This House is Mine

A Story by Devoutparsley

“Oh! It's lovely!” exclaimed the young woman to her husband as the realtor's car turned into the driveway of the house.

“Yes it is!” replied the realtor, looking over her shoulder. “It needs a little work, but it's really in very good shape.” She stopped the car in front of the long porch that ran the length of the house's front. The realtor got out of the car and stepped up onto the porch, followed by the young couple.

“You're going to love this place, I just know it!” she bubbled. “Good price too.”

“How is it a place like this is on the market for such a low price?” asked the young man.

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There was something about the house that appealed to Mary and I from the start. Sure it was an older house, but it was well made, and Mary felt that the weather-beaten exterior gave the place some character. She fell in love with it on the spot, so we bought it. It was a large sprawling affair, set back from the road on a fairly large lot. A driveway wound from the road to the house, weaving its way through a stand of oak trees. The house had two stories and an attic and basement as well. It had been white once, but through the years had taken on a decidely dingy look. It was what real estate agents like to call a “fixer-upper.”

We were so excited. We had been married just six months before, and we were still pretty much newlyweds. My grandfather had recently died and left me a decent inheritance. It was that inheritance that made the purchase of the house possible. I think the moment we saw the house we began thinking of it as ours. We hadn't made a down payment or signed any papers, but we already knew it was ours. One week later it was ours in reality as well as in our minds. It was old, it needed work, but it was ours and we loved it.

“Isn't it wonderful?” Mary asked, and it was.

We threw ourselves into the task of fixing up our new house. I had always had a talent for working with wood, and so I was able to do a lot to the outside of the house in a fairly short amount of time. I made new frames for the doors, new shutters and frames for the windows, and even replaced some of the siding boards that looked particularly bad.

Mary worked on the inside of the house while I worked on the outside. The place hadn't been lived in for at least a year, and it showed. I think the first week that the house was ours, all Mary did was clean. After that week, it didn't even look like the same house. It was hard work, but it was worth it. We wanted our house to be something we could be proud of.

I had taken that week off from work, and so when it passed, it was back to the grind for me. I worked the morning shift at the local lumber mill, and so from six in the morning until three in the afternoon I ran one of those massive saws that devours huge logs and spits out rough boards when it's done with its meal. Sure it wasn't the most glamorous job in the world, but it paid well, and handling those heavy logs kept me pretty fit.

Every day I would come home from work, and Mary and I would work on the house until supper time, then we would sit down and eat and discuss our day. Those were great times, and I find I really miss them.

One day though, after we had been married for about two years, I came home to find Mary sitting at the table looking very excited. She stood immediately when she saw me, took me by the hand, and led me over to kitchen table.

“Sit down Chris,” she said. “I have something to tell you.” She paused dramatically, That was my Mary. She always did have a flair for the dramatic. Some people might have found it annoying, but not me. I loved it, just as I loved everything about her.

“Go ahead, spit it out,” I urged, smiling at her fondly.

“I'm pregnant!” she shrieked, and threw herself into my arms.

I have to admit, I was stunned. I didn't know what I had expected her to tell me, but that certainly wasn't it. We both wanted children, and had been trying for a while, but it just didn't seem like it was going to happen. Once the initial shock wore off though, the joy flooded in. I think I might have even cried.

Mary was already two months along when we found out, and so, seven months later a healthy baby boy was born. Christopher William Martin, Junior we named him, but he quickly became Little Chris. It was a textbook delivery and recovery, and it wasn't very long before we found ourselves back at home with our new son.

They say that the older you get, the faster time passes, and I believe it because it seemed like no time at all before Little Chris took his first steps. From that point on, he was getting into everything. He was all over the house, always exploring, always finding new things. Well, he was all over most of the main floor of the house anyway. We kept the doors to the upstairs and basement closed, since we didn't want to take a chance on him falling and getting hurt. Those steps in that old house were steep.

Every day when I'd get home from work, Mary would have something else to tell me that Chris had said or done. Yes, he was starting to talk now. One thing was very clear. Little Chris loved the house too.

Life at that point could best be described as a whirlwind of activity. Before we knew it, Little Chris was starting kindergarten and I was dropping him off at school on the way to work, and picking him up and running him home on my lunch hour. Soon after he started school, Mary became pregnant again. We were all excited, especially Little Chris who kept insisting it was going to be a brother. We had been trying for another child since about two years after Chris was born, but nothing had happened until now. We had begun to think that Chris was the only child we were going to be blessed with.

Despite our doubts, it seemed as though we were going to have a brother or sister for Chris. What happened next though, changed a lot of things for us. Even though it happened years ago, it's still a painful memory. About six months into the pregnancy, Mary lost the baby. It was a rough time for all of us, except maybe for Little Chris, who was still too young to fully understand. The doctors told us that the scarring in Mary was extensive and that she would never be able to have any more children. That was a big blow to both of us. We had talked and dreamed of having a large family. On top of the that, the doctors detected some irregularities in Mary's heartbeat, and they decided they needed to do some more tests.

Like I said, it was a rough time, but at least we still had Little Chris. We loved him so much. We probably spoiled him there, but he turned out okay. Our family grew very close during this time. It might sound a little corny, but I really think that part of what helped us get through it was the house – our house. With an old house like that, there are always things that need doing. We worked hard, and bit by the bit, the pain faded until it was only a memory.

Life went on, as it always does. It turned out Mary definitely had a heart condition, but the doctors said as long as she was careful not to overdo things, she should be fine. Little Chris grew up, as children always do. We couldn't really call him Little Chris any more, because at eighteen, he was taller than I was, standing two inches over six feet.

At the same time though, things weren't going well at all in the world. Mary and I would watch the news each night, and I know she worried. I did too, but for Chris' sake, we didn't discuss it. One chilly November day, our worst fears were realized. Chris was now working the morning shift at the mill with me, trying to earn money to go to college. We came home for lunch that day to find Mary sitting at the table, looking very pale. She had been crying too; there were streaks in her makeup. She didn't say a word, just passed over a peace of paper. Little Chris and I stared at it in shock, almost uncomprehendingly. It was a draft notice. Little Chris had been drafted into the United States Army. He was off to boot camp and soon thereafter shipped out for Vietnam.

Things were pretty tough for Mary and I during that period. I think the hardest part was the not knowing. There was just no way to know if Chris was okay. All we could do was hope and pray. We did a lot of praying during that time. Once again, we worked on the house, and that helped us cope. Months passed, and we would sporadically receive letters from him. Someone once said “War is hell,” and from what Chris told us in his letters, I would have to say that person got it right.

September 8^th was a Monday, and a cool, dreary one at that. I was hard at work at the mill, and I didn't even know anyone was behind me until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked back to find Jim Miller, the plant manager standing behind me. He looked drawn and pale, like he hadn't slept much the night before.

“Chris,” he shouted above the din of the saws. “I need to see you in my office.”

I glanced at my watch. It was 10:15. “Now?” I shouted back. “I have a break in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, now. This can't wait.”

As I followed him to the office, I racked my brain trying to figure out why he would call me in like this. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe I wasn't the top producer in the mill, but I wasn't the lowest either. Actually, my production had been quite good lately. My attendance certainly wasn't an issue – I couldn't remember the last time I had missed a day of work. There had been some rumors that the mill was starting to struggle financially. Some even said that layoffs were coming, but they couldn't lay me off could they? I had worked for them for more than twenty years, even back before I was married.

“What's going on Jim?” I started to ask as we entered the office, but the words stuck in my throat. What came out instead was a sort of moan as I saw the two U.S. Army officers in full uniform sitting there, looking very uncomfortable in the wooden, hard-backed chairs.

“No! Oh God no!” I cried. I felt Jim's hand on my shoulder once again, this time guiding me to a chair. I could hear him murmuring something in my ear, but I couldn't seem to make out what he was saying. I was in a fog. Everything seemed to be moving so slowly. I collapsed into a chair. The two officers glanced at each other, misery etched onto their faces.

“Mr. Martin,” began one. “I regret to have to be the one to inform you, but your son, Christoper William Martin Junior has been killed in action in Vietnam. On behalf of the President of the United States and the War Department, we offer our most sincere condolences. Your son died a hero Mr. Martin. He saved the life of his entire platoon.”

I lost it then. I've never been a very emotional person, but I cried like a baby. Jim and the two officers just sat there, looking helpless.

“Mary,” I said after a bit, when my tears had subsided to a degree. “I have to go tell Mary.”

“She already knows Chris.” Jim said sadly. “They went to your house first. Mary sent them here.”

“I gotta go home,” I said, lurching unsteadily to my feet. “She shouldn't be alone right now. Her heart . . .”

“I'll drive you,” Jim said quickly. “You're in no condition to drive yourself.”

We said nothing on the fifteen minute drive from the mill to my house. I was in shock, and I think Jim just didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything at all. I appreciated that. Too many people feel like they have to say something and so end up saying the wrong thing. I hate it when people say things like “I know how you feel.” How do you know how I feel? Was your only son just killed in Vietnam?

The minute we arrived at the house, I knew something was wrong. To this day I don't know how I knew, but I did.

“Oh dear God. Mary!” I gasped.

I was out of the car and racing to the house even before Jim shifted the gear into park. He was right behind me, but it was too late, and had been for a while. There was Mary, lying on the kitchen floor, eyes open, skin a sort of sickly looking ash gray. The news about Little Chris had been too much for her. He heart couldn't take the shock. I don't really remember anything else right after that because I passed out.

I woke up in a hospital bed. It was late, but Jim Miller was sitting in a chair near the bed and he looked worried, very worried.

“Is she really gone, Jim?” I asked, my voice quavering slightly.

Tears filled his eyes, and he nodded, unable to speak. I cried then, cried for a very long time, cried until there were no tears left.

“I want to go home now.” I said, when I finally finished crying. I felt limp and wrung out, like an old dishrag.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea,” Jim replied.

“I don't care. I don't want to stay here.”

He argued a bit, but his heart really wasn't in it. He went and found the head nurse and told her I wanted to leave. She didn't think it was a good idea either, and I had to argue with her for a while too. She was stubborn, but I wasn't taking no for an answer, and so thirty minutes later, I was dressed, checked out, and in Jim's car on the way back to my house. Once again, we didn't talk much. There really wasn't much to say.

We arrived at the house and I opened the car door and stepped out. Jim hesitated for a moment, then said “You sure you'll be okay alone here tonight?”

“Yeah, I will be,” I said, although I wasn't nearly as sure as I sounded. “It's where I belong. This house is all I've got left now when you get right down to it. Pretty much all my memories of them are here.”

He didn't look convinced, but finally said, “I'll come by to check on you in the morning on my way to work. Take as long as you need to, Chris. Your job will be waiting for you whenever you are ready to come back.”

I thanked him and went into the house. Thirty minutes later I was sitting on the bed with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol. I didn't want to go on, not without Mary and Little Chris. I just couldn't imagine life without them. I'd never been a drinking man, so the whiskey hit me pretty hard, and I don't really remember much about what I did then. I remember picking up the gun, but then I guess I blacked out or something because the next thing I remember is Jim pounding on the front door and yelling my name.

All that was about a year ago now. I still miss them a lot. I often find myself wandering from room to room, almost as if I'm looking for them, even though I know they are gone.

That's odd. A car just pulled up out front and three people I don't know just got out and are coming onto the porch. It's a young couple holding hands and a somewhat large middle-aged woman in a rather ugly purple dress.

“You're going to love this place, I just know it!” the larger woman is saying. “Good price too.”

Price? What does she mean price?

“How is it a place like this on the market for such a low price?” the young man asks.

On the market? This house is not on the market. This house is mine! It's all I have left of Chris and Mary. It's MINE!

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The real estate agent sighed. “I'd really rather not talk about it. It's really a very sad situation.”

“Sad?” the young woman inquired.

“I'm afraid so. The house belonged to a family of three. They lived here nearly twenty years. The loved this house, and it showed. A lot of people said it was the best kept house in town.”

“What happened then?” asked the young man. “Why sell if they loved it so much?”

The older woman sighed again. “That's why I said it's so sad. About a year ago, the son was killed in Vietnam.”

“How awful,” murmured the young woman, as she tightly squeezed her husbands hand. He had only recently returned from Vietnam himself, having been wounded there.

“Yes, but it gets worse I'm afraid. The woman had been struggling with some heart problems, and the news about her son triggered a fatal heart attack.”

The young couple was too stunned at hearing this tragic story to comment for a moment. Finally, the young man asked about the third member of the family.

“It was all to much for him I guess. Losing both his wife and son that way, well, it was just more than he could handle. He worked for my husband at the lumber mill, and when my husband came to check on him the next day, he found him dead in the bedroom. He had shot himself.”

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NO! That's not possible. It's a lie, that's what it is. They just want my house. Yes, that's it. They want the house, but they can't have it. This house is mine!