THE HOUSE CAME with the job, Gran always says,” Vi explained as she gave Iris a tour, starting in the kitchen. Here was the special drawer where the cookies were kept, and the freezer with gallons of ice cream, boxes of ice pops in plastic tubes.
“Gran makes us milkshakes for breakfast,” Vi told her. “They’re special health shakes. I bet she’ll make them for you too.” Other kids got Lucky Charms and Count Chocula for breakfast, but Gran dumped raw eggs, brewer’s yeast, and powders from the health food store into the blender with skim milk, Hood ice cream, and Hershey’s syrup. They each got one of Gran’s special shakes every morning—“My lucky little hooligans,” Gran always said. “No one else gets ice cream for breakfast!”
The Crock-Pot on the counter bubbled away. Gran used the Crock-Pot a lot: She made all kinds of stews and casseroles in it, sometimes tiny hot dogs in barbecue sauce. Tonight they were having Swedish meatballs with boxed instant mashed potatoes, which Vi liked better than real ones because there were no lumps.
Vi opened the cupboards, showed Iris where to find the Looney Tunes jars from Welch’s jelly they used as glasses, the plates and bowls with the bright yellow sunflower pattern that matched the kitchen curtains perfectly.
“Gran makes breakfast and dinner, but we’re on our own for lunch, which is usually sandwiches. The bread’s in this drawer, there’s sandwich meat in the fridge, and we’ve always got peanut butter and jelly. Sometimes Gran buys Marshmallow Fluff! You like fluffernutters, right?”
The girl just blinked at her.
“Between breakfast and lunch is usually work time, except on weekends. We’re homeschooled and Gran gives us assignments—reading, research, reports, math problems. In the afternoon, we can read more, do art, go outside. If we’ve finished our work, we’re free to do whatever we’d like. Sometimes we go to town. Gran lets us go to the library whenever we want. In the evenings, after dinner, she checks our work, gives us assignments for the next day.”
She showed Iris the latest contraption Gran and Eric had built to try to catch Big White Rat, which involved a bucket, a wooden ramp, and a can covered in peanut butter. “Gran had this lab rat, and she says he’s the smartest rat she ever knew,” Vi explained. “Anyway… he got out and now he lives in our walls. Gran and Eric are always building traps to try to catch him, but he’s too smart for traps.” Iris stared at the empty trap, and Vi continued, “You’ll see him, I’m sure. The other day, I was getting Pop-Tarts from the shelf and there he was! He disappeared into a hole in the back before I could grab him, though.”
Vi brought Iris out to the enclosed back porch. “This is our arts and crafts area. It’s also where we play games.” She pointed to the stacks of board games on the shelves. “And this is where Gran makes her gin.” Gran’s gin still was bubbling away, and Vi showed it to Iris, but warned her never to touch it. A flask full of liquid over a Bunsen burner boiled gently. From it, a long coil of copper tubing looped like a helix, a tiny roller coaster that went on and on, ending in another flask where it drip, drip, dripped down.
“Distillation is simple chemistry,” Vi explained. “Evaporation and condensation.”
Next to the still was Gran’s gin notebook, open to the latest recipe, number 180. Vi looked at the list of ingredients, the measurements in grams: juniper berries, coriander, licorice. Also, the recipe for the mash she’d made with corn, apples, and honey. Gran was always tinkering with her mash recipe. “Sometimes Gran lets us help her, and we get to measure out ingredients on a little scale that uses brass weights.” Vi smelled the botanicals that filled the jars lining the shelves next to the wooden table: juniper, orange peel, cinnamon, nutmeg, frankincense, cardamom, black pepper, fennel, lemongrass. There were others too. Strange leaves, roots, and berries listed by only their botanical names. She picked one up, held it out to Iris. “This name, it’s in Latin. Gran’s teaching me Latin. I only know a little right now. Gran says Latin is the language of science and medicine. I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up, so knowing Latin will be important.”
Iris followed Vi into the living room with the TV and dark wood Magnavox stereo console with a record player, radio, and 8-track player. She showed her the records stored inside it: Chopin, Wagner, Bing Crosby, Julie Andrews, and lots of Neil Diamond. “Gran loves Neil Diamond. She says he’s very talented. You’ve heard his music, right?”
Iris only blinked. It had been nearly twenty-four hours, and she still hadn’t said a word. She followed Vi around obediently, watched, listened, and nodded or shook her head, seeming to understand, but her face was unreadable. She was wearing Vi’s old clothes: a pair of faded bell-bottom jeans and a red-and-blue-striped turtleneck that she’d put on backward and inside out—the tag flapped at her throat. She still had the dirty old orange hunting cap on, pulled down over her ears. Vi put on a Neil Diamond album—Moods—and dropped the needle.
They listened to “Play Me” for a minute—you are the sun, I am the moon—then Vi just kept talking, not able to stand the awkward silence. She wished Eric would come down and help her out, but it was Friday, and Eric cleaned all the animal cages in his room every Friday—a chore that took all morning and a good chunk of the afternoon too.
“Gran has a few pictures from when the Inn was built—soldiers missing arms and legs and stuff. Maybe she’ll show you if you ask. I bet it’s haunted. I mean, how could it not be, right?” She looked at Iris, who stared back, eyes wide. “Anyway, back then, this house was where the superintendent and his family lived. But now we live here. When Gran retires, which she says won’t be anytime soon, she’ll leave, and the next director will move in.” Vi smiled like it was all very matter-of-fact, but there was a weight on her chest. She couldn’t stand the idea of having to leave the only home she remembered. And it didn’t help that the next director would probably be Dr. Hutchins. Vi hated to think about it—Dr. Hutchins with his tufty hair and squinty eyes eating breakfast in their kitchen, probably never even sitting on the porch swing because it squeaked and he was unsettled by loud noises. Vi and Eric loved to take advantage—to put whoopee cushions on his chair before dinner, toss firecrackers beneath his office window.
“Let’s get some lemonade and go outside,” Vi suggested.
She measured scoops of powder into a pitcher of water and stirred, and Iris watched her with wonder, as if she’d never seen anyone make lemonade that way. Iris gulped down two glasses right away, messily, the lemonade trickling down her chin.
* * *
“MY BROTHER AND I, we’ve got a club. You can be in it if you want.”
The porch swing chains squeaked as Vi pushed the two of them back and forth, back and forth, with the toe of her sneaker on the gray painted floorboards. It was a hot day. The rest of the lemonade was sitting in two sweating glasses on the little wrought iron table beside the porch swing.
“So… do you want to?” Vi asked her.