2009 AFSA ART MERIT AWARD WINNER
Rachel Midura's
The Garden House (Short Story)

Julia had her own house.
            When I walked over to see her, we would first go to the main house, but at the last minute we would take a left and walk through the ivy-covered side gate. Stepping stones were unnecessary on the lush lawn, and sometimes we would kick off our shoes right there at the gate, shed our backpacks, and run the rest of the way. To the uninitiated, it looked like a garden shed. We knew differently.
            The garden house was illusory. For one thing, the additions were all hidden in the back. It was three tiny rooms. Light streamed in from the two little windows. Julia would pull out her pink lanyard and open the bike lock that draped across the front. I don’t think it would have prevented anyone from coming in, but Mr. Shaw patrolled the lawn every night.  
            Julia’s first action was usually to flip on the boom box, and the Beatles would fill the little house with lyrics we’d memorized long ago. In the mini-kitchen we happily ate raw cookie dough and drank from miniature milk boxes. Mrs. Shaw kept plenty of fresh things in there too, but the maid would always sneak us the pre-packaged food.
            I don’t care what anyone says; playing house is a lot easier when you have one. Though that was when we were younger. We had pretended to be sisters, raising our little doll-babies. Sometimes one of us would have a job picking flowers, or we would both be struggling artists, breaking our crayons in the frustration of being oppressed by The Man. Because Mrs. Shaw had control over the electricity in the little house, and if I slept over, it was lights out at eleven so my mom wouldn’t think she was a bad mother. I never told Mrs. Shaw that this was a lost cause.
            Which was why Julia had a house and I didn’t. And the worst part was that my mother had the worst excuses. I love you Baby, why would I keep you in a garden shed? You’re my pride and joy, not a sack of bulbs. And I would tell her that she didn’t understand, and she would tell me exactly what she thought of Mrs. Shaw and I had to put my hands over my ears and sing because I kind of agreed, and I hated it.
            The house was only an item on a list of reasons Julia was my best friend. I loved her laugh, for one thing. It was always unexpected, rising from deep within her small frame like hiccupping. And I loved her poor memory, because she could never remember to be mad at me. She could have had a lot more friends with all her cool stuff, but she was really quiet around most people. “Word-watching,” she used to say with a giggle. “Talk-thrifty, syllable-saving.”
            That was when she was in her “loquacious” mood, which could get irritating. She knew a lot of big words, and the worst thing you could do was admit that you didn’t know them. Because then she would turn red and clam up, and there were no words at all, long or short. If you didn’t know Julia, you would think she was embarrassed. Well, she was, but it was for you, not her.
            While people didn’t know Julia, they did know Mrs. Shaw, and sometimes thought that we were both her daughters. We didn’t always correct them, because Julia “liked me better than Haley and Marissa combined.” This was a view with which I could sympathize. As an only child, I had been near tears the first time I spent dinner at the Shaw house. I had come over for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Shaw had cooked the turkey herself, which she proudly announced. This was before I had known about Maria, the cook, so I found this statement confounding. What was the alternative? To have the turkey cook itself?
            Haley was only a month younger than me, and a year younger than Julia. Marissa was a toddler at the time, and Julia’s two brothers (I could never keep their names straight) were bigger, probably in middle school. Dinner started fine, but then one of the brothers pinched Marissa, and she began to scream. Haley hit the brother, and then Mrs. Shaw told her to go to her room while she rocked Marissa, and Haley began to yell, and one of the brothers knocked over the gravy dish, and the other brother slipped back into the TV room, and all the while Mr. Shaw calmly carved the turkey. That’s the image I am always reminded of when I catch a glimpse of Julia’s father. Wire-rimmed glasses, an open suit jacket, and an unearthly removal.
            When Julia and I finished our dinners and went back to her garden house, I was very quiet. She asked what the matter was. I didn’t want to say, so she asked if I had liked the turkey. When I told her that was fine, the conversation died. I figured she was embarrassed, so I worked up the courage and told her that she didn’t have to apologize.  She stopped in her tracks and gave me a blank look. That’s when I realized that dinner had been normal, as far as she was concerned.
            Julia had a lot in common, with her father, I thought. I would call her an optimist, but that would be wrong. She had faith, but not like my mother did, in God.
“It’ll work out” she would often say with a serene smile.
            “What do you mean?” I had finally asked.
            “It just will. It always does, for me at least,” she elaborated. “It’s always been that way. I don’t mean to sound spoiled or anything. It’s not like I’m saying I deserve it. But here I am, born into an upper-middle class family, ended up getting brains and a fair portion of looks—if I do say so myself— then have perfect health. I get good grades, have traveled to all sorts of interesting places, and have just had a sickeningly lovely childhood all around.”
            She paused for a moment and thought. “I suppose I’m rather grateful. Not everyone gets to have everything.”
            I didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified, so I settled with awe.
She wasn’t shallow—not exactly. After all, her belief in endless blessings was sweet in some way. And she was my best friend. But I never brought her home. If she had seen the four room apartment, the stained thrift store couches, the single window-box garden, things would have changed between us. We were both satisfied to run to her house everyday and spend sleepovers running around the gated lawn.
            At first, my mom was offended. She would get angry at me for my perceived embarrassment, and would lecture me on all the things we had that her parent’s didn’t, that my Papi didn’t. Then she would threaten to invite Julia over to dinner. When I told her that she never saw Julia, she said “Baby, the next time I see Mrs. Shaw in the grocery store, I will invite all of the Shaws over to dinner! Or do we not eat good enough food here?” After a while she realized that Mrs. Shaw didn’t go to the grocery store, or at least not the Food Lion.
            Though my mother no longer fussed quite like she had, there came a time in the fall of fifth grade when I hardly spent a moment at home. For one thing, we no longer disappeared from the school at the first sound of the bell. Now we lingered, and chatted. Girls would twirl curls of hair around bitten fingernails. Boys would push and shove each other as they swaggered down halls like they had all the time in the world. Julia and I would sit with various groups underneath the big elm tree in front of the building. After a while we would get bored, and without a sound, rise and leave as one. Sometimes people would follow us now, subtly adapting their way home just so that they could be part of a pack for a few minutes longer. I wanted to think of Julia and me as the two queens, but somehow I was the one that always ended up walking half off the curb. Everyone left by the time we reached the Shaw gates. Then it was just me and Julia again.
            We no longer played “pretend,” but we would lie in the grass and talk. We spent a lot of time planning the beach trip we would make together in the upcoming month of April. The Shaws had a beach house that I’d never had a chance to go to, until now. Marissa would be going to ballet camp during the week, so I could bunk with Julia. I’d never been to the beach, or away from home, and just thinking about the trip made me shiver with excitement. We’d just finished arranging another agenda, when Julia abruptly changed the subject.
            “I forgot to tell you, but your uncle…”she said, trailing off in that attention-catching way.
            I propped myself up on my elbows.
            “What about my uncle?”
            “Well, he’s going to be working here.”
            I thought about this. My uncle Caspar had been living with us for the past three months, ever since he lost his job in Virginia. He was my mother’s half-brother, in his late twenties. The vast majority of his time that summer had been spent on our one living room couch. He talked occasionally about starting a lawn business, but as far as I could tell, these were just words for my mother’s benefit. She was an infinitely pragmatic woman, and seemed to see my uncle for the mooch he was. In fact, “no good” was a phrase she herself had used at some point. But the way she said it always held an inexplicable degree of fondness, and a hint of pride. 
            “Why does it matter?” I asked.
            Julia thought about this for a minute.
            “Whatever,” she concluded.
            “No, seriously?”
            “He’s been doing the lawn. For the past couple weeks.”
            “Good,” I said. “I’m happy for him. And for your lawn.”
            That was mostly true. It was a good thing that Caspar had got a job, and I didn’t dislike him. He always played a game where he hid a quarter under a cup, and I would never be able to guess, and we would both laugh, and he would usually give me the quarter in the end, or he would give me some more and I would go to the corner and get us both some soda.
What I didn’t mention was the squirming knowledge that if we ran into him at the Shaw residence, it would be intensely awkward.
            One day, after school, Caspar was painting Julie’s house.
            “Baby!” he called when he saw me, and adjusted his painter’s cap. “Your Mama send you? Qué pasa?”
            “Nada Tío, everything is fine,” I began.
            “Well grab a brush! If you help me finish before dinner I’ll buy you some soda,” he said with a wink.
            “This is my friend Julie,” I told him in a rush of breath. “We’re going to the park.”
            Usually Julie would have argued, but when I finally saw her face after we’d passed through the gate, she just looked bemused.
            “Did you like the color?”
            “What?”
            “The color, did you like the color of the house?”
            I tried to remember what color it was, but failed.
            “I picked it out. I thought I was getting a little old for pink.”
            “I’m sure it’ll look great. So did you see Mark today?” I said, attempting to change the subject. The distraction appeared to work for a little while, but while we sat on the swings, somehow the conversation always came back to the house.
            “Are you angry?”
            “What?”
            “Are you angry that I didn’t ask you about the color of the house?”
            “What are we, married?” I tried to joke. I was a little sad, when I thought about the dusty pink being gone. She could always tell when something was wrong.
            “Oh honey, I’m sorry,” she said, climbing off the swing. She put her arms around me, and I let out a breath.
            “It’s really ok,” I told her, though I gave her a squeeze back.
            “I’ll tell mom to fire him. It’s really not a big deal.”
            I stiffened.
            “Excuse me?”
            “I know he’s just a deadbeat uncle, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell mom to pay him in full though, so don’t worry about the money.”
            I pushed her away.
            “What are you talking about?”
            She gave me this wide-eyed stare that just made my blood boil.
            “You said it wasn’t the paint, and I know you’re embarrassed about your family, but I really don’t judge. I know you’re different, you know? We can’t help where we’re born.”
            Suddenly it all seemed wrong. Just, everything.
            “I’m going home,” I said through a sort of haze. She tried to stop me, but I was in no mood.
            “Do you think you’re family is better than mine?” I asked her through gritted teeth.
            She knew she’d taken a misstep somewhere, so she didn’t say anything aloud, but those eyes told me the answer. She did think it, and she believed I did as well.
            I was angry with her. But mostly I was angry with myself, and confused. So I left, and went back home. I think Mama was a little surprised to see me before dinner, but she didn’t say anything. I was oddly comforted, sitting there on the mushy couch and listening to her bustle about in the kitchen. It was warm.
            We all sat down – Mama, Uncle Caspar, and me – and for a while it seemed like everything was blissfully normal.
            “So guess who I saw today at the big house?”
            I flinched.
            Mama patted her mouth with a napkin.
            “I saw Baby here! At the big house!” He tilted his chair back, stretching languidly.
            “Julia’s my friend,” I mumbled automatically.
            “Nah, it’s good, it’s good,” he told me, “you’re doing things right. It’s good to have rich friends.”
            “Ah, and you know this how Caspar?” Mama asked, eyebrow cocked.
            “I have my friends,” Caspar said automatically.
            “Of course,” Mama said, shaking her head.
            “You don’t believe me? You’ll see,” he told her, and flicked a piece of corn at her. Mama wiped it off her cheek with a look of supreme disapproval, before attacking him with green beans. By the time we all settled down we were near crying from laughter and Mama’s hair looked like a vegetable garden.
            “Rich friends means rich fun,” Caspar told me with a wink. After I caught my breath, and we had cleared the table, this statement began to sink in, and like grit, it just kept irritating me. I had to agree, but I felt uncomfortable in that assessment.
            The next day Julia began the school day by chatting about the beach trip. I realized with some surprise that it was the coming week. The recent drama had overshadowed the thought, but I seized upon it with new resolve. She had already forgotten about the fight, and I felt like it would easier to let sleeping dogs lie. After all, the beach trip would be amazing. I had the mental image of us basking elegantly in the sun on the house’s roof, the sound of waves sounding remarkably like Mrs. Shaw’s relaxation music.
            When we arrived back at Julia’s house, a new shade of minty-blue, we stopped for a minute to admire it.
            “Do you like the color?”
            “Yeah, I guess so,” I said hesitantly. I looked at her from the corner of my eye. It was like déjà vu, except I was the only one who realized it. For the first time, her poor memory didn’t seem cute, or quirky. Did she even care about my answers, or was it all a routine?
            She gave a little sigh.
            “I don’t. It’s too cool. I’ll have Mom get Caspar to repaint it,” she said, more to herself than to me.
            I looked from her blank face to the little house. It was fake, I realized. It really was a doll house, no matter the color, and I had outgrown its hollow walls. But, because it was easier and I was a good little baby-doll, I sat with Julia on the miniature chairs and played pretend with a smile on my face.
            Just before I left, I came to a decision.
            “Julia, I’m not going to the beach.”
            “Oh, Baby, are you sick?”
            “No, I’m just not going,” I told her. “I think we should take a break.”
            She gave a little surprised cough.
            “We’re not dating,” she said, though the hurt in her voice was as real as any break-up victim.
            “I know.”
            Now she gave an exasperated sigh.
            “Is this still about Caspar?” she asked.
            This was too much.
            “No, Julia, it is not about Caspar,” I burst out angrily.
            “It is, you liar! You’ve been a real bitch since he started working here. What is your deal?” she hissed. “I’ve tried to be patient, but you just need to get over it. It’s not like I want him here all the time.”
            “Don’t talk about my family!” I bellowed. It was the first time I’d ever raised my voice with Julia, and she looked taken aback.
            I grabbed my bag before I could say things I regretted; Mama’s cautioning voice in the back of my mind. When we’d first moved to the area she’d told me that people might make the wrong assumptions about our two-person family, I just never thought it would be my best friend.
            She didn’t get it. She’d never gotten it. And until now, I hadn’t seen. I hadn’t wanted to see.
            I went home, and I cried. Mama came into my room, and rubbed my back.
            “It’s ok,” she told me. “It’s ok.”

            A quite week passed. School had ended, so I hadn’t had to face Julia. Caspar had left. I spent time instead in Mama’s kitchen, where she taught me how to make her famous chicken with secret spice.
            Then the doorbell rang one day, after lunch. I put down the cookbook I’d been flipping through, and went and answered it. There was Julia, standing on the doorstep, a crumpled map clutched in her hand.
            “Yes?” I asked politely.
            “Hey!” she exclaimed. “I have some good news!”
            I didn’t respond, and I didn’t move to let her into the house, but she didn’t take the hint.
            “You didn’t miss the beach trip,” she continued, ramping up her smile.
            I looked at her hands. They were shaking, rustling the map like a frightened bird.
            “Why?” I asked cautiously.
            “Well, it didn’t happen, the funniest thing happened instead,” she said. “We woke up and Mother was gone, but she’d left a note, see?”
            She nearly ripped the map as she dug out a note tucked between its abused pages. I gently took it from her.
            “See, she left instead, with Caspar. She took her stuff. She’s gone, and we think they’re living in the beach house, but we don’t know because she hasn’t written, except the divorce papers, but she left those on the table, so I guess we’re kinda cousins, isn’t that great?”
            “Oh Julia,” I mustered. The walls had collapsed.
            “Hey, it’ll all work out,” she repeated in a high-pitched voice. “It always works out.”
            Her face was twisted into a grin, even as tears flowed down her cheeks and into her bared teeth.
            I held her in my arms as she trembled and shook, and didn’t have the heart to tell her that this time, I didn’t think they would.

2009 AFSA ART MERIT AWARD WINNER
Novel Excerpt from The Store on Rugby Road

There was nothing along the sides of the roads. No houses, no street signs— nothing, except for the occasional decrepit car for sale. The sky was barren and the hills were worn. The wide expanse of farmland lacked the sense of life, the energy, of a forest. If one of the occasionally viewed cows was to die, Infinity imagined it would just cook in the sun until it could be used for those rancid strips of jerky of which her father was so fond.
The entire drive was conducted in near silence. Eventually her father flipped on AM radio to listen to men with static voices. The occasional word penetrated Infinity’s state of shock. Not completely sure of their destination, she refused to ask a question that might result in another lecture. After all, she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to hear the answer.
After the fifth hour on the road, she shifted some luggage so she could lie down. It was all of their belongings, haphazardly thrown into old gym bags. Between the moldy press and the constant rumbling of the old Ford, sleep seemed impossible, though her brother, Zip, was snoring lightly. Infinity would have to be on her toes, in case her father’s plan was to summarily dump them off a cliff, or into a lake, or perhaps a small town where people kept young children as edible slaves.
When the car finally took a sharp left turn, Infinity looked up to see that her surroundings had changed. The road was barely two lanes, bordered on both sides by low-standing rock walls. They began to pass houses, some clearly dating from before Route 29. Their gravel driveway writhed for half a mile. The prouder houses hid behind sparse patches of trees while the humbler houses—ornamented with window units—squatted in plain view, sometimes nearly on top of the road.
Eventually the road straightened and widened again as they came into town. “Welcome to Leesville!” a sign read, decorated with a waving squirrel. It passed quickly, replaced by a surprisingly well-developed main street. The car wobbled as her father attempted consult the map while driving. He slammed the brakes on as they came upon Rugby Road which headed uphill at a sharp angle.
“We’re here,” her father said as he pulled up in front of a white clapboard building at the end of the road. Infinity pressed her face to the car window to better see the end of the journey. The only clue was a hand-painted board with a picture of a cat perched on a stone wall. “Rugby Vintage Books and Antiques” it read.
Infinity’s bafflement only grew as she followed her father through the door. A little bell tinkled, as if heralding the beginning of a dream sequence. Infinity could see the familiar signs of a store. A cash register in the corner, the occasional glass case or rack. But Infinity very much doubted she had ever seen so much stuff in one room in her life. Granted, it was a very large room, but every surface was covered whether by a quilt or an elaborately framed family portrait, where everyone attempted to look as plain as possible. The light that streamed in from the six pane windows had the same dusty quality as light filtered by plants in full bloom.
Sitting atop one of the most precarious looking piles was a cat that any self-respecting taxidermist would have kept in the back. It regarded the threesome with one crusty eye. The effort of keeping it open pulled up the corner of its mouth, displaying spotty teeth. It didn’t offer any other greeting than the swishing of its tail.
We’re here!” he called. “Robert and Zip, and Hannah!”
“Not my name,” Infinity grumbled half-heartedly. Her attention was fixed on an odd clock that appeared to rotate around its hands.
“Robert!” said the voice again, closer. Infinity turned around and laid eyes on a small middle-aged woman. Her curly brown hair was unceremoniously piled upon her head, held by a handful of clips. Grease and dirt had stained the man’s shirt she was wearing backwards. One black streak crossed her nose like war paint.
“I thought you were one of my quaint customers. Hug?” she asked dryly, holding out her arms. Infinity fancied she saw a gleam of amusement in those black eyes as her father cringed and pointedly held out a hand instead. The woman shook it seriously enough, and then turned her gaze to Hannah. She looked her over appraisingly.
“Hello niece. You don’t look a thing like me,” she commented.
Infinity gaped.
“No,” her father replied for her. “She takes after her mother. Her things are in the car. Where should I put them?”
The woman shed her denim shirt as she gestured towards the staircase towards the back of the shop.
“I’ve set up the basement. Not afraid of spiders, are you girl?” she said, baring her teeth in a way, thought Infinity uncharitably, that made her resemble one of those vaguely terrifying Victorian baby-dolls.
“Well, get to it then,” her father said, giving her a brusque pat on the back. Apparently the prospect of her imminent disposal had improved his mood.
There was a clamor from the side of the room. Everyone turned to see Zip clutching his cheek, were a bright new scratch sprouted. The cat was conspicuously absent.
“Now that one looks a bit more like me,” Maggie said dryly.
“I just tried to pet him!” Zip cried, his eyes welling.
“Best not to try that sort of thing with Colonel Mustard. He’s a mean old soldier,” Maggie said with another grin.
It didn’t take long for them to move their things. The basement room was better than a dirt pit, though not by much. The floor creaked whenever she shifted her weight and the woven rug on the floor looked like moth food. A cot had been set up against the side wall and sagged under the weight of the quilts piled atop, while a child’s bed stuck out from the back. Infinity surveyed the two and put her suitcase on the bed. She didn’t bother unpacking.
When she came back upstairs after the final trip, her father and her aunt were still deep in conversation.
“I’ll be back to get them in September,” her father concluded. “If they need anything before that, let me know and I’ll send a check.”
“Fine, fine,” her aunt agreed. “But Robert, don’t try to dump them on me any longer than that. This is inconvenient as it is.”
“It’s for the best,” her father replied soberly. He then patted Infinity on the head. “Be good for your aunt,” he said, and then left with the air of a man who has successfully haggled a deal and is afraid that the other party will renege. Infinity and her aunt were left in a sort of standoff.
“First rule: Do not call me Margaret or Marge, or Madge, or Aunt anything. I am Maggie. Just Maggie,” she stated.
“Don’t call me Hannah,” Infinity replied.
“Oh?”
“My name is Infinity.”
 “What kind of name is that?”
“Mine,” Infinity answered, eyes narrowing.
Maggie arched one eyebrow, but refrained from further comment.
“Well enough. Go ahead and get your things settled. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
Infinity went back downstairs, but not with the intention of unpacking. She pulled apart some of the cases, but only to find the things she held dearest. With a pang, she thought of her treasure, still buried within the creek bed. No matter. 
Her plan was less than fully developed, but Infinity had never been afraid to improvise. She had to get out of Leesville one way or another, be it Greyhound bus or train. She could hitchhike perhaps? She rezipped the black duffel bag she planned to take with her.
While Infinity stood there, mentally inventorying, her thoughts were interrupted by a deafening clang. She made her way into the kitchen and saw it was a bell of immense proportions, as rusty as an old railroad. Maggie was beaming.
“I’ve always wanted to try using her,” she said, patting the bell as one might pat a dog. Infinity saw now that it had the word “dinner” carved on to side.
The table had been set with a plain meal of scrambled eggs, and a basket of ready-made biscuits on a table cloth that was clearly meant for outdoor use. The chair wobbled as Infinity sat. She had the idea that a lot of things wobbled in this home-store. The entire place resembled what might happen if a family of five decided to live in an abandoned museum. Most of the furniture in the residential parts of the building—the upstairs and the basement—seemed to be things in need of repair before they could be sold.
Maggie had cleaned the oil from her face and hand, though her hair remained looking like someone had raked it backwards. She was right that the two of them in no way resembled family. Infinity’s hair was an unimpressive dull blonde that hung in a sheet to her shoulders. Her skin was usually tanned from days spent in the sun, and while she was only fourteen, she was already at eye level with her petite aunt. Zip also had lighter coloring, but Maggie was right that there was something more between them. Perhaps it was the nose.
Maggie had at least five different types of reading material spread out on her side of the table. Her eyes darted between them as she ate at a rapid pace. Infinity stirred her eggs, playing with the idea of refusal in general protest, but she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Zip dug in, though he looked very on edge, fearing a guerilla attack by the Colonel. Eventually she broke and began to eat in silence. It was a simple meal but a good one.
After they had finished, Maggie whisked the plates away and added them to the precarious stack within the sink.
“Now,” she said, clapping her hands together. “I have to go wrestle with Grendel some more. Entertain yourself, but beware lest you break anything.”
Though Infinity was sorely tempted by the vast disorder of her surroundings, she kept her goal firmly in mind. The sun had not yet set. She could catch a train, and arrive back… where?
Strangely enough, that was how most of Infinity’s escape plans halted. She would run away to somewhere, Zip in tow. It didn’t matter where she was going, or who would be there, because Infinity didn’t have a place anymore. She thought plenty about her old house, but through a sort of veil, like the morning after a vivid dream. She wondered if the carpet would still smell like her mother’s perfume.
            The first night was the hardest. Zip fell asleep before Infinity allowed him to turn off the lights. Her eyes drifted to his face, which had gained a new tightness since their mother’s death. Zip had been closer to their mother.
Every other evening after his bath, he had disappeared behind the double doors of her mother’s bedroom. Once Infinity had followed, unthinking. Her mother sat on the bed, back supported by down pillows while Zip perched on the side. With the care of a sculptor, Laura ran her ivory brush through his curls. Eventually, she patted his head, and he obediently kissed her on the cheek and left, turning out the lights as he did so. Infinity, who had sunk on to the carpet, left before Zip could see her. There were no words spoken.
Her eyes lazily drifted to Zip, and before sleep finally closed them, she imagined she could see ghostly hands.