess, I am drawn to—the depths.” There was a heavy silence, then the sound of clothes rubbing together. Kissing noises. “Tonight?”

  “Roger, I—”

  “You can’t mean to make me wait. Maggie, I came here on trust. I came all the way from Chicago, tourist class. Maggie, my dear, you…you gave me your word.”

  Maggie was Miss Margaret. Had to be. No one else was there.

  “I…Roger, I know, and my word means so much to me—”

  More kissing noises.

  “Nothing has changed, has it, darling? No, I can feel it. You are still the same true, dear, loyal, trustworthy soul. Oh, Maggie—”

  “All right, Roger.”

  “You will come?”

  “Yes. It’s sure to be safe. Nancy never comes upstairs any more, and Anniette will be on the other side of the house, in the old servant’s quarters. I’ll come.”

  The next day was disappointingly sunny. Neither Miss Margaret nor Roger seemed to want to do much with their breakfast. They came down, long after Anniette had enjoyed her Maypo, and moped around the morning room. Gransie suggested a game of croquet, but Roger thought the lawn needed cutting, and Uncle Troy wasn’t going to be around till later.

  After a while Anniette saw them heading for the rose arbor. She wondered if the lady from next door would be there. She seemed to show up there mostly, maybe because her house burned down so long ago there were trees growing up inside the place where the basement used to be.

  It was Thursday. Time to change the beds. Anniette offered to do it and save Gransie’s rheumatism from the stairs. Gransie took her to the linen closet off the cellar steps.