Two classic horror films and one early-morning sunrise later, I’m just drifting off to sleep when I’m jolted awake by the sound of Caitlyn coming down the stairs.
“—back and we can play later,” she’s saying as I blink my eyes open.
She freezes, surprised to find me on the couch, again.
“Hey, pumpkin,” I say, rubbing my face.
“Hi …”
“You hungry?”
“Yep!”
She hurries off to the kitchen.
I can’t keep doing this. In the past forty-eight hours, I think I’ve had a grand total of four hours of sleep, and today is going to be a long day.
I sit back on the couch and close my eyes. One moment. I want one quick moment to relax and not th—
“Dad, what’s for breakfast?”
I sigh and get up to feed the little monster.
*
After breakfast, we set off into town.
Our first stop is the main square. We park on a side street and spend the next hour or so, strolling among the antique shops and occasional clothing boutique.
Caitlyn spots Murphy’s, the old-fashioned soda shop on the main square, and asks if we could go in.
“How can you be hungry?” I ask. “We just ate breakfast.”
“Because it’s ice cream,” she replies.
Her logic is airtight and I’m too exhausted to argue.
*
Murphy’s has just opened and we are the only customers.
I’m hit by the memory of our last meal/milkshake here with Nicole. If Caitlyn remembers, she makes no sign. She’s too preoccupied with petting the owner’s black lab while we wait for our milkshakes. When they arrive—plain vanilla for me, peanut butter and chocolate for Caitlyn—we sit in a booth by the window and watch Kingsbrook come to life …
“—na race …? Dad? … Dad?”
I snort awake and sit up in the booth. I dozed off. It was only for a second. My head had drifted back, my eyes closed, and I was out. My milkshake sits undisturbed on the table in front of me, while Caitlyn’s is almost halfway gone.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. What did you say?”
“Do you wanna have a race?”
“A race? A race to where?”
“To see who can finish their milkshake first.”
I’m still trying to get my senses in order. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“And go!”
Caitlyn clamps her lips around the end of the straw and starts pulling it through. She closes her eyes tightly with the effort.
I leave my milkshake untouched and watch.
“You’re going to get brain freeze,” I warn her, but she’s almost done.
The level of milkshake in her glass falls to the bottom.
She reaches the end and the remains of the milkshake slurp through the bottom of the straw.
Caitlyn gulps it down and opens her eyes. “I won!” she says, smiling triumphantly.
I know what’s coming.
Wait for it … wait for it …
Caitlyn’s eyes go wide. Then, she clenches them shut, and presses a hand to her forehead.
There it is.
“Brain freeze?” I ask.
“No,” she grunts, squeezing her eyes closed even tighter. “I’m … I’m thinking really hard.”
“Riiiiiight.”
I watch in amusement as it passes. She finally relaxes, takes her hand from her forehead, and opens her eyes.
“There. I’m done,” she says.
“You’re done ‘thinking hard’?”
“Yep.”
“And what were you ‘thinking hard’ about?”
“Um …” Her eyes dart around as she searches for an answer. “The house.”
“Really? And what about the house?”
She continues glancing around—and then she finds something. “We should get a pool!” she quickly says.
I raise an eyebrow at her and twist in my seat to look at the counter.
There’s a guy sitting there on one of the stools, reading a paper. On the front page is a story about the measure to build a public swimming pool in Kingsbrook. I turn back to Caitlyn.
“A pool?”
She nods.
“A pool for swimming?”
“Yep.”
“We have a place to swim. It’s called a ‘lake’,” I smile.
Her face slowly drops and she looks down at her empty glass. “I’m sorry … I wasn’t thinking about the house … I had brain freeze.”
“No kidding.” I laugh.
She’s embarrassed but not mortified.
“Since you bring it up, what do you think of the house?” I ask. I realize that I haven’t asked her how she’s doing with everything, yet, and I can’t help but feel a little guilty.
Now, she’s really thinking.
“I like it,” she finally says. “It’s kind of big.”
“It is, but we’ll get used to it.”
She shrugs in a way that says she’s not convinced.
“Do you like your room?”
She nods, more certain of her answer. Then, she gets quiet. “Do you like your room?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Are you ever going to sleep in it?”
“I … Yeah …”
“… Okay.”
She seems worried and I’m not sure where this is coming from. It might be from finding me on the couch the past two nights.
“Daddy had some bad dreams, that’s all, and I wanted to sleep on the couch.”
She runs her straw through the dregs of her milkshake.
“You shouldn’t sleep in your room,” she says.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because then, you won’t have bad dreams.”
I smile. “Bad dreams are nothing to be afraid of. They’re just dreams.”
“Okay,” she sighs, as if to say I tried to help.
*
Stuffed with milkshakes, we wander a block off the main square and find ourselves among the stately houses. One maple-lined street is home to a row of bed and breakfasts with names like The Rosewood Inn and The Sleepy Hollow BnB, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, seeing as the real Sleepy Hollow is hundreds of miles away in New York, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt the business.
We round a corner onto another street, and Caitlyn begins to make up story after story as we pass each house.
“The family that lives in that one, they’re related to the Queen.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yep. I read about them in a book. And that one” – she says, pointing to a white house with red trim – “a witch lives there. She puts spells on all the kids in town. And that one over there” – she continues before I can get a word in – “the man who lives there robs banks.”
“Caitlyn.”
“He does. He got rich by robbing banks with his gang.”
“Caitlyn, stop.” Stories of being related to royalty or magicians is one thing, but I don’t want her making up stories about people committing crimes, no matter how far-fetched they are. “You know you shouldn’t do that, right?”
She gets quiet and hangs her head.
“Okay.”
At the end of the street there’s another grand Victorian-styled house. The wooden sign in the front yard reads “Kingsbrook Historical Society” in gold-painted lettering.
“Want to check it out?” I ask Caitlyn.
She shrugs, which is enough for me, because I definitely want to go inside.
We walk up the path to the porch and I hold the door for her. We’re greeted by a display that proudly proclaims, “Welcome to Kingsbrook!”
The paragraph and photos below the display briefly outline the town’s history, from its beginnings as a trading outpost, to a lumber mill, to a resort town, to present day. Beyond the display, the first floor of the house has been converted into a mini-museum, with display cases and memorabilia. In the corner, an elderly man with a beak-like nose sits behind a desk.
“Hello.” He smiles.
“Hi,” I answer.
He moves around the desk. “Welcome to the Kingsbrook Historical Society. I’m Nathaniel Howard. I’m … Well, I’m pretty much the Kingsbrook Historical Society.”
“I’m Daniel Price and this is my daughter, Caitlyn.”
Mr. Howard’s face lights up. “Oh! You’re the new owners of the Nightingale House.”
“Yes,” I say, unable to hide my slight surprise.
He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “I know just about everything that goes on in Kingsbrook. My family has lived here for generations. I know all the stories, and the Nightingale House is one of our prized jewels.” He shakes my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He turns to Caitlyn. “And you, as well. Kingsbrook welcomes you both.”
“Thanks. We’re doing a little exploring today.”
“Excellent! This is the place to start.”
He leads us around the museum, giving a spiel he has to have given a hundred, if not a thousand, times before, but still takes immense pride in. He shows us maps and artifacts from when it was a trading outpost in the wild frontier of Maine. Then there are photos from when it was a lumber mill. I’m eating this up, but I can tell that Caitlyn is bored. Mr. Howard then comes to a display that showcases photos from when Kingsbrook became a summer getaway for the wealthy.
“I think you’ll recognize this,” he says with a knowing wink.
There are grainy black-and-white photos of the town square with a parade marching through it. A description off to the side reads, “Fourth of July, 1900”. There’s photo after photo of the grand houses of the town, decked out in streamers and bunting, with parties on the lawns.
“People would open up their homes and show off a bit for the annual Fourth of July Celebration. They would have fireworks and picnics,” he says, and points to the bottom of the display. “And the Nightingale House was no exception.”
I crouch down to get a better look. “Huh. Check it out, Caitlyn.”
Suddenly, she’s very interested.
There it is—the Nightingale House.
It’s more than a picnic. Splendidly dressed people sit at the tables that cover the lawn. The men wear top hats and tails. The women wear white, except for a brunette who is wearing some darker color that I can’t discern, due to the photo being in black and white. Everyone else is looking at the camera, while she’s looking at something else. There are streaks and blurs around the edges where children are playing. It’s hard to believe that the regal house in the background is the same one Caitlyn and I woke up in this morning.
Mr. Howard taps the glass. “The couple sitting at the table front and center—that’s Thomas Carrington and his wife, Abigail. They were the owners of the Nightingale House.”
Thomas Carrington’s expression is hidden behind a jet-black beard and mustache. Even seated, you can tell that he was tall with piercing eyes. Abigail is a beauty. She has flowing blonde hair, and although she’s smiling, her face is careworn.
Caitlyn is staring at the photo with a grim expression.
“What do you think, Caitlyn?” I ask.
“Neat,” she says, but her expression doesn’t change.
Mr. Howard doesn’t see her face, but he’s thrilled that Caitlyn has described it as ‘neat’. It’s probably something he doesn’t hear very often.
We make our way through the last few displays, but nothing sparks our fascination like the photo of the Nightingale House in all its glory.
After completing the tour, we thank Mr. Howard as he sees us to the door and wishes us good luck on the rest of our exploration of Kingsbrook.
“What did you think?” I ask as Caitlyn and I stroll down the path, back to the sidewalk while holding hands.
“I don’t like him. He’s mean.”
“Mr. Howard? Really? Why do you think he’s mean?”
“Not him.”
“Then … who are you talking about, sweetheart?”
“… No one.”
I want her to tell me. I feel like I need her to. I’m sure she’s nervous about a new school and she might let her imagination run wild to deal with it, but I don’t want her going into school and telling stories about someone being mean to her. Just like I don’t want her telling stories about people robbing banks.
“Caitlyn, who are you talking about?”
She hesitates, and then answers, “Mr. Carrington.”
“The man in the photo?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he is.”
Sure, I guess the guy looked like he may have been intimidating, and I suppose it’s better if she’s making up stories about people who are long gone, but I should still nip this in the bud before it gets out of hand.
“Well, we don’t know that, okay? He might have been nice.”
“No. He was mean.”
“Caitlyn, you never met him and it’s not fair to call someone mean or names if you don’t know them.”
“But I know him.”
“Caitlyn, stop.”
We take a few more steps towards the street.
“But you called that guy a ‘jerk’ and you’ve never met him.”
“What guy?”
“The baseball guy. When you were putting together the TV thing. You called him a ‘jerk’ and you haven’t met him.”
“I don’t remember saying anyone was— oh …”
She’s talking about my little outburst at the Cubs’ relief pitcher who blew a two-run lead while I was putting together the entertainment center. Had she not been there, I would have called him worse.
“Well, pumpkin, that’s … that’s different.”
She stops and looks up at me. “How?”
“Because … I was talking about …” My argument fizzles out and she’s waiting with those innocent, puzzled eyes.
I sigh. “You’re right. I shouldn’t do that.”
She seems content with my answer and we resume walking back towards the sidewalk at the end of the path.
Now, I really hate that relief pitcher not only for blowing the save, but also for blowing my teaching moment.