Mark Costello - Big If

“Silence Bell,” she recited. “Born 1616, left England at the age of twenty-one under a Stuart death warrant. Elected captain of Winthrop’s militia, 1644. Came north to quell the Indians that year. Bell was related to the Mathers on his mother’s side. He was little Cotton Mather’s favorite cousin and was best man at Mather’s wedding, most historians believe. Cotton Mather, son of Increase, is regarded as the last important voice of—”

“I know who Cotton Mather was,” Lauren said. “He was a racist dick. Was Bell a racist too?”

“No,” said Peta mildly, “he was a moderate, a Puritan Eisenhower. He stopped the wanton massacres of the Onomonopiacs through a judicious policy of mass deportation to the Jamaican sugar fields, and presided in old age over the later Salem witch trials, voting against several of the hangings and many of the pressings. His personal narrative of the Puritan experiment, Covenantum Bloodcurdlicum , was written in this very house.”

“Really?”

“Upstairs, in what’s now the TV room.”

They did the dining room, the drawing room, the music room, the den. Peta pointed out the period appointments, the Hepplewhites, the Chippendales, the Sheratons, the Sonys. They came to the game room, a blast of garish ’70s — rugs like body hair and vanilla leather couches, obelisks and orbs on every table. Geoff was sleeping with his decorator and it showed.

Peta said, “Ignore the LeRoy Neiman prints.”

Lauren winced. “I’ll try. The listing mentioned paddocks. Can we see them?”

They went outside and down the lawn, past the brick barbecues, the teak cabanas, and the tarpaulined pool.

Peta said, “The paddock’s just ahead.”

There was one horse at home that morning, a vermin-ridden thoroughbred named Locomotion, also on the market. They watched the horse munch squash rinds for a time.

Lauren said, “Is this paddock winterized?”

“It feels pretty winterized,” said Peta, losing patience. “I’m warm, Lauren. Are you?”

“Check and make sure. This horse looks sick. I wouldn’t want my horse getting sick out here.”

“Do you own a horse?”

“No, but if I did the poor thing could freeze to death out here in this drafty paddock.”

Locomotion flicked its tail.

“Lauren,” Peta said. “May I make an observation? I think we’re going at this backwards. Heated paddocks, bridle paths, gazebos — that’s crossing t’s and dotting i’s, fine tuning. That’s detail, Lauren, and detail should come last.”

“What comes first?” Lauren asked.

“The dream. We’re searching for a home, Lauren. Home, I know, is a loaded concept for people of our generation, us feminists in particular, given the historic subjugation of the female in the domestic scheme, as you were explaining to me last week, but on the other hand, it’s just a goddamn building. And I know, as we’ve discussed, that in many ways the quest, the journey home, is more important than the destination, but on the other hand, Lauren, you are supposed to buy something eventually. Commit and post your earnest money, move to closing—”

Lauren turned away. “You know I hate that word. You’re rushing me. I thought you were my friend and here you’re rushing me.”

“I’m speaking as a friend. Listen to me, Lauren. The search for home must begin in dreams — one dream, one constant dream, not all this compulsive running around. Face it, darling: you are rich. You can have anything you want, housewise. All you need to do is tell me what you want. Don’t cry, baby — it’s all right. You are Odysseus, trying to get home, and I am, I don’t know, his real estate agent.”

Lauren took the Kleenex Peta offered, blew her nose resoundingly. She said, “Lately I’ve been thinking about lighthouses. Can we look at some lighthouses?”

“No more of that,” said Peta, firmly now. “I’m afraid it’s time for drastic measures.”

It always came to thiswith the Mrs. — illionaires, the woman lying on the couch, Peta standing by the door, dimming the lights. As a realtor, Peta rarely used hypnosis, preferring less invasive means of clarifying what her clients needed in a home. When Mitzi Hindenberg was “blocked,” Peta used aromatherapy. Mitzi, sniffing almond oil, had a sudden vision of a fifty-eight-room Tudor on the beach. Peta, armed with Mitzi’s vision, found the place exactly as described; it was kind of eerie actually. Peta tried everything on her toughest clients — inkblots, bong hits, long runs, sometimes even prayer. Chappie Xing said the Act of Contrition with Peta (who, being a Boyle, knew the Act backwards and forwards, God our Lord the to me for —this was backwards). They prayed and said amen, and Chappie drew a picture of a Georgian mansion with cathedral ceilings surrounded by these little squiggles, like 3s on their sides. The squiggles puzzled Peta (they had seen several Georgian mansions with cathedral ceilings and Chappie didn’t bite). Then Peta realized that the sideways 3s were dream-symbol water and that what Chappie deeply needed was an island of her own. Again Peta found the place exactly as dreamed of, the old Honus Steadman house on what was now Xing Island. The moment Chappie stepped over the gunwales of the longboat and saw the house up in the rocks, she collapsed in Peta’s arms, saying, “Oh Peta, oh Pet, you have brought me home.” There was much for Jens to sneer at here, but some human feeling too, and Peta was happy for the Xings.

Lauren was lying on the couch in the game room. Peta dimmed the lights, took a CD from her purse, split the case, and handled the bright object. The CD was called Voices of the Rain Forest, Vol. III , Peta’s headache music. She fed a string through the doughnut hole (the string was carried for this purpose), blew on the shiny data side, and wiped it on her blouse cuff.

Lauren said, “This couch is less comfortable than you might imagine.”

“Never mind the couch,” said Peta.

“I can’t be hypnotized. A doctor told me that. He said I’m in the five percent that can’t be—”

“Just relax. Watch the CD, Lauren. It’s swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Your eyelids are growing heavy, heavy, heavy.”

Soon Lauren Czoll was very, very hypnotized.

“Lauren, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“You are standing on the lawn of your dream house. The home of your dreams and inner peace. Do you see it, Lauren?”

Lauren nodded tentatively.

“Tell me what you see.”

Lauren spoke in a deeper voice. “Light,” she said. “Airiness.”

People needed urging. Peta said, “Go on.”

“Space and line and form. A sense of—”

“Yes?”

“Destination. Old and new in balance. A stately Greek Revival with up-to-date conveniences.”

Greek Revival — this was good. Peta made a mental note.

“Turf, trees, wet bricks, a self-mulching garden. But through the windows — sea. Light abundant. Not just that. No, abundant change. Each room dapples differently. Winter is a tone. Easter, a tone. I watch the gales roll in. I see my children growing up — I look forward to nostalgia, a parent’s job well done. This is mine. This is mine. Time is not an arrow.”

“Does it have a garage?”

“I see the neighbor’s house.”

“Let’s stick with your house for the moment. Are you seeing a garage?”

“I’m standing on my lawn looking at the neighbor’s house across a lake or bay. There’s a party going on, show people and a dance band. I see a green light on a dock. I see a hooker and some Dutch sailors. They’ve come for the orgy too.”

“It’s probably a rental,” Peta said. “Now turn around on the lawn. Are you turning, Lauren?”