The Many Adventures of Fay Fairburn - A Home’s Love
[This is a stand alone story, written in response to the San Francisco Chronicle article, "Condo left to aid S.F. homeless," 2/2/2012.]
The slim blue house stood in the middle of a long row of houses, each hugging the next with no space between. The blue house saw the girl walking down the street, scuffing her unlaced shoes against the sidewalk, and felt the lonesome rolling off her like a fog. The house knew the girl had traveled a long way, had wandered until tiredness grew great and heavy inside her. It knew because all the people who came to the house were all lonesome and tired.
So the house opened its door and said, Welcome.
The girl stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the open door. No one came out. No one went in. The door just stood open and empty, offering an invitation, Come in, come in out of the cold.
The girl opened the gate, stepped up the stoop, and went inside. The hall was shadowy and quiet. The girl trailed her fingers along the wallpapered walls as she made her way to the last room, and the house sighed at her touch. She opened a door at the end of the hall and collapsed on the bed within, fully clothed, backpack still strapped to her back. She was instantly asleep and the house closed the bedroom door gently behind her.
The man who stayed on the second floor heard the opening and closing of doors and emerged from the room in his boxer shorts. He looked over the railing to the floor below.
The woman who slept across the hall peered out from behind her door. “What is it?”
“I heard a noise,” said the man. He stepped lightly down the stairs toward the bottom.
The woman rubbed her eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
The man went from room to room, looking into each one. When he reached the room with the girl in it, he stopped and stood in the doorway a long time.
Both the house and the woman heard his stillness, and waited for a reply. “Well…?” called out the woman.
“Well, it’s not nothing.” The man closed the door to the room quietly and came back to the stairs. “It’s a girl. There’s a girl asleep on the bed.”
The woman nodded. “Alright then. Go on back to bed.”
“But shouldn’t we…?”
The woman looked down at the man. She had been at the house far longer than him and had seen more than one stranger come and go, herself included. “It’s fine,” she said. “Go on back to bed.”
In the morning, the girl woke feeling lighter than she had felt in a long while. She could smell food cooking and her stomach grumbled. She stood and walked down the hall, peering up at the swaying chandelier. She waived back at it, and said, “Good morning, house.” She pushed her way back into the kitchen.
The man sat at the small round table reading a day old copy of the paper, while the woman stirred eggs on the stove. The girl took them both in. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi, there,” said the woman.
“I’m Fay.”
The woman smiled. “I’m Rosalinda. But you can call me Rosa.” She gestured with her spatula. “This here’s Clarence.”
The man looked back at the girl over the top of the paper. The girl’s eyes trailed down his arms sleeved in black tattoos only a shade darker than his skin. “Hi,” she said again.
The man just grunted.
“Are you hungry?” said the woman. “I have chorizo and eggs.”
The girl nodded and settled in at the table. A moment latter, the woman laid out three plates. The girl shoveled food into her mouth by the forkful. The woman laughed and the man shook his head. The house smiled a secret smile.
In between bites, the girl said, “It’s magic.”
The man and the woman looked at each other. “What is?”
“The house.” The girl smiled at the pale yellow kitchen. “Yeah, it’s definitely magic. I can tell. This is a house that remembers.”
The man shifted uncomfortably. “What are you on about?”
The girl kicked her feet at the floor. “It’s not your house.”
The man made a tsking noise with his teeth. The woman shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll bet it was her house.” The girl pointed to a photograph on the wall of an old woman grey-streaked black hair. “She’s all over this house. A part of every room.”
The woman and the man stared at the photograph together, each feeling unsettled that the girl had finally said what they always known. The house felt their eyes on its photograph and remembered. It remembered and its wood bones creaked in ache for the woman in the photograph, who used to fill up its rooms with her whole self. The woman who fell over in its hall one day and went still and didn’t get up. The woman who was taken away and left the house lonely.
“Not that it’s haunted, mind you,” continued the girl. “It just that the house remembers real hard. She must have been a good lady, too. The house loved her.”
The woman, the man, and the house listened. They watched as the girl shovel the last bit of chorizo into her mouth and took her plate to the sink. They watched her yawn so deep they could see right down her throat to her uvula.
“I’ll do the dishes if you want,” said the girl. “But first I think I’m gonna go sleep some more. I feel like I could sleep right through forever.” The girl skipped out the kitchen and headed straight back to bed.
The air in the kitchen was thick with silence.
“We have to do something,” said the man.
“About what?”
“About that girl, Rosa. That girl, who is probably a runaway, who probably has a family somewhere looking for her. Who, at the very least, should be in school. And what was that about you not owning this place? You told me you did.”
“I never said any such thing. I found this house by accident, just like you did.” The woman’s gaze trailed off in the direction of where the girl had gone. “She’s right, though. About magic.”
“Ah, come on, don’t give me that,” said the man, who rose to drop his own dish in the sink, where it clattered.
The woman fingered the small gold cross around her neck. “When I was a little girl I used to go to church. Devoutly. Partly for my mamá, parly because I really believed. And then…, well, and then everything happened, and I just couldn’t…” The house groaned in sympathy as it felt the shadows of the woman’s history wash over here. The woman dropped the cross back underneath her shirt. Her brown eyes met the man’s, and she smiled. “But since I found this house, I’ve started to believe in the possibility of miracles again.”
The man just shook his head. “The real world just doesn’t stop at these walls. This house doesn’t have a heart. It’s just a house. It won’t protect us from anything.”
“But it does protect us. Maybe even love us. I know you haven’t been here long, so you don’t understand, but it really does.” The woman smiled and stood. “Don’t worry about Fay. The house wouldn’t have let her in, if she wasn’t meant to be here. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
The man scoffed and shook his head again. “I have to go to work.”
“Have a lovely day,” said the woman, crossing to the sink to wash up the dishes.
The house felt the opening and close of its front door, felt the man leave, and began waiting for him to return. It held its walls and roof firm for the woman washing dishes, one by one. It stood watch over the girl, who slept. It did all these things for the people who filled its empty spaces, as it would do for those who came after these three left, as it would always do, and it felt itself not just a house, but a home.
* * * *
I couldn't fit this week's topic, "Current Events," into the ongoing storyline (not, at least, without feeling like I was cheating). I'm sorry to have left you hanging last week, but I promise to return to the story next week.
[To read more Fay Fairburn stories click here.]
Also, since the topic is, "Current Events," I thought I would share with you one of my favorite things to do with a newspaper -- erasure poetry. Also known as blackout poetry, these are found poems created by eliminating words from an existing document in order to create a poem. One of the things I love about erasure poetry is the inherent visual aspect, in addition to the words.
The following poem from a page of the San Francisco Chronicle with the article, "Berkeley Jewish farm mixes agriculture, learning," 2/3/2012 (web version varies slightly from the print).
[Image: A blacked out section of newspaper with a few remaining words. "at center" appearing in large letters in the right hand column, the left column reads, "Sometimes, sometimes a spiritual act On a vacant lot merges to create a fount o good. I never expected to come but now I want to live. Now I want forever."]
If you're interested in seeing more blackout poems I've done, there are a ton on my tumblr.
Or, go check out Austen Kleon's tumblr, which first inspired me to start creating blackout poetry.
The slim blue house stood in the middle of a long row of houses, each hugging the next with no space between. The blue house saw the girl walking down the street, scuffing her unlaced shoes against the sidewalk, and felt the lonesome rolling off her like a fog. The house knew the girl had traveled a long way, had wandered until tiredness grew great and heavy inside her. It knew because all the people who came to the house were all lonesome and tired.
So the house opened its door and said, Welcome.
The girl stopped on the sidewalk and stared at the open door. No one came out. No one went in. The door just stood open and empty, offering an invitation, Come in, come in out of the cold.
The girl opened the gate, stepped up the stoop, and went inside. The hall was shadowy and quiet. The girl trailed her fingers along the wallpapered walls as she made her way to the last room, and the house sighed at her touch. She opened a door at the end of the hall and collapsed on the bed within, fully clothed, backpack still strapped to her back. She was instantly asleep and the house closed the bedroom door gently behind her.
The man who stayed on the second floor heard the opening and closing of doors and emerged from the room in his boxer shorts. He looked over the railing to the floor below.
The woman who slept across the hall peered out from behind her door. “What is it?”
“I heard a noise,” said the man. He stepped lightly down the stairs toward the bottom.
The woman rubbed her eyes. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
The man went from room to room, looking into each one. When he reached the room with the girl in it, he stopped and stood in the doorway a long time.
Both the house and the woman heard his stillness, and waited for a reply. “Well…?” called out the woman.
“Well, it’s not nothing.” The man closed the door to the room quietly and came back to the stairs. “It’s a girl. There’s a girl asleep on the bed.”
The woman nodded. “Alright then. Go on back to bed.”
“But shouldn’t we…?”
The woman looked down at the man. She had been at the house far longer than him and had seen more than one stranger come and go, herself included. “It’s fine,” she said. “Go on back to bed.”
In the morning, the girl woke feeling lighter than she had felt in a long while. She could smell food cooking and her stomach grumbled. She stood and walked down the hall, peering up at the swaying chandelier. She waived back at it, and said, “Good morning, house.” She pushed her way back into the kitchen.
The man sat at the small round table reading a day old copy of the paper, while the woman stirred eggs on the stove. The girl took them both in. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi, there,” said the woman.
“I’m Fay.”
The woman smiled. “I’m Rosalinda. But you can call me Rosa.” She gestured with her spatula. “This here’s Clarence.”
The man looked back at the girl over the top of the paper. The girl’s eyes trailed down his arms sleeved in black tattoos only a shade darker than his skin. “Hi,” she said again.
The man just grunted.
“Are you hungry?” said the woman. “I have chorizo and eggs.”
The girl nodded and settled in at the table. A moment latter, the woman laid out three plates. The girl shoveled food into her mouth by the forkful. The woman laughed and the man shook his head. The house smiled a secret smile.
In between bites, the girl said, “It’s magic.”
The man and the woman looked at each other. “What is?”
“The house.” The girl smiled at the pale yellow kitchen. “Yeah, it’s definitely magic. I can tell. This is a house that remembers.”
The man shifted uncomfortably. “What are you on about?”
The girl kicked her feet at the floor. “It’s not your house.”
The man made a tsking noise with his teeth. The woman shook her head. “No.”
“I’ll bet it was her house.” The girl pointed to a photograph on the wall of an old woman grey-streaked black hair. “She’s all over this house. A part of every room.”
The woman and the man stared at the photograph together, each feeling unsettled that the girl had finally said what they always known. The house felt their eyes on its photograph and remembered. It remembered and its wood bones creaked in ache for the woman in the photograph, who used to fill up its rooms with her whole self. The woman who fell over in its hall one day and went still and didn’t get up. The woman who was taken away and left the house lonely.
“Not that it’s haunted, mind you,” continued the girl. “It just that the house remembers real hard. She must have been a good lady, too. The house loved her.”
The woman, the man, and the house listened. They watched as the girl shovel the last bit of chorizo into her mouth and took her plate to the sink. They watched her yawn so deep they could see right down her throat to her uvula.
“I’ll do the dishes if you want,” said the girl. “But first I think I’m gonna go sleep some more. I feel like I could sleep right through forever.” The girl skipped out the kitchen and headed straight back to bed.
The air in the kitchen was thick with silence.
“We have to do something,” said the man.
“About what?”
“About that girl, Rosa. That girl, who is probably a runaway, who probably has a family somewhere looking for her. Who, at the very least, should be in school. And what was that about you not owning this place? You told me you did.”
“I never said any such thing. I found this house by accident, just like you did.” The woman’s gaze trailed off in the direction of where the girl had gone. “She’s right, though. About magic.”
“Ah, come on, don’t give me that,” said the man, who rose to drop his own dish in the sink, where it clattered.
The woman fingered the small gold cross around her neck. “When I was a little girl I used to go to church. Devoutly. Partly for my mamá, parly because I really believed. And then…, well, and then everything happened, and I just couldn’t…” The house groaned in sympathy as it felt the shadows of the woman’s history wash over here. The woman dropped the cross back underneath her shirt. Her brown eyes met the man’s, and she smiled. “But since I found this house, I’ve started to believe in the possibility of miracles again.”
The man just shook his head. “The real world just doesn’t stop at these walls. This house doesn’t have a heart. It’s just a house. It won’t protect us from anything.”
“But it does protect us. Maybe even love us. I know you haven’t been here long, so you don’t understand, but it really does.” The woman smiled and stood. “Don’t worry about Fay. The house wouldn’t have let her in, if she wasn’t meant to be here. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
The man scoffed and shook his head again. “I have to go to work.”
“Have a lovely day,” said the woman, crossing to the sink to wash up the dishes.
The house felt the opening and close of its front door, felt the man leave, and began waiting for him to return. It held its walls and roof firm for the woman washing dishes, one by one. It stood watch over the girl, who slept. It did all these things for the people who filled its empty spaces, as it would do for those who came after these three left, as it would always do, and it felt itself not just a house, but a home.
* * * *
I couldn't fit this week's topic, "Current Events," into the ongoing storyline (not, at least, without feeling like I was cheating). I'm sorry to have left you hanging last week, but I promise to return to the story next week.
[To read more Fay Fairburn stories click here.]
Also, since the topic is, "Current Events," I thought I would share with you one of my favorite things to do with a newspaper -- erasure poetry. Also known as blackout poetry, these are found poems created by eliminating words from an existing document in order to create a poem. One of the things I love about erasure poetry is the inherent visual aspect, in addition to the words.
The following poem from a page of the San Francisco Chronicle with the article, "Berkeley Jewish farm mixes agriculture, learning," 2/3/2012 (web version varies slightly from the print).
[Image: A blacked out section of newspaper with a few remaining words. "at center" appearing in large letters in the right hand column, the left column reads, "Sometimes, sometimes a spiritual act On a vacant lot merges to create a fount o good. I never expected to come but now I want to live. Now I want forever."]
If you're interested in seeing more blackout poems I've done, there are a ton on my tumblr.
Or, go check out Austen Kleon's tumblr, which first inspired me to start creating blackout poetry.