69 Keeney Avenue

69 Keeney Avenue

By Coolidge Templeton

Copyright 2011 Coolidge Templeton

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

I could feel the coldness of the house as I slowly advanced across the front lawn. It was smaller than I had imagined it would be, a chocolate-brown cape with forbidding shutters protecting its claustrophobic windows. There was a small flower garden to my left, its tiny rose buds bravely fighting for life in the chilly spring air. A shadow, cast from the pointy-shaped building enveloped the bloom in darkness. A shiver ran up and down my spine, but I only hesitated a moment before approaching the creepy house.

Do you like the flower garden? a young girl’s voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed her before. She stood next to the hunter-green bushes, picking petals from a daisy. Her skin was pale, almost as milky-white as her sweater. I had never seen a dress like the one she was wearing, save for old grainy black and white films. Her hair was blonde, almost ivory in its lightness.

The soil reminds me of Chernozum, I replied.

Cher… what is that? she inquired. She wore a puzzled expression on her pale features.

It is black soil, like tar of earth, I replied. It is very common in Ukraine, near my native Russia.

Oh, you must be that new Russian girl who is supposed to cook for the brothers Pavlovich, she said excitedly, her eyes brightening as she smiled. What is your name, Miss…?"

Godunov. Sonia Godunov is being name, I introduced myself by sticking out my hand with a straight arm to shake her own. She shook it limply, using the tips of her tiny fingers. And you are being…?

Oh, I’m Becky, she replied quietly. I’m not supposed to be over here. My mommy thinks there is something odd about this place, she laughed suddenly. But I don’t care! I come to protect the roses. They used to be something in the days of old lady Pavlovich, but it seems like these brothers can’t be bothered.

Becky appeared to be about eight years old. She confounded me, seemingly shy one minute, outgoing the next. She wordlessly plucked the remaining petals from the stem, and then carelessly threw it into the dark bush.

I am staying here at 69 Keeney Avenue. You are always welcome to come and have cookies with me, I smiled warmly.

She returned my smile, but her eyes weren’t smiling. They were sad; something about them reminded me of my older brother Sasha, who had died in the Chechnya War.

I looked up at the front porch. It was no bigger than an old-fashioned telephone booth. It was enclosed, with small glass panes on the rectangular wooden doors. I wondered if its doors were locked. The wind howled as it shook the feeble walls of the porch. I turned back to say goodbye to Becky; she was gone. She seemed to have vanished into the morning mist. Doubtless, she was a next-door neighbor who had found 69 Keeney Avenue to be something more interesting than her own home. I felt certain that I would meet this mysterious girl again.

I was about to reach for the porch door when it abruptly swung open; an angry, red-faced woman greeted me with a sneer. Her hair was blondish-gray, her eyeglasses old fashioned with oval lenses. Her large frame filled the doorway, giving her the appearance of some ogre from a Grimm’s fairy tale.

What do you want? she demanded, her voice having a trace of a European accent. Are you another one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, looking to save our souls? Well, forget it! We’re past saving, she said sarcastically as she sized me up with a challenging stare. Or maybe you’re selling face cream. Are you insinuating that I have wrinkles?

As she smiled, her face seemed to wear a thousand wrinkles. I couldn’t say for sure, but the woman seemed to be about sixty years old. I was too intimidated to speak, yet too embarrassed not to at least try to communicate. I stammered, I…I’m Sonia. I’m new cook from Russia, please, I managed to say.

Now the large woman looked positively enraged. So, now I see. You are peasant girl that Nicholas found in the back of a cheap magazine. Yes…now I see who is replacing me, she said, more in sadness than in anger, though I still didn’t care for her stare. My cooking was fine for last twenty years, but now comes the upgrade. Out with old, in with new, she remarked.

I felt embarrassed as I stood there, bearing the brunt of her fury and frustration. I began to pull on my earlobe. I don’t know why I do this, but my brother Sasha used to kid me about it, back home in Russia. He joked that one day one of my ears would drag on the ground, and that I would then learn all the gossip in the village.

Well, don’t just stand there girl, come in, come in, the tall woman abruptly said, as she opened the door wider. I slid past her with some hesitation. The porch had a dank, musty odor, like an old shed. There were old, unused tennis rackets leaning up against decaying baseball gloves. A small, black mailbox rested on the wall to the immediate right of the front entrance. Thin flakes of brown paint fell to the floor as I brushed my arm against the wall. The heat was incredible; I was soaked with sweat in a matter of seconds. And there was no welcome mat on the cold, stone floor.

The large woman pushed the front door open. It creaked at its hinges, as if it hadn’t been oiled in years. Immediately, the sound of a loud barking dog rang in my ears. I looked around the room. There was no sign of a living animal here. There was a small fireplace located in the center of the room, with black stones forming a frame around the hearth. A pair of black iron dogs held the short-cut logs that fed a smoldering fire. A long white wooden shelf crowned the top of the fireplace. Various old books rested upon it; they were held in place by two black wooden book marks shaped like dogs.

But what caught my attention were the bells. These were no ordinary knick-knacks; they lay upon the mantle like an army marching into battle. They were all sorts of shapes and styles: some traditional, others more unique. I had never had any kind of fascination for bells, but somehow these were different. Something strange and hypnotic called out to me, imploring me to ring every one.

My host turned to me and smiled. So, you are liking living room? It is furnished rudely, and I am ruder still for not introducing self, she said with a half-grin. I am Harriet Blom, she stated as she stiffly shook my hand. Her smile seemed false; I couldn’t help thinking that I had offended her in some way. I didn’t understand American manners; perhaps something I had said or done had displeased the lady.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of men arguing in the next room. There seemed to be two voices: One loud, angry and commanding, like a lion’s roar; one silky and cunning, like a leopard’s purr. The first voice boomed like a cannon, the sound echoing off of the white plastered walls, vibrating in my ears. I wondered what kind of beast could possess such language?

You are killing time, Nicholas! The louder man shouted. Mine, yours… There should be prisons for people like you, who waste valuable time!

But you’re mistaken, Ivan, the second man replied, his voice softer, almost a whisper. I can’t kill time, but the hands on the clock will certainly strangle me some day, the silky voice replied.

You’re a fool…two good eyes and you can’t see the world as it really is! bellowed the first man.

There was a pause, as if the second man was carefully choosing his words. Finally, he responded. Perhaps this is true. But as our beloved Rasputin well knew, the third eye is in the mind, he purred.

I have no more patience for your daydreaming, Nicholas, the first man declared. Consider my offer for this old shack, and remember, I’m doing you a favor. Again, he added with meaning.

The loud man almost ran me over as he abruptly burst into the living room. For a split-second his viper-like eyes gleamed with malice, but he quickly recovered his composure and smiled at both of us.

Well, who do we have here? he inquired, smiling warmly. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. And it is a pleasure to meet such a pretty young lady, He took my hand, kissing the back of it in some old-world manner. I blushed in spite of myself.

This is Sonia, our new cook from Russia, Harriet introduced me. I’m remembering now what Nicholas told me. She is from small village called Gogol. It’s being one piece of real estate you don’t own yet, she added, a hard edge in her voice.

Oh, give me time, Harriet, he replied jovially. Everything has a price. Property, people, souls…it’s just a matter of negotiation, he paused. He and Harriet exchanged a quick look. Since my aunt has neglected basic civility, he admonished her. I will introduce myself. I’m Ivan Pavlovich, Realtor and local businessman," he said with a charming smile.

Ivan was a hulking, large man, broad-shouldered and tall. He had a red goatee, an enormous bald head and a huge, prominent nose. He seemed confident, almost arrogant; I was captivated by his manners, yet I found him to be a bit intimidating.

Ivan glanced at his watch. He gave me a quick nod of the head, and then began to walk away. However, he suddenly stopped at a picture hanging on the living room wall, just to the left of the mirror. He stared at it for some time, examining it closely, as if he were viewing it for the very first time.

My father hung this painting here when I was just a child, he remarked. It had some relevance…I’m not certain. All I see is a river going nowhere and an old, decrepit bridge, he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ivan advanced to the front door, but then paused for a moment. It was quite nice meeting you, Sonia. I hope to sample some of your Russian cuisine in the near-future, he said in an agreeable fashion.

Da, Mr. Pavlovich, I replied. I will be happy making you special Charlotte Russe cake.

Ivan smiled in response, but his eyes weren’t smiling. That would be excellent, Sonia, he said in a softer tone of voice. I am a bachelor, and don’t do much cooking on my own. Though I do dabble in mixed-drinks and such potions, he added. He abruptly turned to the door, slamming it hard as he exited the house.

Harriet’s face grimaced with displeasure. I tried to smile sympathetically; I then turned to look at the picture on the wall that had riveted Ivan’s attention. It was a river; there was an old wooden bridge spanning it. But there seemed to be more to it than that. Hidden in the rushing waters was something…a face. That was it, it was some kind of face. But it didn’t look human. It was more like…

A ghost? a soft masculine voice from behind me startled me. I whirled around, coming face-to-face with the second man from the next room. He was of medium build, somewhat flabby, with lazy hunched shoulders and poor posture. He wore eyeglasses that were both dirty and ill-fitting on his round, moon-like face. He had a long skinny nose that tilted to one side, as if it had once been broken and never properly set. Though he was smiling, his eyes were empty of emotion. They were gray and watery, like some dead fish. His hair was thinning; he was slightly bald on top, what remained was badly-cut. His hair was walnut-brown, graying a bit at the temples. Altogether, he cut a rather slovenly, unimposing figure.

I’m sorry, I said, flustered. I don’t…

Know who I am? The pudgy man finished my sentence. But you should, you see, for I am the one who sent for you. I’m Nicholas Pavlovich, he introduced himself, gently shaking my hand. His handshake was rather limp; it actually felt cold to the touch.

I managed a smile. Being pleased to meet you, Mr. Pavlovich. I hope you will find my cooking satisfactory, I said hesitantly.

Nicholas Pavlovich smiled back. His dead eyes focused on me wearily. Oh, I know it will be, he replied, crossing his flabby arms. You certainly wouldn’t want to wind up like our last cook. She burned our supper, and then disappeared into that painting, he said mischievously.

I crossed myself. As cold fear gripped my body, I managed to take another look at the picture. The ghost I had imagined before seemed to be floating right out of the painting, reaching out to steal my soul. I fought the urge to run screaming out the front door.

That is quite enough, Nicholas, Harriet declared impatiently. The poor girl doesn’t get your strange behavior. Few of us do, she added, her forehead wrinkling with disapproval.

Nicholas shook his head sympathetically, clucking his tongue in his mouth as he did so. He smiled again, this time with surprising warmth and feeling. His eyes, too, seemed to come to sudden life.

I am sorry, Nicholas said, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. Harriet is quite right. Well, I do have to have my little jokes, don’t I? He paused looking into my eye. You do understand I was only joking, Sonia? It is Sonia, isn’t it?

I breathed a little easier. Once more, I managed to smile. Yes, being Sonia Godunov, I replied. I received your kind letter in Russia, I here hoping to learn the better English, become chef someday. I do best here, promise, I declared. I looked down at the floor in embarrassment at my poor English.

Nicholas slowly nodded his head approvingly. Our best…well, we all promise that, don’t we? he said dully. He regarded the clock that hung on the white stucco wall in the hallway. It’s getting rather late, he declared. I have some papers that I need to correct. Harriet can show you to your room, he said, dismissing me. He turned to leave, then hesitated a moment. He suddenly walked around me in a circle, nodding his head enigmatically.

Yes…you will do, Sonia Godunov, he declared. You have the dark eyes of the Black Goddess. Yes, I am very glad that you’ve come here, he stated. Nicholas turned without warning, vanishing into the shadow of the unlit kitchen.

I am being sorry, Sonia, Harriet apologized. My nephew Nicholas is really a sweet dear. After his mother died, I’m being mother to him, she confided. Harriet paused for a moment, as if she were choosing her words with care. You’ll like him too, thinking I to myself, she declared.

I wasn’t so sure myself, but I kept silent. I suddenly realized that I was nervously pulling on my earlobe again. I stopped self-consciously, and began to examine the white stucco walls of the side hallway. They were like white frosting that had been thickly spread upon a half-baked cake. The sound of Harriet’s sharp voice tore me from my