The house stood at the top of a hill, ensnarled in vegetation, looking out over the Victorian roofs of Port Townsend and beyond, to water and islands and clouds. It seemed to lean toward the view as if enchanted, although we later learned that had far more to do with neglect than magic. The once-elegant slopes of its hipped roof rolled and curled, green with moss. The tall, straight walls of its Foursquare design were camouflaged in salmon-pink asbestos shingles, the windows covered in grimy curtains or cardboard. Three discarded furnaces, four neon yellow oil drums, an ancient camper shell, and a pair of rusted wheelbarrows lay scattered at odd angles across the overgrown grass as if caught in a game of large-appliance freeze tag. The yard was Darwinian in its landscaping—an agglomeration of plants and trees, stuck in the ground and left to survive. Below the house, I could just see the tips of a possible orchard poking up through a roiling sea of ivy. In front, two weather-stunted palm trees flanked the walkway like a pair of tropical lawn jockeys gone lost, while a feral camellia bush had covered the porch and was heading for the second story. Someone had hacked away a rough opening for the front stairs, down which an assortment of rusted rakes and car mufflers and bags of fertilizer sprawled in lazy abandon. In their midst, seemingly oblivious to its setting, sat a rotting fruit basket, gift card still attached. "That one," my husband, Ben, said as he pointed to the house. "It's not for sale," I noted. “I know. But it should be, don’t you think?” Our son and daughter, ten and thirteen, stared out the car windows slack-jawed. “You’re kidding, right?” the kids asked. But I think they already knew the question was rhetorical.
Copyright © 2020 by Erica Bauermeister. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
