He kept alert, watching for landmarks, relieved when he saw a sign welcoming them to Pullman. So that part of her story had been correct anyway. Maybe the rest was true too. He was eager to talk to his father. He had so many questions.
When they pulled off the highway, they passed through a quaint downtown—shops, a barbershop, a bank, a few restaurants. Cars were parked at an angle in front of a row of businesses. Only a few places were open: a pub and two restaurants. The others had CLOSED signs in their front windows. They drove past side streets lined with small, tidy houses. Nowheresville, Wisconsin.
A few blocks more and they’d passed all the way through Pullman’s downtown area and were back on a country road. “Blink and you’d miss it,” Pearl said wryly.
The day’s light was fading, and Howard was now leaning toward the windshield, as if trying to see the road better. The car made such sharp turns that Joe’s upper half swayed with the curvature of the road. Howard turned the steering wheel right onto one road and then left onto another, finally entering a frontage road marked with a sign that read STONE LAKE ROAD.
“There’s a lake?” Joe wondered.
“Indeed. There used to be a mill too, back in my day. A gristmill using power from the nearby Bark River. The mill was owned and operated by my father, your great-grandfather,” Pearl said. “But that was a long time ago. Everything changes.”
The road circled the lake, which was barely visible through the trees. Finally, Howard pulled onto a drive toward a large two-story house, dove gray with white trim. A porch ran along the front of the house with a small balcony over the front door. The trim along the peak was ornate, with swirls and curlicues. The decorative molding above the windows resembled curved top hats. It was once, Joe decided, a grand home, although now it would benefit from a new coat of paint. The yard was also in need of work. The shrubbery in front was overgrown, and the lawn was weedy and bare in spots.
“This is your house?” Joe asked incredulously. “And my father grew up here?”
“I grew up here and moved back after my father died. Your dad spent a lot of time in this house when he was growing up, but he never lived here.”
“It’s quite a house.”
She nodded. “It’s Gothic Revival, a style not very common in this area.” Her voice was full of pride. “My grandfather built it. For many years, there was always a tire swing on the branch of that oak tree.” She pointed. “And of course, if you go down that hill, you’ll find the lake.”
They got out of the car, Joe with his duffel slung over one shoulder. He couldn’t take his eyes off the house. It was the size of an apartment building. A mansion compared to his own house.
Pearl swung her legs out of the car, waiting while Howard brought her the walker, which had been folded up in the back seat next to Joe. She unfolded the side pieces and rose to a standing position, shutting the door behind her.
Joe followed Pearl and Howard inside, which seemed to take forever, Howard with his cane and the old lady leaning on her walker. Shuffle, move, shuffle, move. Once inside, Pearl flipped on a light switch, and the front hall came into full view. To the left was a sitting room, with furniture covered by white sheets. A large arched opening on the far side of that room led to a space defined by a hanging light fixture. A dining room perhaps? A small study sat to the right. A rolltop desk was open, with papers and pens covering the surface. In the middle, a hallway stretched into darkness. Joe could tell the place was once impressive, but years of neglect were evident in the faded wallpaper, dusty baseboards, and cobwebs in the corners.
“You said I could call my folks?” Joe said.
“Of course.” Pearl crooked a finger, beckoning him to follow, then shuffled down the hall, turning on lights as she went. Each light switch made a loud click, like she’d thrown on the lights at a stadium. Along the way they passed a staircase and another room on the right. When they turned left into the kitchen, he saw that one side of the room opened into the space he’d guessed was a dining room. They seemed to have come full circle.
Pearl pointed to an old rotary-dial phone sitting in an alcove. A fabric cord dropped down to a plug above the baseboard. He dialed and listened as it rang at his house.
Pearl raised a finger and whispered, “I have to go check on Howard,” then made her way back down the hall, one pronounced step at a time.
His sister answered, using the wording required by their mother. “Arneson residence, Linda speaking.” He smiled. Such a little lady.