Except there was a gate at the end of the driveway now. A big metal gate that was ajar but that had a large lock dangling from a hinge. There was a sign on the gate, too. RODERICK. EST. 1922. TOURS AVAILABLE.
Also on the sign was a list of hours of operation, 10 A.M.–5 P.M. ON WEEKDAYS AND 12 P.M.–4 P.M. ON SATURDAYS, CLOSED SUNDAYS. Scott’s brain was so scrambled for a moment that he couldn’t recall what day it was, and when he looked at the glowing numbers of the clock on the dashboard—4:23—he wasn’t sure if it was morning or afternoon. And then he wondered if he was on a different road entirely, in front of a different house, another house also coincidentally named Roderick.
When he heard a tap on his window, he jumped and looked over. It was a woman he didn’t recognize, with blonde hair and a long face. She bent over halfway, smiling toothily into the car. Her mouth moved, saying something Scott couldn’t hear. He rolled down the window. “What was that?” he said.
“Are you here for a tour?” she asked. “I was just closing up. We close officially in about a half hour.”
He blinked at her. “People tour this place?”
She smiled cheerfully. “It was just added to the Pennsylvania registry of historical homes. This house is very significant to the area. Gorgeous gardens. A lot of priceless antiques. A real treasure.”
She had cupped her hand over the lip of his window. He could smell her floral perfume. She didn’t recognize who he was. She had no idea what it meant that he was here. She probably knew nothing about this house beyond its facts and figures, the types of flowers in the gardens, the craftsmen of the furniture in the living room, the artists of the paintings on the walls. She was probably just a bored Main Line wife, busying herself with something she considered culturally significant.
Headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, a car wanting to get around. Scott looked at the woman. “It’s okay,” he said after a moment. “Another time, maybe.”
She smiled and raised a finger in the air. “Here,” she said, reaching into her cardigan pocket. She pulled out a long, thin pamphlet and passed it through the open window. “This’ll give you an idea of what’s inside.”
“Thanks,” Scott said, barely feeling the pamphlet between his fingers. And then he cut the wheel left to turn back onto the road. He drove back to the motel, parked the car, and walked up the metal steps to his room. He slipped off his shoes and turned on the television, settling down on the bed, his arms straight at his sides, his feet pointed to the ceiling. The AC was on too high, and the tip of his nose felt cold. Shivers ran up and down his spine.
He should have asked the woman how this house had been turned over to the registry. Why had his mother done it? Where did she go? Where could she go? All Scott’s life his mother hadn’t as much as replaced a dish … and now she was gone? It gave him an odd, prickly sensation that almost bordered on panic. All the time he’d spent wondering about how his family was getting on without him, it had never occurred to him that they might change. They’d always been so static, so unwilling to deviate an inch one way or another. Scott wasn’t sure he’d ever been so surprised in his life. It made him sit up, swing his legs over the bed, and put his hands on his knees, smiling vacantly toward the carpet, utterly mystified. This house is a prison, he’d told his mother the last time he’d seen her. A great stone jail. Maybe in the end, she agreed with him. Maybe he didn’t understand her as much as he thought he did. What he saw of her was his projection, not exactly the truth.