Rooms Without Furniture Page 3

  Chapter 3 – Dwindling Inheritance...

  Mark’s heart cracked as he looked upon his stiffening father at the end of the day. He swallowed as much sorrow as he might. As the oldest of Russell Pence’s children, Mark could not afford the luxury of hiding in emotion.

  Russell Pence lay upon the attic cot, stiffening into stone.

  Mark peeked beneath his father’s bandages and measured how the black seeped across Russell’s body, claiming the arms and legs, hardening the chest, splotching onto the neck and chin. Russell's face was turned to stare through the attic window, his eyes, locked within their sockets, could no longer blink should the window’s light too brightly burn. Yet somehow, Russell Pence had fought the stoning of his body so that he might look through that window, on guard for any sign that the fool neared his front lawn.

  “He’s not knocked yet.” Mark knew his father’s darkening tongue would be unable to respond. “Maybe he won’t come to our door. No one can knock on every door in the land.”

  Mark rewrapped his mummifying father’s cloth bandages. He replaced Russell’s pillow. He checked to see that the breezes wafting into the attic were not too cool. He did his best to provide the comforts he imagined a man stricken with the stoning affliction might desire.

  “Sleep easy,” Mark didn’t have the courage to close his father’s eyes. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning with the newspaper. The papers are filled with the fool’s picture. There’s no way the fool will surprise us.”

  Mark’s siblings greeted him with frightened faces at the bottom of the attic’s stairs. Russell Pence had taught all of his children to hold on to faith, and when the stoning disease’s first symptoms had marked his skin, Russell had striven to remind his sons and daughters that his ensuing suffering would be more of a blessing than a curse. But after the affliction intensified so that their father could no longer move, after their father had demanded that his children sequester him within the attic, doubt gnawed at Russell’s progeny. Their father fossilized in the attic above their heads. Rumor spread of a stranger who came knocking upon all of the land's doors, promising healing to those who would simply accept it. Mark was now seated at the head of the family’s table. Much uncertainty lingered, and the Pences no longer felt as secure as they were accustomed.

  Mark tasted that trepidation as he sat at the family table. “I see we’ve been blessed with another bountiful meal.”

  Frannie Pence smiled and stifled a sob. The oldest of Russell’s daughters, she had born the burden of their mother’s loss. “The pantry remains crowded with jarred tomatoes and green beans.”

  Mark sighed to see so few of his brothers and sisters smiled.

  “It’s a good meal,” Mark spoke boldly, “with plenty of mashed potatoes to cover anyone’s hunger.”

  Frannie’s voice wavered. “They’re out of a box.”

  “No matter,” Mark rubbed his hands together. “Let’s bow our heads in thanks.”

  Mark waited for his brothers and sisters to lower their heads so that he might voice blessing. Yet his siblings hesitated to do so. Mark tapped his fingers on the table, but few lowered their gaze. The table was not ready to give the thanks Mark requested when the roof’s patriarch turned heavy as a statue in the attic.

  Mark suspected the origin of such doubt. “Do you not feel grateful, Kate?”

  Kate did not flinch in her brother’s attention. “I think we give our thanks too easily.”

  Mark’s hands waved across the table. “Have we not filled our table?”

  Kate shook her head. “How? What have any of us done to secure a plate at this table?”

  Brother Travis’s hands shook so that his spoon rattled against his fork. “I’ve looked for work all week.”

  “No one says you haven’t,” Mark replied. “Times are hard for everyone. We just have to keep the faith.”

  “But I’m willing to work hard for a chance,” Travis sighed. “I would work like father did to earn our house.”

  Kate smirked. “Your memories are different than mine. Tell me the last thing you remember father doing to earn a little food for this table.”

  Frannie choked a sob.

  “Show some respect,” Mark growled. “You should be grateful. It’s been especially hard for father since mother’s passing. You should be kinder to the man who always thought so much of you.”

  Kate still refused to bow her head. “Share with us, Mark, what father did to erect this roof over our heads. I’m not asking for the latest fairy tale he’s told you up there in the dark attic. Tell us the truth of how father came to build this house.”

  Mark glared at Kate.

  “You pause,” Kate’s mouth cut a sharp smile, “because you know. Tell the rest of them how father afforded this suburban lot. How he paid for these walls. How did he amass such treasure before he sired so many children?”

  The answer unexpectedly came from Michael, a brother only a few seats away from Mark. “He sold grandfather’s farm. Father sold his inheritance. He sold his father’s land so he could build his house.”

  “And what of it?” Mark snapped.

  Kate stabbed at her plated, piled potatoes. “I think it was grandfather’s work that built this house. I suspect it was grandfather who planted the seed and raised the bean. Father only sold what someone else earned.”

  Mark shook. “Perhaps you can find a seat at a better table?”

  Kate quickly retorted. “How much longer do you think these seats will remain for us?”

  A silence loomed above the plates.

  “I think our inheritance ran empty a long time ago,” Kate, mercilessly, continued. “Lisa is almost old enough to get her first credit card. We might be able to live for a little longer on her plastic before we max out that credit card. Maybe one of the brothers could save some nickels and dimes from some part-time employment. We might have been able to grow our own food for our plates had father not sold grandfather’s acres, if father had not sold the land he did not wish to work so that he could build a home of his own to fill with children nursed on the work of ghosts, and skeletons and shades.”

  Mark's eyes fell onto his plate. “What would you have us do, Kate?”

  “Stop fooling us into thinking any of us deserve any of it.”

  Anger flushed Mark’s forehead. The Pence progeny muttered along the table.

  Kate pressed her blasphemy forward. “We’ll lose everyone if we don’t start looking past the illusion that any of us have earned a thing. What have any of us done? What have any of our neighbors done to be granted an undeniable permit to build one mansion after another on the foundations earned by a generation long now buried in the ground?”

  Mark refused to accept Kate’s words. “Mr. Hussey’s home is one of the grandest in all of town, and he earned it. He built that home across the street based on his merit. He possesses that home because of his work ethic and enterprise.”

  “Really?” Kate scoffed. “I never see that man leave his driveway. Can you tell me what Mr. Hussey does for a living?”

  Mark could think of nothing and remained silent.

  “And what of father?” Kate pushed.

  “He’s resting as comfortably as he can.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  Mark dared not meet his sister’s stare.

  “How much longer before he is turned to stone?”

  “There’s nothing to be done,” Mark stammered.

  Frannie’s sobs shook her shoulders.

  “Do you claim to be a doctor?” Kate whistled. “Our table could use your skills. Opening a practice would easily fill these plates.”

  Mark’s hand slammed the table and rattled the plates. “The affliction is a blessing!”

  Kate slowly shook her head. “You don’t really believe that.”

  Rusell Pence’s progeny sobbed.

  “We can’t afford treatment.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “
Because we’ve not earned the right to treat our father?” Kate’s onslaught was unrelenting. “I don’t understand. I thought we earned this home, that our neighbors earned all the bricks in their facades. Yet so many of us still turn to stone. I wonder how many of our neighbors are stiffening in their attics because they can't afford, or would you argue deserve, healthcare.”

  Mark stared at his plate. True or false, Kate spoke hurt. He could not pinpoint what his father and Mr. Hussey feared regarding the fool. But Mark knew his fear. He feared the hungry stomach. He feared the exposed sky. He feared the loss of his home's shelter.

  “Only the strong are so tested,” Mark spoke his words as a mantra. “It is more a blessing than a curse that we are so challenged.”

  Kate gave such a mantra no power. “There’s one who will treat father without asking for any kind of payment.”

  “I’ll never accept such pity.”

  Kate laughed, and her brothers and sisters turned away to avoid the strange, discomforting expression that twisted Kate’s face.

  “Brother Mark, what makes you believe we’ve ever accepted anything else?”

  Mark might have run away from the table had it not been for the knock that rasped through the home and startled the Pence children into shaking. Kate rose and drifted towards the sound.

  The fool knocked upon the Pence’s front door.

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