Eminent Domain

What is a house if not the centre of your world; a point of refuge, of subsistence, of protection. What then does a house become when it no longer provides these things? Merely a collection of wood and stone? Perhaps a monument to the lives that passed within it—the joys and the struggles, the fears and the dreams. Or is that a tomb?

All the oldest houses have gone. When one thinks of ancient houses, it is the stately manor or towering keep that comes to mind, those majestic structures built over years and upon the backs of many to withstand the test of time. But those houses arose later, well after the discovery of some sort of earthly advantage. A trove to be enclosed and hoarded. Before them came the abodes of the meagre, the rough caverns borne into dirt or skins stretched taut over lashed wooden frames. Structures meant only to see you through to the next day, each moment beyond an unexpected but fought for gift.

Anthony Matthews had walked through many a dwelling in his thirty-three years with the Department of Buildings and Development. From gaudy mansions to dilapidated trailers, they came to feel no different from each other; just another space to occupy and pass. His own home was a two-storey greystone that housed his scattershot collection of things and his forty year long marriage—his one child grown and moved out and with a family of his own seen on holidays and special occasions. If walls could speak, banal chitchat would be the extent of the conversation.

His wife Maggie dropped the plate of bacon, eggs, and white bread toast off in front of him. She watched him slather on butter and raspberry jam and stir two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, her own Blue Fluted cup of tea raised to her mouth and hiding the lines of it. Whether soft or stern, Anthony wouldn't guess at. He picked up his fork and like a maestro to his ensemble, she resumed talking. The trickle of mundane things emptied into the space between them.

"I signed your name to Aaron's card. Which I put some money in. Who knows what these boys want nowadays." The cup lowered to reveal the wobble in mauve painted lips as Maggie tried and failed to understand the alien desires of teenage boys.

Anthony grunted along to the scrape of his knife and the cling of his fork, the tools working in tandem with the hands and the teeth to consume that which lay before him. His mind, however, cast backwards down trails that led through dense brush and deep woods. Dim memories followed the glint of low-set snares and silvery scales in dappled water. The rush of the river of his youth echoed and drowned.

"Anthony!"

The knife and fork dropped, the sound of them a dull clatter. Nothing like a glass shattering against a wall. It was ok. He was done anyway.

Maggie waited until he looked up from his plate. He held her gaze without much discomfort. His wife was a well-meaning woman. She was not his mother.

"1 p.m. This Saturday. Don't forget."

He grunted again and didn't tell her about the sudden want rising up in him. The need to take a drive out west, then a walk through thaw-flattened grass, followed by a stop to see if anything was biting, though it was early yet and ice still swathed good stretches of the river. These wandering thoughts unaccompanied by action were of no use to anyone.

The chair legs let out a discordant screech that hardly registered as Anthony pushed back from the table. He walked past Maggie on his way out of the kitchen, his hand rising over the smooth, faux auburn of her hair. It had been brown back when they met with a frizz that emerged at the mere hint of humidity. He could not remember the shade, or the scent, or the feel of her then; these characters of the past long subsumed by their present actors.

"Did you take your insulin?" Maggie said. A question and a reminder. The cup had returned to its hovering.

"Yeah."

Anthony's hand fell back to his side and moved on to sling on his coat and pick up his briefcase, the rough fingers flexing around the smooth handle. A familiar and easy weight that he carried out the front door where a police cruiser awaited. After a nod to the officer at the wheel, Anthony opened the door and folded his rounded body into the passenger seat, briefcase knocking painfully against his knee. He swallowed the instinctual hiss.

Letting go of the indrawn air, he spoke. "Anthony Matthews, Senior Building Official. Glad to meet you." He shook the officer's hand. The young man, his sandy hair curling around the edges of his cap, gripped Anthony's hand and pulled it up and down.

"Officer McKay, at your service." The fine skin of his face flushed bright. He'd have to work on toughening that up if he wanted to survive. "That is, um- I'm glad to assist you today."

This young officer with his eager hands and earnest face reminded Anthony of Jacob, or how his son might have been a lifetime ago. A demeanor handed down from his wife no doubt. Anthony could not remember himself ever being so.

"It's a routine eviction," Anthony said. "Let me catch you up." He pulled out a manila folder.

"153 Sycamore Street. Current owner: Muriel Dumah. Seizing the property for the purposes of redevelopment into mixed retail and public use. Fair compensation has been appraised and awarded. The eviction notice period has expired as of today. Escort off the premises recommended."

"Word at the station is that she's been a stubborn old bi- broad." The officer's voice squeaked up an octave on the last word. Anthony pretended not to notice.

"Four times in six years we've started eviction proceedings." The owner, who had reached a respectable 87 years of age, had proven to be inventive and sympathetic. Anthony, who was not known to be in possession of much of either trait, had the file land on his desk last month. After going through three other Building Officials and exhausting all appeals, Ms. Dumah's occupation of now city land had run its course. With all documents signed, stamped, and registered, there'd be no jumping off the hook this time. Anthony was needed only to officially close the file.

"It's my first enforcement order. First time going solo actually," Officer McKay said. He looked straight ahead at the road with his fingers clenched upon the steering wheel.

"Do you fish, son?"

Two years off of retirement, Anthony had plans to purchase a small cabin a reasonable drive away. About 45 minutes on the highway, a further 15 along country roads, and a stone's throw to the best steelhead fishing in the area. It didn't require much: bathing and washing facilities, a kitchenette with a cooktop for frying, a radio for when he was in the mood to listen. Even a separate bedroom was optional; a solitary man didn't occupy much space or have extra need for privacy.

The cruiser turned onto Sycamore Street and the two men let the talk of lures and bait drift away. The further down the road they drove, the more Anthony saw the tension return to Officer McKay's body, how it pulled him taut like a line being set. A heaviness seemed to settle in his own gut, the remnants of his breakfast congealing into a cold, hard mass.

"Just a routine eviction order," Anthony repeated.

They got out of the parked cruiser. The vehicle's black and white paint job, blocky letters, and aggressive light bar stood out in stark contrast to the grey emptiness of the residential street. The wintry trees that lined the sidewalk stretched their branches towards the overcast sky, grasping at what scant warmth existed that brisk March morning. Anthony had the odd sense of marching before a line of silent observers, their impartial, but solemn regard prickling at the side of his face as he passed through the faint crisscrossing lines of shadow cast by their bony limbs.

153 Sycamore Street was conspicuous for more than its slipshod exterior. The worn house sprouted up like a squat mushroom among the high-rise condominiums and slender townhomes that comprised the neighbourhood. Delineating the property line, the rusted gate in the house’s iron fence pushed open with a whine, though offered them no further resistance. A crow wheeled overhead and added its cry to the proceedings.

As they walked down the crumbling footpath, the crow swooped and dove out of sight behind them. Anthony followed its flight over his shoulder and watched it land upon a nearby tree where it settled with a ruffle of black feathers. It joined the multitude of other birds that perched among the branches, the trees' reaching bareness pulled lower by their collective weight and disguised by their dull plumage. He had heard nothing of their arrival until the last.

Officer McKay had not noticed even that, occupied as he was with the façade of the house. It was a jarring mixture of wood shingle siding and brown brick, black shuttered windows—two on either side of a central stone turret—and a steel roof over top. White paint peeled off of the arched front door which opened before the officer could knock.

"She's been waiting," the boy who answered them said. He was pale and freckled with hair the sort of brassy red that Maggie would never choose. His blank eyes seemed to look straight through them to reflect the sky.

"Come in." The boy pivoted on his heel and strode into the depth of the house. McKay followed behind, his steps falling into a steady gait, though his fingers twitched towards his hip where his holster happened to lay.

Just a boy. Though the file made no mention of a minor child on the premises. And those were simply birds with their beady eyes trained upon Anthony's back. The door shut behind him as heavy doors do: with echoing finality.

The front foyer branched off into a maze of doors and corridors that from the outside seemed to span an impossible distance. Officer McKay's blue-clad back moved down one such hall and rounded a corner so that only the thud of his boots remained as evidence of his existence. Of the child, Anthony heard nothing. He quickened his pace. The only footsteps that sounded then were his own. After the turn, the single door at the hall's terminus led into an empty octagonal room. It had no other exit.

Plush carpet and patterned wallpaper enfolded the room. The floor-length brocade curtains that framed the three double-hung windows twined with stitched fronds and petals that bloomed in dense competition with the walls. A stone hearth fireplace on the left sat blackened, but unlit, and in front of it was a round mahogany table with two Queen Anne chairs. What milky light that dribbled in through the windows did little to lift the weight from the air. Anthony did a slow revolution and kept his breath steady through the thickness.

"Have a seat, Mr. Matthews."

The empty table was no longer so. An old woman sat in the furthest chair, her gnarled hands resting on the dark, gleaming surface. They beckoned and the carpet swallowed the fall of Anthony's feet as they carried him to the opposite seat.

A niggling of responsibility wormed its way out. "Where is Officer McKay?"

"Elsewhere," the woman said. "An enforcer is not required for this. Tell me what it is you have come to do."

"Is he alright?" Anthony asked, pushing the words out of his mouth with a heavy tongue. Was this an attack of low blood sugar?

"As well as you are," Muriel replied, for this was surely her. Her hair, thin and leached of all colour, drifted in tuffs from her brown speckled scalp. The eyes set deep into sunken sockets were so pale that they had the disconcerting appearance of the iris blending into the sclera. A fleck of black pupil floated at their centre. The papery skin of her face drooped away to highlight the curves and depressions of the bones underneath. She grinned at him then, a baring of yellowed teeth in a laughing skull.

Anthony gathered his wits about him. It felt like reeling a line through weeds and sludge. Had he taken his shot this morning? He could no longer remember. "The Officer and I are here to carry out the eviction process. The City has served you proper notice and all the necessary permissions have been granted. Your compensation is available in a bank account in your name. It's enough to see you live well the rest of your days. And for the boy too, should you plan for it."

"We have no need for currency. My calling is to this house, as is his."

"This house and land have been purchased by the City. It’s no longer yours."

"Who said it was mine?"

The air around Muriel seemed in that moment to shift, to soften. The pale light suffused her. She became as warm and gentle as Anthony's own mother, not as she had truly been, but the way he had always wanted to see her.

"The last man your City sent, he helped us. As did the woman before him. And the one before that. They came to understand the need for us to keep this house."

Good workers, all of them. Joe Romero had been transferred to Public Works over a year ago. And how many months had passed since Laura Engstrom's restructuring into redundancy? He couldn't even recall the name of the first. Two years were just about all Anthony had left in him. Two years to keep steady and stay the course.

He shook his head at Muriel, shook it clear of shrouding fog. "It's a done deal with the City." Anthony made to stand, to bring in Officer McKay in his officer's uniform and the implication of that which rested heavy upon his hip.

Twisted hands grabbed both of his with incongruous firmness. He could feel the skin sliding back from the thin bones pressing tight. "This house has stood for ages well beyond the paltry length of yours. What was once a covered pit in primordial earth has been built up from sod and wood and stone under our vigilant hands to remain upright. You would unmake that?"

The fire blazing in the hearth crackled and smoked—had it always been this warm? The scent of charred meat and a full belly, of dry leaves and his own thin arm curled under his head, of frosted nights with the shadows held at bay, filled his senses. Anthony’s mind turned to the matter. The presence of the child could change things. It opened up an avenue to pursue, an injunction to seek, if one only knew the direction to take.

The glow of the fire, the heat of the woman's skin, permeated Anthony, but not to the core.

"My hands are tied."

Nails like the claws of some animal pierced the back of his hands. The flames extinguished and Anthony plunged into darkness with the ash and the soot and the cold earth crumbling away beneath him. Whimpers crowded into his mouth, trapped behind his own teeth. Sour breath with a lingering floral sweetness wafted over his face. She pulled him close, a caricature of care, before she cast him away.

"Useless! Filthy boy. Get down there and think about what you've done!"

A door slammed shut. A lock turned. The pit of blackness he descended into allowed no hint of light. Anthony hung suspended, mind and body open and defenceless with no sense of time or depth. Just beyond him, surrounding and almost touching, hungry things stirred.

The tiniest bit of him fled. It wriggled and squirmed and found the merest crack in the window. That was enough. He crawled out through the dirt, pulled at the grass, and dragged himself up with bark catching under his nails. The woods, his beloved woods, sheltered and hid him until it was safe to return home.

"Very well. Your choice is made. We were put here by the grace of God, but remain subject to the laws of man. We are absolved of this house."

Anthony opened his eyes to his body, whole and unmarked, still seated at the table. It was spring, a new morning, and she was a frail old woman with colourless hair and fish belly eyes. Except Muriel rose then and became something else, shedding her earthly skin. The being of no age or gender beckoned without a limb, but not to Anthony. He was no longer of any import. Joined by another, the two figures touched and were gone.

Without them, the house grew emptier, colder. A creaking started. Then came the crack of stone and the snap of splintering wood. The floor with its feeble covering of carpet trembled and split. Underneath, at his feet, a yawning pit expanded, its darkness writhing, ravenous for the light denied to it for eons.

Anthony closed his eyes to the last and withdrew to his cabin, the rush of the river of his mind drowning out the clamour of teeth. On his left, Maggie set the table with white dishes, and to the right, at his elbow, was Officer McKay—no, it was Aaron, or was it Jacob? Father and son. They were the same and they were him. He, they, grasped the knife and together they scraped. Back and forth along the skin of the fish. A soothing, bloodless cadence. Up, up went a spray of silver scales to catch and hold the sunlight.

For what is a house if not a refuge and a protector. A tomb for all your joys and dreams.