Page 13 of Once Upon a Fall

Or maybe it’s this town. And the reason I’m here.

As I drive to my grandparents’ farm, I try to prepare myself for how everything will look there. And hope that when I see it, I’ll instantly know what to do like my grandma said I would.

Please, let it be that easy.

I know the apple orchard burned down, which is going to be hard to see. I have so many great memories there. When I was younger, it mostly meant running around while my grandpa worked. But when I got older, he had me pruning dead branches and painting the tree trunks with white latex to prevent sun damage. I never got to see ripe apples since they ripen in the fall. But I did see the budding of tiny ones and even tried to eat them once in a while. They were sour and gave me a stomachache.

The farmhouse sits on a rise above the road, overlooking what used to be the orchard. The rows of trees are still there, but now they’re nothing more than blackened trunks and dead branches. Tall grass and weeds have taken over between them, along with what looks like the beginnings of a few young saplings.

Behind it, the barn still stands. One side of the barn’s front is charred from the fire. I was told everything inside was spared, though there wasn’t much in there from what I remember.

I park in the crumbling driveway of the house. It’s a semblance of what I remember. Like the bones are still there, but the heart is missing.

I clear my throat, not expecting to feel the sting of it. I’ve felt more in the last two days than I have in a long time. Wow. Maybe I was heartless like that woman said, and this place is making the thing start beating again.

Or . . . it could be indigestion again.

One thing is for sure: Nothing dawned on me when I got here. No lightning bolt of understanding for what she wanted me to do.

Maybe the house itself will offer me some answers. I get out of the car, and, pulling the keys out of my pocket, I walk toward the front door of the farmhouse-style home where I spent so many summers of my life. The paint is peeling in places, but the porch looks like it’s been swept recently.

“Hello, there,” someone says, and I spin around to see a shorter man with graying hair and warm brown skin walking up the path. He’s wearing a tropical button-up shirt that has no business being in Vermont in September.

“Hello,” I say in return, not recognizing the man.

I really hope he’s not here to sell me something.

“Wendell Castillo,” he says, with just a hint of an accent, holding out a hand toward me, and I shake it briefly. “Are you here to fix something on the Alden house?”

I shake my head. “I’m . . . Dean Alden,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh,” he says. “You’re the grandson.”

“I am.” I give him a quick nod.

He points to himself. “I’m the neighbor. Vivian asked me to keep an eye on the house while she was gone. Told me she would be back in a year or so, just as soon as she figured out how to sneak out of the nursing home.”

This makes me chuckle. That sounds like something she would say. It also makes my chest feel a little like it’s squeezing.

“I was sorry to hear she passed last year.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. It’s the only answer I’ve been able to offer when people have given me their condolences. It’s a strange thing to say, when I truly think about it. Thank you for being sorry that my grandma is gone.

“So, I’m guessing the place is yours now,” he says, knocking on one of the wood posts on the covered porch.

“It is,” I tell him. “I was just about to see what shape it’s in.”

“Well, let’s see it, then,” Wendell says with a nod toward the door.

“Oh,” I say. I was kind of hoping to do this myself, but I’m not sure how to let this now-eager man down. I feel like I’ve done my share of letting people down today already. “Okay, sure.”

I unlock the door with the key and twist the knob, pushing it open.

The first thing I notice is how stale and dusty it smells. It’s also dark; all the window coverings are shut. I try to switch on a light, but the bulb only flickers once and then dies.

“It’s dark in here, no?” Wendell says, stating the obvious.

I walk over to the large window in the living room, the one that faces the orchard, and open the curtains, dust puffing from the heavy material.