Prolific: Farm Life Multiplied

I couldn't open that one, either.

I could see through the side-windows, though. It was really two doors, that is, a towering wood double-door that looked like it opened onto a small porch and then stairs down to the front yard. Both the weeds and vines overgrowing the porch and lawn and the umbrella stand blocking my side told me it hadn't been used in years anyway.

The entrance hall itself had a slight echo from the cool marble (continued from the Library), but was covered in (solid-color center, decorated-outside) Persian rugs.

Back to my left and opposite the door, the entranceway just led straight up a wide staircase in the center, branching to both sides and back to the upstairs. I peeked around behind that staircase and found another door that looked like it headed to a basement.

I was in no hurry to see the basement just yet.

The fancy veined-marble stair treads were covered in a super-thick carpet, but it had a path worn down from thick to threadbare in the center where everyone walked, and it slipped a little as I stepped on it. This was a risky climb, even more so for Agnes.

I went up. At the top, it split left and right to hallways, but then doubled back to go up to the third floor. I walked the hallways first, counting 9 bedrooms, each 12x12 feet, right about what my schol-hall room had been. Really, though, it was 7 bedrooms, since two of them had a second tandem bedroom behind. I thought those might be baby or nursing rooms or sewing rooms, I didn't know a lot about how old houses were supposed to work.

Every two bedrooms shared a common bathroom between, each with a claw-foot tub (and shower rail but the curtain was missing), in the same white-tile motif that the downstairs had.

It all could have been new in the 1920's? 1900's? I didn't know, but I'd seen enough old-time movies (Boris Karloff!!) to recognize the styles.

The real test was turning on the water... Did it work?

Yes! (Phew!), the water worked, but it smelled a little. The toilets were old, too, and there wasn't water in the bottom. I flushed and nothing happened, so maybe the water was off. I didn't want to turn it on since I was in the house alone and I realized I wasn't allowed to call a plumber, or anyone else - she'd said that.

Dust covered all of it - the rooms, the furniture (covered in giant bed sheets that I removed some of), the bathroom fixtures, the floors and walls, everywhere. Though plenty light and friendly-seeming, I was highly certain the rooms hadn't been used in ages.

Agnes would not have gone up the long staircase without a darn good reason, by the way she was moving.

At the end of the hall was a short hallway to a spiral staircase, the same one I'd seen coming up off the room behind the kitchen. Instead of stopping, though, it kept going up.

I went back, having walked through most of the rooms on that floor (aside from a couple of hall closets that were chock full of tables, mops, maybe-towels, tools, whatever). I decided to head up to the third floor to see what was there.

More bedrooms awaited, much the same as the second floor, though with fewer bathrooms and a couple of store-rooms piled high with jumbled furniture, old paintings, file cabinets, whatever. I couldn't tell and didn't want to know yet.

In one of those 3rd floor bedrooms, a corner was a cupola - a circular mini-room area with windows. Off to the side of that and going up the wall of that room, a stair had been built into the wall and drawers built in under the stairway. Double uses abounded.

I went up.

At the top of this stairway, the door opened onto a large wrought-iron railing enclosed rooftop-patio, surrounded by brick chimneys and high rooflines that told me I'd missed some attic spaces. Most of the roofing itself was slate-tiles, but I worried because some were displaced and that made me worried about leaks hurting plaster ceilings.

The patio railing tested out as sturdy, so I looked out and down on the side lawn where the garden and lane were. Walking the circumference, I saw mostly treetops, but between them was the front yard, the horse paddock in the distance, the double-houses in the side yard with orchards next to us, at least nearby.

I couldn't see beyond the red barn because it was taller than the house.

Later, I found out the roof area was called a 'Captain's Walk' or a 'Widow's Walk'.

For right then, despite things seeming reasonably firm, I wasn't going to bet my life on it staying or really being that way and resolved to get a structural engineer to look at everything first.

The idea that I was responsible to get a ... structural engineer? What was I thinking! This lady can't have just given me this house!

Yet, it certainly seemed like she had.

I "owned" this?!?

Why couldn't I leave?

Deciding I should at least try harder, I came down the stairs, getting distracted along the way, and having to focus on doing the thing I wanted, to test the front door.

I tried to open it. The knob turned, but ... my strength left me and I couldn't. It conceivably might open, some part of my brain knew, but for then, it... wasn't right.

She'd used some kind of mind-control on me - hypnosis or something.

I wondered if the house was haunted, or had some mind-control magic working through it. The basement might have a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal and I was destined for a real-life horror movie death, but I didn't hear the foreboding soundtrack and laughed at myself for wondering what the music would be - the Jaws theme, probably.

No soundtrack, just quiet... insects outside chirping, otherwise totally serene.

The house just felt... Amazingly Homelike! It was like I was meant to be there - but... But... the overwhelming feeling just beyond that comfy happy was how horribly dirty it all was. Sure, it had great bones, amazing stuff all around me. Despite its age, it wasn't anything that should be knocked down. It all seemed really Solid, a formidable presence.

The dirt was mostly just plain dust, everywhere, not swept or moved in ages. Grimy windows meant I couldn't see out, and I even saw some mouse droppings. Who knew what kind of horrors from an engineering / maintenance perspective lurked, once I started digging.

I could probably dust and clean. That was just elbow-grease, no brain work involved, no 'technical risk', in engineering parlance.

But, just looking at the electrical outlets? THERE was the risk. They looked ancient and had been painted over. Mostly I was mechanical engineering, but I'd had physics, and I knew a 3-prong plug was better than a two, and NONE of the plugs in the house had three.

All the light switches (save one by the screen door) had push-buttons - with what kind of OMG-WE'RE-GONNA-DIE wires behind them?

I'd lived in an apartment when I was a lot younger, before we moved to the one above the bar, and it had old-time wiring like this house's.

Granted, I was in like 4th grade at the time, but I'd tried to fix a lightswitch because it didn't work, and just as I pulled the switch out from the wall, the INSULATION FELL OFF THE WIRES! Amazed and frightened, I tried pushing it back in and the box sparked with a flash and a POP! and some lights went off next to me.

The building super had yelled at my mom, and I'd gotten a butt-swatting with a hairbrush to reinforce that I shouldn't do that again.

The potential of the whole place to explode in flames at any minute seemed tangible.

The kitchen, at least, was probably safe to hang out in, provided I didn't touch too many things?

I ate leftovers about 7 pm and wondered what kind of mess I'd stepped into.

I found a book to read, looked around and found clean sheets for the king sized bed... but it smelled odd. I felt very small in a giant empty house.

The house was empty because Agnes wasn't in it. There was a hole in space where Agnes was supposed to be, somehow, but she wasn't there. It pulled at me. I hadn't known her that long at all, but still, I felt the lack of her.

== Chapter: Duties ==

The next morning about 11 am, Mr. Tamberlin came back. I could hear him as he drove up. Why, you ask, could I hear that? Easy: I'd gone around opening first-floor windows to get cool air and get rid of the musty smell.

Not all the windows had screens, but I wasn't picky.

I'd been nervous it might rain in during the night, but looking out-and-up I could see almost all of them had some kind of large eave or awning, green copper to match the gutters.

I wasn't into architecture usually, but this feature just tickled me - they'd built it so you could leave the windows open even in a massive downpour.

Walking around that morning, the smell was definitely better. It had reminded me of the county historical museum. It's strange how some smells bring super-old memories.

Mr. Tamberlin came right up the steps and then inside, past the screen door, exactly how I couldn't.

I said hello and we shook hands; he set his briefcase down and had a somber face.

After pleasantries and sitting down on opposite sides of the kitchen table, he said, "Mrs. Agnes Frugalt passed away in her sleep last night. They'd admitted her, but she didn't last the night."

I nodded, understanding but not happy.

"Per her instructions, she'll be cremated today, and her ashes should be delivered here early tomorrow morning."

"Oh." It was all logical, not that I'd ever dealt with anything like that before.

He opened his briefcase and took out the papers.

"Your ownership and control of the property was and is immediate. You were the co-owner, really, as of yesterday, but you're the sole owner now. As executor and trust manager, I can release funds sufficient to purchase food and living expenses, house maintenance costs, etc. There will be funds sufficient to fix up the property in a more usable way, but in the short term, it will just have to be a place to live and about $1000 per month cash. There's a lot of paperwork to do, and that will take a... a while."

That was a lot of money to me, if I didn't have to earn it. "Okay?"

He explained the formalities of wills and dying pretty well, a really good thing since it was way beyond what I'd dealt with before.

I wondered if I'd have to do it with my mom someday.

He said Agnes had no children or living relatives, so he had no one else to notify.

Lastly, he asked that, provided her remains were delivered, would I dispose of them according to her wishes?

I said, "Sure, yeah, no problem. I'll find the spot just like she said, and spread them there. I liked her, it's the least I can do."

We went over banking stuff (an account I had access to now), where the car keys were (in the cars), how trash and utility bills would keep going directly to his office (paid from a trust), but eventually I might want to transfer those into my name. His office had an accountant on staff, but I might want to pick my own later.

I needed... an accountant?

We parted, and he drove off down the lane again, leaving me alone in the house, more assured I'd have a time when I could again walk outside, but still nervous about it.

Funny thing was, if Agnes' ashes got lost, I might not ever be able to leave the house - ever!! I'd be cursed to stay inside and silent?

My mind was working like a Troma team horror movie and I laughed at myself.

Going in to digest this info, I sat down and risked turning on the TV. It worked, but only got 3 stations and one of them seemed like a permanent farm report. I laughed at myself, that the show I'd always made fun of might actually have some relevance in my life.

TV was boring. What was I supposed to do?

For one, there was a ton of stuff even I knew had to happen. I'd never owned a house, but I didn't want to be living in a totally dirty crapden.

When I didn't know what to do, I made lists. In this case, it was ideas for what needed cleaning (everything), what needed fixing (windows that were painted shut, broken crap), and what looked plainly dangerous (e.g., a floorboard on the inside porch that had broken and she'd just put a rug over it).

Walking around like this, I figured I'd better confront the basement.

The stairway light bulb was broken, but some light came in a window or something down there so I could look around.

The stairs seemed really long, and I realized even the basement ceilings were 10- or 12-feet, though the mechanicals like ductwork and pipes and other crap hung down to make it almost normal in spots.

The floor was brick most everywhere, and that continued in that all over the place, pillars of concrete came up and into brickwork to support the floor joists above. Most of these brick pillars had crumbling mortar - that couldn't be good!

I wondered, how long would this last if I didn't do something?

One basement corner had a spiral staircase coming down, and I realized it was the one I'd seen before, though there was a kind of trapdoor to keep the area closed off.

I thought, hey, it comes up into a kitchen area, so maybe it's to keep the mice out. This thought lasted about a millisecond and I laughed at the idea any self-respecting mouse would allow itself to be limited by a trapdoor when there was food on the others side.

The room next to that was the 'root cellar', and held row after row of shelves filled with jarred fruits, preserves, jellies, and whatever else she'd stored there. Under the shelves were garbage-can sized barrels, I was amused to find, labeled, "Pickles" and "Pickled Beets".

Funky! I'd never have thought of needing 40 gallons of pickles. They probably didn't go bad, but the idea of having that many was Seriously Funny.' That said, I didn't open the barrels, I was a little afraid of what I'd find.

A locked door at the end of the root cellar stopped me for a moment.

The key hanging from a hook under a nearby shelf fit the lock, and that led to a wine cellar filled floor-to-ceiling in rows of racks and racks. There had to be thousands of bottles there, all tilted cork-down and dust covered.

I didn't know squat about wine, other than seeing my mom drink cheap reds, but I looked at the labels anyway. A lot of them dated from the 1920's to the 50's, but I didn't figure that was old enough to count for anything.

I'd need a super-good filter mask to clean it all, but really that was true of the whole fucking house: Cleanup Absolutely Needed.

== Chapter: Internment ==

The next morning, my third in the house, I woke up from sleeping on that long Library couch under a blanket I'd borrowed from the master bedroom. There was a horn outside, a car driving up the lane.

I got up pretty quick (not having any clothes besides the ones I was wearing) and jogged from the Library down the long hall to the kitchen area.

Out back, through the screen door (the breeze had been nice overnight), I saw a hearse drive up.

I'd only ever seen hearses on TV, but never one in real life.

As he pulled up, I ran back, grabbed my shoes, pulled them on, and came back. He was parked in front of the house and just getting out... holding a box.

Suddenly, I felt, hey, I can go outside!

And, it worked!

I opened the screen door and stepped out on the open porch, and went down to meet the guy.

He was wearing a well-used suit, clean but not entirely well-fitting. His somber expression was probably studied, but he seemed friendly enough to talk with.

He asked me if I was Kevin Kuiper and had me sign a release form, whereupon he handed over a half-shoebox sized cardboard box obviously containing a plastic bag. On the top it had a gold sticker with curly printing that read, "Agnes Frugalt" and had the previous day's date.

I wondered what her birth date was.

He seemed to think that was it, so I just thanked him and he drove away.

The hearse had looked kind of like a limo, but fancier and with a higher-roofed station wagon rear. Funny, the things you notice. I idly wondered if they had a special car factory for them or if someone had a special corner auto-shop where they drove in as sedans and out as hearses.

Standing in the yard, I just looked around and listened to the insects some more. Maybe cicadas, maybe grasshoppers, I had no idea. I'd had botany, but no one ever pointed at a bug and said, "Hey, listen, this is the sound _this_ one makes.." I had friends that knew these things, but... I wasn't clued in like they were.

I was just... a student. What was I besides that? A son? By definition. A friend? Yeah, I was that, to some people at Murphy, and some other people I knew from previous classes, and maybe to a couple of profs, ones where I enjoyed their classes and popped into their office when the mood struck.

The thing I wasn't, that I'd never thought of myself as, was a Farmer. This didn't really ever come up as a possibility.

I was a friend to Agnes, the Farmer. More of an acquaintance, really, since we'd only had two conversations.

Thinking about her got me twisted inside, like it just Didn't Make Sense. Logically, it didn't. I had no reason to be there, except, really, I was. Standing Right There, in the yard, I was there, and the sweet... Okay, I don't know if she was sweet - the In Charge Lady Farmer Agnes, she... her BODY, all burned up into ashes, was...

This just made me lose my train of thought again.

Agnes was there, in my hands, in a small box, in a plastic bag. All she ever was, was There.

I tried asking the box, "What do I do now? Just ... scatter you?"

I didn't speak insect (if nature was talking to me), and the box was silent.

Maybe if I could just hear voices in my head, then...

I laughed.

My life was upside down, I was ... made lonely by holding her Box.

It was time to go - where said to go.

My sense of sadness and being overwhelmed by the world expanded as I walked. I had liked Agnes, what little I had seen her. I wasn't used to the idea of a Dead Person AT ALL, much less... HOLDING one?

The box seemed small to hold a person. All of a life was in there. Or, a former life.

Bright sunlight made strong leaf-shadows as I walked, and the surreal aspects of what I was doing just piled in on me. I was outside myself looking in. What was I doing there? How did I get there, really, just ... a phone call, a bike ride, a nice lady, then.. The lady was dead?

I replayed all the conversations I'd had with her - they weren't long. She couldn't really be dead?

The printing said so. The man said so. There I was, walking along.

No one was watching, I could DO anything. I could drop the box and leave it in the woods, no one could force me, I just could do that.

To prove it to myself, I did stop cold, just right there on the path, almost to the chicken house, waiting for some unbidden instruction to make me walk.

Nothing happened, except... quietness. Serenity. Nature.

I'd made a solemn commitment for where the ashes I was holding would be scattered, and if there was such a thing as karma, wow, I didn't want to mess this part up.

Restarting my trek, I kept going where she'd pointed, by the front of the chicken house, down the path, curving, curving, past some trees... and, then, there it was.

The gravesite was on a small hill under a giant oak's branches, surrounded by a 3-foot-tall rust-covered and slightly-leaning wrought-iron fence. Inside was a single stone marker, and a big empty spot, enough for two caskets, at least, and some room around that.

The grass over it had moss mixed in, the big trees' shade making it cool and serene, but I had the feeling that some of the weeds had been picked - it looked cared for more than the surrounding area.

One large granite-quartz headstone was inside. At the top "Frugalt" had been cut, and down to the left was "James Nottzenheiser". On the right was "Agnes Florence" with only her birthdate.