Cement to Dust, Wood to Ashes (Prose, 7/06)

I remember the first time I could feel. They poured the concrete around me, and as it set, I gained awareness for the first time, as though I was emerging from an eternal slumber. I felt invincible; I was one with the solid earth beneath me.
I remember the first time I could stand. The beams of solid oak took on the skeletal impression of my rising bulk, and as wood met sky, I felt energy and stamina that would carry me for centuries to come.
I remember the first time I could think clearly. As the roof began to take shape, my consciousness sharpened, my mind clearing from the fog of youthfulness and immaturity. I suppose my childhood lasted mere weeks, but my life would far exceed those souls whose job it was to construct me.
I remember the first time I could taste. Drywall and paneling now blocked out the wind, save for the gaps intended as windows and, more distinctly, the front door. It was through this rectangular breach that I could taste the air, the wind, the world.
I remember the first time I could see. The glass in the windows was my lens on the world. Through it I watched vehicles and people come and go, much as they watch time-lapse films of houses being erected.
I remember the first time I loved. And I remember the first time I was angered.

It was a hot, muggy summer afternoon, and I had been sleeping fitfully when the crunching of gravel roused me. I watched suspiciously as a new, 1961 Chrysler Imperial pulled to a halt in front of my porch. Near the horizon behind the car, a typical early-evening thunderstorm brewed menacingly, but the man that emerged from the passenger seat seemed not to notice. His hair was black and slicked down to the point of absurdity, but he carried himself with a casual confidence that undoubtedly concealed a scheming shrewdness. He was clearly a salesperson to the core, and I was the item for sale.
The salesman circled the front of the car, tapping the hood lightly as he went, and opened the door to the driver’s seat. The woman who stepped out laughed uncomfortably at the showy performance of etiquette. She was middle-aged with light-brown hair, and had apparently tried to give herself a look of properness and sophistication that simply had not worked. Her hair was already coming out of its tight knot, and somehow the dressy clothes she wore managed to look casual and unimposing.
The woman was led to the steps of my porch, where the two stopped. Her eyes swept the front façade, and then settled upon the freshly planted flowers. The salesman was talking.
“…and as I mentioned, ma’am, it’s brand new, with the latest in design techniques. The property includes about twenty acres on this hill, and as you can see, the designers tried to give the house a bit of a timeless feel—that porch wraps around three sides—but with a modern family in mind. It has central air conditioning and heating, as well as a separate phone line into the office. And the kitchen is built for today’s stay-at-home mother. Come see…”
The woman, who had bent down to smell a scarlet rose, said, “It’s just me and the kids…I don’t get to stay at home much.”
She walked through the door held open by the man, and into my foyer. Her eyes followed the graceful swing of the grand stairs as they curved away to the shadowy landing a dozen feet above. Mouthing the word “wow,” she turned her head to the salesman and asked, “How big is this house? It seems smaller from out there.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? It’s about four thousand square feet—”
“Gosh!”
“—But I assure you, it will feel well-inhabited and manageable once you all move in. It has five bedrooms, so your kids won’t have to share space, and the master bedroom and bath are spectacular. Have a look; if you’ll follow me, Mrs. Hyman.”
They ascended the stairs, the salesman looking confident, almost smug; Mrs. Hyman looking around in wonder. When they reached the landing, they turned left towards the master bedroom. However, just as the man stepped into the last room on the hall, Mrs. Hyman let out a gasp. She stared fixedly out of the window at the end of the hall, which looked out over my backyard. The gardens, the trees, the pool made out of dark grey granite, the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, she took them all in. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from the stunning panorama.
“I’ll take it!” she exclaimed, still not turning from the window. The salesman started and then grinned broadly. Mrs. Hyman continued, still entranced, “How much is it?”
“Well, for you I believe I could drive the price down to a reasonable offer. It was set at eighty thousand, but I might get the developer to part with it for ten percent less, say, seveny-two.”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” Mrs. Hyman repeated in a soft, breathy voice.
The salesman hesitated, then asked with the first sign of genuine care, “Ma’am, are you sure you can afford this?”
“What? Oh, yes, certainly. You see, I recently lost—someone. The inheritance was, um, quite large.”
“Wonderful then, I’ll drive you back to the office, get you some of the necessary paperwork, and then we should be able to close the deal in a matter of days.”
The slick-haired man led Mrs. Hyman back down the hall, but not before she took one last glance out of the window. Their footsteps on the gravel of the drive were the last that graced my hilltop for nearly a month.

The sound of a car winding its way along the gravel drive broke the rural serenity again, bringing with it a full vehicle and the release of a longing that I had only mildly registered before. Only with Mrs. Hyman’s return was I made fully aware that I had missed the presence of a person who genuinely cared for me. Everyone else involved in the construction or marketing of “this lovely, new, spacious house” had been acting purely for potential profit. However, one special person had not thought of the money involved, but had been captured by me and had been drawn to me regardless of the cost.
Mrs. Hyman looked disheveled as three children scrambled out of the car, yelling and tussling, but she smiled as she gazed at me in rapture. For the first time in my short life, I felt helpless and powerless, for I could do little more than be myself and hope that the spell remained.
The tan side of the moving van glared at me later that afternoon, but the lone man who arrived with it only helped a couple of times with the heavier items that were too much for Mrs. Hyman alone. The kids tried to assist on occasion, but what they could manage barely made up for their ability to get underfoot. I have to admit that the household items delivered on the moving van looked woefully insufficient in my cavernous rooms, but I, like the Hymans, was not overly concerned, for all of us were happy and content.
The little Hyman children took no time to make themselves at home, and their happiness, coupled with the obvious satisfaction of their mother, warmed me to my foundation. Mrs. Hyman often displayed her love of flowers, and wasted no time in placing an abundance of color in the large back yard and in window flowerpots. She would care for them with tenderness, coaxing the blooms to drink deeply of golden rays of sun. She had little time when she was not called upon to work, and the gardens that she wrought provided a crucial release for her. I watched how she cared for me and her flowers, and felt the bond between us strengthen day by day.
While tendrils of sadness and remorse would occasionally creep into the expressions on Mrs. Hyman’s face, I could generally effect some change in the room that would lighten her mood. I might open the curtains just a bit wider to let in more sunshine, or perhaps I would goad a jay from its perch and watch it swoop in front of her chair on the porch. The temporary effect was good, but I could not change the root of the problem. She brought unhappiness and unease with her, and as she never discussed the details with her children, I could not know the source of her anguish. I was fixed on a foundation of solid cement, and it was beyond my power to protect her in her life away from our peaceful hill.
Despite my shortcomings, I was truly happy; I loved Mrs. Hyman and her kids.

The night was pitch-black. Nothing moved, nothing was lit; the skies were entirely shrouded by a thick layer of clouds. Nothing dared to hope, for ill news was as clearly in the air as the sickly sweet smell of flowers past bloom. The now-familiar sound of the Chrysler’s tires on the gravel drive once again resounded from the nearby woods. The Hymans had been my life-bestowing companions for over a year, and I had grown comfortable with the peculiarities of the family members, just as they had learned of my whimsical radio reception, my already-dripping sink faucet, and my uneven air conditioning.
But on this night, my senses of impending evil and rushing doom imposed themselves upon the cheerful feelings, smothering them as the clouds did the moonlight. The car pulled into the lot, stopped, and sat there for an unusual length of time before the dim headlights vanished. Mrs. Hyman emerged from the car, clearly wiping tears from her eyes. I checked quickly on the kids; yes, they were all safely asleep, as was the baby sitter. The shuddering woman walked numbly into the foyer, forgetting to shut the door, which I quietly did for her as she climbed the curving staircase. She blindly found the door to the master bedroom, and threw herself immediately onto the bed, weeping silently. I felt the water heater cease to function and the pipes go cold as the happiness in my core evaporated. I used what little force remained in my will to refill a glass of water by Mrs. Hyman’s bed, then slipped into slumber as she had done.
Early in the morning, the baby sitter awoke, shivering from the cold that emanated from my wooden bones. Concerned, she climbed the stairs quickly to check on the three children. When she found them perfectly safe, she glanced into the master bedroom. Seeing Mrs. Hyman asleep but on top of the covers and in her work clothes, she gently shook her shoulder, rousing her.
“Mrs. Hyman,” she said in a soft voice. “Are you okay? Should I take the kids with me to my place for the day?” Occasionally, the kids would visit with the sitter in her home closer to town, and I was not surprised to see Mrs. Hyman’s nod of ascent. My concern deepened, not because of distrust of the younger woman, but because Mrs. Hyman seemed quite careless and apathetic. The sitter led the drowsy children to her car in the drive with promises of a special breakfast at her house, and as the taillights disappeared around the bend, I drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
The crashing of several hands upon my front door jolted me awake, and I was surprised at first that I had not heard the crunching of the gravel. Presently, surprise was swept away by a wave of concern for my owner. She was still asleep, although she had apparently downed the glass of water and properly pulled the covers over herself after the sitter had left the room.
My windows glared down at the two men in business suits that continued to rudely slam their fists against the oak. I cracked open a window and the breeze gently woke Ms. Hyman, whose eyes snapped open at the crashing from the floor below. She hurriedly scrambled from bed and bolted out of her room and down my stairs, still fully dressed, but looking distinctly rumpled and mousy.
When she saw who was at the door, she promptly sank to the wood of the foyer floor. The warmth of her trembling body against my cold wood served as a plea for help. The suit-clad men, seeing Mrs. Hyman approach through the small window in the door, only to disappear again, opened the unlocked door. One of the men, with a nearly bald head, but sporting a pompous-looking moustache, squatted beside Mrs. Hyman and gently tried to bring her back to her feet. She simply stared at him with horror and grief clearly etched in her face.
It took several long minutes for the two men to calm the panicked woman and get her seated at the dining room table. Only when they had accomplished this did they dispose of their air of polite concern and bring out the briefcase. My ducts tightened as I watched the balding businessman put on a grim but resolved face, turn back to the table, and push a crisp sheet of paper in front of Mrs. Hyman. She didn’t move; she simply stared.
“Mrs. Hyman? Mrs. Hyman, I believe that last night you were made aware of the situation. We must be direct with you. You bought this house with money that was not technically yours. We discovered recently that the will that was initially found and used was not the most recent version. The late Mr. John T. Hyman apparently had revised his will shortly before he passed. In this new will, ma’am, he gave almost all of his wealth to the Planish family, who are now suing to get back the remaining money as well as this property.”
Ms. Hyman gave a small sob, but said nothing. Anger rose in me with uncontrollable force. I felt joint after joint in my water pipes strain as the pressure rose, and the liquid began to boil in the heater.
“I’m afraid that we have to evict you, as you now have no legal right to remain in this house and no money to pay the mortgage. The Planishes will go to court to get the property, of course, but they will not lose the suit.” Baldy paused, and lifted his arms, then adjusted his collar. “Is it getting warmer in here? Go open a window,” he said to the other man.
As the younger man approached the nearest window, I clamped down on it with all my might. “It’s stuck, Fred. Won’t budge an inch.” I could feel the heat increasing in the room. Rage and fear were pushing the heating system to full power. “Let’s go outside Fred! I don’t think I like this house much.”
Mrs. Hyman, who, like the men, had begun to sweat and who looked faint, led the way to the door. She threw herself outside, ignoring the storm door that slammed in the faces of Fred and his companion. Fred grasped the handle and pushed…but nothing happened. In my anger, I would not permit the men to leave my domain. They relentlessly pursued the unfortunate; it was their job, their livelihood, their lives. Fred threw himself against the door, which began to buckle under the force of the painful impact. He backed up to crash into the glass and meshed metal again, but I would have no more of it. As he stepped back, I slammed the heavy oak door with a thud, shattering the small window in it, and locking it with an obvious click.
The air inside me was reaching levels hotter than my heater was designed to achieve; the mercury rose in response to my uncontrolled ire and misery. Wallpaper nearest the heat vents began to shrink and crack, and paint and wood finish melted and fled towards the floor. In the basement, pipes burdened by scalding water burst from pressure and heat, dousing everything in blistering liquid. The two men trapped on the first floor covered their faces with their hands as they scrambled to find an exit. The backs of their hands and necks began to blister from the intense heat. Their sweat-drenched clothes were their only vain defense.
Old cloth and remnants of paint and varnish in the attic were blasted by super-heated air. They ignited, and the fire grew and hastily consumed nearby storage boxes, scorching possessions and melting memories. The timbers in the roof soon burst into orange, yellow and blue flames. At the same time, the hot searing water in the basement shorted out the electrical wiring, setting a corner of the room ablaze, and a tank of emergency gas was soon engulfed by the growing flames. A violent explosion rocked me to my core, but my antagonism had hit its peak, and I no longer cared for my own existence. It only mattered to me that the foes of my beloved Hymans should be punished. As flames engulfed the entire ceiling above the exploded tank, the roof began to crash in upon the men cowering in the foyer.
I could feel nothing but a burning desire for revenge.
I could no longer stand…I fell to my knees as wood popped and snapped.
I could think only of my love, torn apart by the greed of those who scorned love.
I could taste nothing but ashes and dust, fire and dry air.
I could barely see. The flames and heat melted the glass of my eyes.
As the roof continued to collapse, my faltering gaze fell upon the soot-covered men in ruined suits, beings who crouched in terror not far from the smashed side window through which they had made their escape. Under my gaze, the flowers beside them burst into flames.
I could barely remember my love. I was blinded, numbed, tortured by hate. I was only conscious of loss as the ashes of the flowers were pounded into the soil by the rain that fell from the gloomy fall sky.

The rain has come and gone, rinsing, cooling, and refreshing the earth. Ashes and dust are scattered by the wind. Rivulets have formed, cutting paths through my charred remains. I cling now to consciousness, and time passes in leaps and bounds. In the print of my abandoned, burnt, and broken skeleton, life and hope have found a way to prevail. Wild, beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers have again sprouted up in their gardens, and have ventured into my remains. Under the gaze of the majestic Blue Ridge, I am at last finding peace and solace. The earth envelops me in a warm, living embrace, just as I once did for those who cared for me.
I now feel the earth beneath me, a part of me. I now stand tall in spirit and memories. I now taste clean rain and fresh fragrance on the air. I now see the world in a distorted, broken, but exhilarating new way, through the fragments of shattered and melted windows.
I now love without the taint of hatred. And a lone rose bush now grows in the ash-strewn earth next to the silent gravel drive.