The Breaking House

The Breaking House- Part I

By the end of my first day with my grandmother, I'd cracked all three of her rules wide open like eggs, leaving a dripping, yolky mess. My grandma was new to me and I to her. We exchanged awkward small talk throughout my fifteen years, but never met in person. Until one day my mom hung up the phone, and announced her father was dying. With puddly eyes and serrated breaths, she informed me we were going to visit.

Mom was jittery the entire drive. I knew better than to let loose all the questions flashing across my tongue like shooting stars. I swallowed them into black holes and watched out the window as the chain link fences become white and picket, then tall and stone. My mother didn't speak except to say, "You have to be careful at their house. There are a lot of things that are... breakable. Really. Be careful."

I had seen pictures of my grandparents, so I knew what to expect in that regard. I had not seen pictures of their house. It can only be described as a mansion. We pulled around the horseshoe driveway, our tires crunching on gravel that may well have been crushed gold. I stared at my mom, who did not return my gaze, but said, "It's just a house." Liar. It was not just a house. It was practically a castle.

As we got our bags from the trunk, my grandma ran out of the house. With all the muscle of an MMA fighter, she threw her arms around me. There was an endearing bit of lipstick on her teeth that made me smile through her flurry of questions: "How was the drive?" "Is this a Prius?" "Are you hungry?" "Come in! Come in!" We all three squeezed through the door, into the most magnificent, straight out of a movie, foyer I'd ever seen. Complete with double staircases, chandeliers, marble floors, and- "is that a library?" Beyond sparkling glass French doors, shelves of books stretched high and wide. A ladder stood with all the pomp and circumstance of a freshly inaugurated president, waiting to serve its country, or a person looking for the perfect book.

"That's Grandpa's office," Grandma informed me. And before I could squirm out of my winter coat, she was listing the rules. "I hate to lead with the rules, but they must be said." My mom's face was hard as the wrought-iron gate at the end of the driveway. Grandma's eyes flickered at her, then landed squarely on me.

"One! I'm afraid you cannot go in your grandfather's office. If you'd like something to read, we can find you something to read. Two- grab him!" A maid bent down and scooped up a furry, black flash just as mom slammed the door. Grandma held her heart, "He's so darn fast! Rule two is no letting the kitten out. He's just a baby after all. And three," she wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close like a friend about to divulge juicy gossip, "You know what they say. 'Locks keep out only the honest.'" She peered into my face as though I should know what that meant. "In other words, no unlocking locked things here," she said so close to my face I could smell cinnamon spice tea. She pulled away, lighthearted, laughing again. With a wave of her arms, she sang, "Rules are rules for a reason!"

I looked to my mom for insight, but she was busy snuggling the kitten. "This is Salvador." Grandma introduced him as proudly as if she'd sculpted him from little black dust bunnies and magicked him into being. I looked at the library, er- office again, twisting my mouth. Not going in there was going to be a very hard rule to follow.