Stream of Solace

CHAPTER ONE (ELIZA) The Three Bells -- The Browns

I heard it before I saw it.

The huge U-Haul truck in front of the house across the stream.

The only house in the entire neighborhood that wasn't an acre or two of woodlands away from ours. The house that had been sitting there empty for the last nine years— since 1968.

The elements hadn't been too kind to it, either. The house had sage green paint that peeled and chipped all over the outside, almost every window had some sort of crack, the dark brown porch was sinking in on one side, and the yard was so overgrown and yellow it would easily take years to fix.

The house was such an eyesore, my father had talked about buying the property himself just to get it bulldozed to the ground. But then Mother said if he had enough money to buy a second house, then he had enough money to invest in the one they already owned. So that's what they did.

Our house was nothing like it was when my parents had first bought it over a decade ago. I had seen the pictures. It used to look just like the one across the stream; same green paint, same dark brown porch. But now our house was bright white and two stories tall. It had large, lavish windows in the front room and in Father's office space, a spacious porch with a swing, a perfectly paved driveway, and a beautiful yard front and back. Our house was a castle compared to the rotting witch shack next door.

Even from a very young age I thought it was funny how Father always complained about Mother's expensive taste. But how could he really blame her when he enabled it anyway?

Mother started crafting one of her famous pecan pies when we arrived home from church that Sunday morning— the nerve of her to use our oven in the muggy, July heat. You know the kind. The kind of ruthless, Georgian heat that sticks your clothing to your back and drenches you in sweat just from stepping out onto the porch to snag the morning paper.

My mother very rarely made her pies. She hated feeling the bits of dough get caught underneath her manicured fingernails, couldn't stand how the flour gave a dryness to her hands, and most importantly, she absolutely despised sacrificing her spotless kitchen for a dessert that would only live to see the evening through. She always complained that the blood, sweat, and tears she invested into every pie was never appreciated enough— like everyone who shoved a morsel of her pie down their throat should be knelt at her feet, kissing the ground. Bow to her like it was the second coming of Christ. Over a pie.

I came down the stairs from my bedroom when I smelled the sugary corn-syrup that lingered in the air. Mother was in the kitchen, dabbing the moisture from her forehead with one hand and placing full pecans on top of the gooey pie filling with the other. I could almost taste that buttery, flaky crust, fresh from the oven.

I took a seat at our dining table and watched her slave away, keeping quiet so I wouldn't disturb her. Keeping still so I wouldn't be noticed.

Raindrops padded on the large, sliding glass door beside me— the willow trees wobbling around in the wind with Spanish moss clinging to the leaves for life.

Mother sighed, placing the last few pecans. "This rain had better quit soon," she said. "We've got places to go and people to see."

And then I put two and two together. The pie was for them.

The new neighbors.

"It's hotter than the devil making love in here," Father said, still in his Sunday best. His heavy footsteps wrecked the peace. "Why in the hell are you using the oven?"

"Couldn't make a pie in the fridge, now, could I?" Mother said. "At least not one as good as this. And watch your language, you philistine— it's the Lord's day. We're greeting the new neighbors as soon as I'm finished here. And wipe that ugly scowl off your face. We need to look presentable." She dusted her hands off on the apron that protected her floral dress.