With Much Anticipation

I cannot recall the exact date, not even the week, but it has stayed with me. My small town, Midwest upbringing was taxed to the limit. 

It was a bit of a surprise when I announced at the breakfast table, in between passing the butter, and asking for milk, that the small college out east would be where my career preparation would begin. My dad, second generation owner of the Wylie Hardware Store, sat silent. Lorene, his wife, my mother, uttered her oft used “why on earth”?! I was prepared and went down the laundry list stored in my long-term memory. Lorene shook her head, and dad finally asked about the third generation maintaining the hardware store. I reminded him that, yes, I was the oldest, but there were two younger Wylies. 

As I drove the pre-war, Straight 8 Buick dad had passed down to me, my mind went back to that spring morning last year. The road rose and dropped, curved with an occasional stretch of predictability. Dr. Haave’s home was fast approaching as the speedometer decreased to a safe turning speed. I, along with a few other promising freshman classmates were given a special invitation to the Haave’s to discuss Hold Caufield’s personality in the recently released J. D. Salinger's book. It was an entertaining book, an easy read people my age could relate to the coming-of-age plot. A bit of a stretch for me, a small-town Midwesterner to relate to someone spending time in New York City. I had been to Chicago and Columbus Ohio, but that was the extent of my travels. Now I was in a small college town, and in a different culture. 

Just a few weeks into Fall, darkness was coming early, a bit cooler with the yellow, orange, and brown leaves blowing across the road. The mailbox identified the residence as wheels turned into the lane. The long, narrow, tree lined path hid what was to come. Eventually, the house magically appeared, my foot hit the brake, the vision in front of me needed some processing. The three-story limestone with projected spires, gargoyles on every corner and a huge set of front doors. The flickering candles in the windows suggested an eerie warmth. I began the slow, deliberate walk. The winding brick entry path cutting through the unkept yard with branches blown down from numerous trees seemed to guard the huge castle-like home. 

Dr. Haave was a petite, well-spoken mid 30’s literature professor. The lectures held my interest, and I was fortunate to have her guide me through this freshman level course. She was somewhat of an enigma. Short hair, parted down the middle, rising, and not resting to the side, but hanging in the air. I had never seen a woman with hair like that. Mom and sister had hair either in a ponytail or long, pulled back, turned under with some type of clip. Slacks were her choice of clothing style and not once had I seen her in a dress. 

A large, heavy door knocker announced my arrival. She welcomed me in to join the others for the evening. The first thing that grabbed me was the smell, nothing offensive, but not pleasing, just not familiar. The large entry parlor was dimly lit, furniture was large and dated, the air was cool. Three recognizable classmates exchanged pleasantries as I eased into an overstuffed chair. Her husband, tall, more muscular than I would have predicted and dressed in a turtleneck with high waisted slacks come in with a tray of tea. Hmm, not coffee or soft drinks, but tea, guess that is what easterners drink at events such as this.     

The small talk began. Cool weather, falling leaves, I commented on such a unique house and asked if the limestone came from Indiana. Rod, short for Roderick, set the tray on the table and said he was not aware of where the limestone came from but that they were fortunate to find such a place. Seems no locals were interested in purchasing the place and it had sat empty for five years or so. Little was known about the previous owner, elderly, widowed lady. 

Rod excused himself, mumbling he had work to do. Dr. Haave explained Rod was an artist, a sculptor and was completing a piece for a customer. Soon, hammer blows could be heard from a room down the hall. Voices increased in volume as the patronizing students began the discussion on the main character of Salinger’s book. I commented that Holden’s ordering a drink in a lounge was illegal since he was under-age. Trying to contribute to the conversation, I related a personal story about how I could have been arrested in my hometown for driving my dad’s delivery truck at age 15. No one laughed but gave obligatory smiles and nods. 

Quickly noticing the less than enthusiastic acceptance, I tuned out the droning talk and began focusing on the sounds from the sculptor’s work down the hall. Something was not right. The smell, the sounds did not seem to go together. Dr. Haave began pouring tea for everyone. Since I was a coffee and not tea drinker, I accepted the sugar cube clasped in the silver tongs. Taking a sip which permitted me to pan the entire surroundings, I began to experience a slight but growing intensity of paranoia. Did the sugar cube contain poison? Where will my body be found? Dry throat, sweaty palms, blurry vision, my body was floating. This is how it feels to die! I am in a mansion of two weird, demented murderers, and my fellow classmates are part of the plot. God help me. My face must have been pale because Dr. Haave asked if I was feeling OK. I stood up slowly, stating I needed some cool air, hoping to escape the death chamber. Energy was leaving my body, knees buckled as the floor came rushing up. 

A blurry image of a human began to slowly appear. Concerned faces were looking down at me in a type of circle. Rod was waving a pungent smelling capsule under my nose as I began to feel awake and energized. "Hey champ, glad to have you back!" Multiple voices began to express feelings of relief that I would be OK. Rod said it was a panic attack. Seems he was a medic in the war and had carried out the same procedure many times. Dr. Haave admitted praying silently and my fellow classmates, smiling and nodding agreed it was a scary moment. 

I drove the road back to campus slowly, matching my reflective mood. Thinking about what happened in the “House of Death,” how could I have conjured up such a plot? My narrow, midwestern upbringing mind had to admit that people were the same, and I needed to be kinder, more accepting and in the moment.