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waist-high bushes, a flower bed in front, and a small fountain with a pair of birds at the center. The water ran down their beaks as though they had just dipped them into the pond for a drink.
The two-car garage door went up, revealing a very organized and well-kept garage with cabinets and shelves. Even the garage floor looked like it was scrubbed clean daily. Their second car was an SUV, and I could see the golf clubs in the rear, the heads of which were looking out the window, impatiently waiting for Papa Prescott to make use of them. He carried my things into the house, and then Nana Prescott showed me about.
Everything looked untouched. It was like a model home, with magazines neatly in the racks, furniture polished and looking unused, not a thing out of place. They had a big-screen television set in their family room, as they called it. Somehow, I expected to see a piano. In my mind's eye, there was always a piano in a home. It couldn't be a home without one. I could often hear Mama playing it, the melodies trailing through my memory, weaving in and out of visions like so much musical thread.
Something's not right here, I thought. It wasn't just the neatness, either. What was it? I wondered, and then I realized, that this house was too quiet. There were no voices whispering, no footsteps to be heard, no doors opening and closing. Even the dust didn't move when it was caught in a ray of light. Stillness lay like cellophane over the doors, the walls, the windows and floors. Because of that, the Prescotts spoke very softly, and when they walked, they seemed to be tiptoeing over the carpets and flooring, as if there was someone sleeping upstairs who must not be woken.
"We'll get you settled in," Nana Prescott said. "Papa will be off to play golf with his buddies, but you and I can get to know each other better. You can help me in the kitchen. Do you like roast pork? I thought we'd have that as a special occasion dinner."
"I don't know," I said. I really didn't. I couldn't remember ever having it.
"Well, if you don't, I'll just make you something else right away," Nana Prescott promised.
They took me up to see my room, hoping it would be to my liking. My liking? How could I, an orphan for so many years, not be happy to have my own room?
Nana Prescott had gone out and bought brandnew bedding for the queen-size bed and had Papa Prescott hang new white and pink curtains. They had a maid twice a week, and it was obvious she had spent a lot of time getting everything looking brand-new. Spotless windows gleamed. The mauve carpet was vacuumed so that it looked recently laid, and all the furniture had been polished until I could see my face reflected in the wood. It was a pretty room, much prettier than anywhere I had slept since I had left the farm, of course.
"We want you to be as comfortable as a baby blue-bird in her nest," Nana Prescott told me.
I mouthed my thank-you's, but I was still too nervous and afraid to really smile. The two of them watched me look over the room, both standing in the doorway, smiling like proud new grandparents should smile. The happier and more excited about me they were, the more nervous I grew, and the tighter and tighter I drew that cocoon around me. I'm sure that, among other things, was what eventually discouraged them.
As soon as I had put away my things, I went with Nana Prescott to the kitchen.
Once again she was the nervous one, babbling about her childhood, her school days, her parents and grandparents, moving from one topic to another like a bored television viewer flipping channels. It was as though she was told she had to get everything about her past out and in my head before I went to sleep. I was polite and spoke a little more about myself, mainly because I was curious about her and Papa Prescott and their children and grandchildren. I looked at all the pictures and heard her descriptions of everyone.
"They're all going to love you," she predicted. "You'll see."
Was that possible? Could