Professional Documents
Culture Documents
A Novel
By: Mary DeMuth
You know the minute you open a DeMuth book that you are in
the hands of a superior storyteller. Rich, masterful, poignant,
and spellbinding, The Muir House is DeMuth’s best yet.
Tosca Lee, author of Havah: The Story of Eve
Nonfiction
Thin Places
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“If you ask me,” Hale said, “it’s a sign.” He took a drink of
sludge, what the Oasis Café called Vitality, and smiled. Green
bits clung to his perfectly white teeth.
“Rinse,” Willa said.
“Green teeth again?”
She nodded.
He emptied the small water glass, a throwback from fifties
diner ware, swirled a bit, then swallowed the whole mess. He
smiled. “Satisfied?”
“Quite.” She picked at her smoked salmon frittata. “I saw
an eyeball, Hale. Nothing more.”
“You said it was green, right?”
She nodded.
“So it wasn’t mine, then.” He held a hint of sadness in his
blue eyes, the color of Seattle sky after the fog lifted.
Willa kept her gaze there, willing herself to forget Blake’s
envy-green. She held Hale’s carefree blue to her heart.
Hale made a circle with his index finger. “Au contraire. You
saw a ring. A golden ring. The Egyptians — ”
“Quit it with the Egyptians. For you, everything goes back
to the Egyptians.”
Hale shook his head. He pulled her hand to his, held it
perfectly. Not too tight to make her palms sweat, not too loose
to make her wonder. “The Nile River,” he said as if he hadn’t
heard her scolding, “provided the first rings, woven from the
longing for Hale make sense, in a pathetic sort of way. Like her
counselor used to say, always looking for a father.
She looked out the window, noting one cumulus cloud
shaped like an anchor, only to dissipate.
Hale spooned multigrain hot cereal into his mouth. “Gruel,”
he winced. “I hate the cholesterol specter.”
She shook her head, weary of his health kick.
“Sorry. I’m becoming a me-monster again. Listen.” He
twirled his spoon in a flourish. “Wills, I know we don’t know
the inciting incident — that empty place in your memory. But we
do know the rising action, the climax.”
She looked at her lap, brushed a crumb away. “Neither of
us knows the ending.”
“But perhaps together, we will.” He reached again for her
hand. She let him take it. “Maybe we’ll be the denouement.”
“I have too much baggage.” She speared a wedge of
grapefruit.
“How colloquial.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is cliché.”
“Touché!”
“Come on, Hale. This is real.” Another grapefruit piece.
She wished she’d doused it with evil processed sugar.
“Maybe it’s not.”
“Maybe you’re annoying,” she said.
“Maybe. But you like me, remember?” He smiled.
She returned the favor.
He took another bite of gruel, then swallowed. “You’re why
the vena amoris is so important to me.” He wiped his hands on
a patchwork napkin, pulling her left hand across the table. He
pointed to her ring finger.
“You’ve completely lost me.”
“Exactly. But I hope to gain you.”
She raised her eyes to his, and she understood. His face,
unlike the man in the dream, snapped into perfect focus. Those
eyes, that face, that man, his heart — wanted to marry her —
empty memories notwithstanding.
His left hand held hers, but with his right, he fumbled
through his thrift-store khakis. He pulled out a simple gold
ring. “One ring to rule them all,” he said.
Willa’s heart hiccupped. She wanted to pull her hand away,
wanted to run out of the Oasis Café screaming, but fear magne-
tized her to the metal chair. “I’m not easily ruled,” she choked
out. Panic fluttered inside. Memories of yelling, shrieking, hat-
ing swirled in the cavity of her heart. Daddy. Mother. Willa.
The big white house. A broken heart.
He glided the ring onto her finger. “The vena amoris is the
vein of love. Originating here.” He touched the simple gold
ring on her finger, “And venturing to the heart.” He pointed to
his own, thankfully.
“You know I don’t do marriage.” As the words passed her
tongue, her teeth, her lips, she saw his wince as if she’d slapped
him.
“You love me.” Hale’s hand still rested on his heart.
She nodded. That truth, she knew. Willa felt the ring ruling
her finger, threatening to travel the vena amoris to her heart.
“I need to go.” She gathered her purse, her hand, that ring,
and stood.
Hale didn’t stand. Didn’t chase after her. He sat there, wet-
eyed and slapped, his face like a scolded boy’s, not a man’s.
She wrestled with the ring, expecting it to glide off as eas-
ily as it slid on, but it wouldn’t. “I can’t get it off.”
“Keep it. Let it remind you.” Hale said these words to the
patchwork napkin, not to her.
“I need to go home,” she said.
They say a woman’s wealth, her true identity, rests in the rich-
ness of relationships, but “they” have it all wrong. What a
woman really needs, what truly defines her, is four solid walls.
A house with good bones, a yard sprinklered in the summer
time, a creaking porch swing, overflowing window boxes.
Castled there, she safeguards her secrets, particularly if those
mysteries lie concealed in cardboard boxes in the attic.
Willa sanded the importance of both — hearth and secrets —
into her marrow, nailed them like Luther’s treatises to her
heart while she walked seven blocks toward home, still trying
to pry Hale’s ring from her finger, his hopeful words from her
heart.
Hale was beautiful. In every way. She knew this. Others
confirmed it. He worked on behalf of Seattle’s working poor,
helping secure affordable housing. Homes for those without
houses. And he loved her. Why he did, she couldn’t quite make
her heart understand.
With every logical step toward home, while Green Lake
glistened under the morning sun, she scolded herself in
cadence.
He loves me.
I should marry him.
He should marry me.
We should marry each other.
Should, should, should.
Such a mathematical equation. Hale plus Willa equaled
marriage, the ring being the plus sign making it all balance.
She would have the security a fatherless girl wanted. He would
have someone needy to rescue and coddle. A perfect match.
Willa pulled the locket from behind her tank top. A heart
dangled as faithfully as it had years and years before. She
opened it. Blue-eyed Daddy on one side, five-year-old Willa
with crooked teeth on the other. She wanted to ask Daddy
what to do, how to react to Hale, what to say, but his smiling
picture said no words. And his death confirmed that he’d never
speak life over her again. In that recollection, grief moistened
her eyelids. How long would she miss that man? Forever? With
every milestone, the pain augmented like a terrible exclama-
tion point to his absence.
She squinted back the tears in the sunlight, pulled in the
halcyon air, and smelled fire. Odd that someone would stoke
fire from kindling this time of year. The chill of spring left
weeks ago, replaced by Northwest heat — a balmy seventy-two
degrees at high noon. Still, some folks relished cozy liked they
chugged their coffee fix — often.
Willa looked at the ring, how it captured the sun. Hale said
its innards were a gateway to the unknown, yet now her finger
filled that void. He must’ve thought she was his unknown. But
was he hers? Could a person become a home?
She wanted to holler a yes, jump on Hale’s back under the
watchful eye of Gas Works Park, and let him run her down
the grass incline toward Lake Union while she screamed and
laughed and hung crazy to his shoulders. She could picture
such a thing. Could feel her hair windwrapping her face,
could smell the faint hint of Hale’s evergreen cologne. But she
couldn’t make the daydream a reality. Which is why she had
to go home now, to sift once again through the large box of
clippings in her attic, to carefully weave the broken story of her
past so she could finally make sense of today’s reticence.
Tell me about it, she almost said, but kept her words behind
clenched teeth. Instead, Willa turned away, waving as she did,
indicating the conversation was over.
She waited for the adjuster to pull away from the sidewalk
before she sat on her scorched lawn. The smell of firewood
mixed with burning plastic seeped into her. There was truly
nothing left, and with the wiring gone bad in the attic first,
God had assured her he’d burned every shred of evidence.
Every one of her boxes.
There’d been a time, not many years ago when Willa lived
for her carefully constructed reputation, that she’d rather die
than talk to God in broad daylight, where passersby on their
way to Green Lake could watch the crazy girl rail at the heav-
ens. She’d rather have ankle tattoos laced over bone than be
heard like that. But that was before Hale authenticated her, as
he put it. Taught her the value of sharing secrets, being real.
He prayed out loud during all sorts of occasions — lamenting
Seahawks games, hiking Tiger Mountain, delivering bad news
to a client. He didn’t mind voicing his concerns where folks
could hear them. And that carefree, uncomplicated relation-
ship with Jesus rubbed off on her. Tainted her in a good way.
Thanks to Hale, Willa threw underfoot some of that irrepress-
ible need to be liked. Since God saw fit to point his electric
finger on her roof and burn every bit of her investigation to
cremation, she figured what could it hurt?
She didn’t kneel.
Didn’t stand either.
Just sat on what was left of the green patch and crossed
her legs. Her temper too. As her ancestors put it, she hollered.
“God, I get it, okay? Get. It. You’ve been messing with me to
stop the detective work from afar and just get on with it. Well,
congrats, Almighty. You’ve done it now. Every single piece,
every opened path, now closed for eternity.”
“I’m not letting you go.” His words wafted skyward on misty
breath. He stood anchored to the drop-off deck while cabs
whirred by and she told herself not to cry. Through the miracle
of drugstore Vaseline, she managed to dislodge her engaged
finger and re-gift the ring to him. Yet he held it out to her,
those not-letting-go words still playing in the cold air between
them. He placed its circle in her left palm, then closed her fin-
gers in his. “You keep it.”
“Hale — ”
took vicious root, according to Mrs. Skye. For the past three
years Willa had read the caretaker’s guilt-laden letters, blast-
ing Willa’s ingratitude, her neglect, her stupidity. Three years
of letters she seldom answered. She viewed them then as evi-
dence, every page detailing her mother’s decline in painstaking
detail. Though Mrs. Skye’s letters were ash now, the words still
screamed at Willa.
She no longer walks.
She yells obscenities now.
She doesn’t know me.
She never asks about you.
She wets herself.
She is alone in the world, and you have abandoned her.
Her mother, so alive, so angry, so full of words, now
reduced to bed-living, crying at old shows, locked away in her
mind. Would Mother remember the words she spoke over her?
Would she recognize her face when she dared to visit? Would
apologies leave her mouth? Willa shook her head, hoping to
shake the guilt. What kind of daughter, an only daughter at
that, let her mother rot away in a convalescent center?
A diversion rose bright and bold in the same place it’d been:
Sonic. She turned right into its lot, angled her car into a slot
and ordered cranberry limeade from the dismembered voice.
Maybe a drink would soothe her conscience, would erase the
jumpiness in her stomach. She looked at the bright menu, tell-
ing herself to relax. In Seattle, she’d missed the mini ice cubes
of Sonic fame. Never had it been replicated. Not a slushy. Not
crushed ice. Something in the blessed in between. The roller-
skating waitress handed her the drink. Willa placed her delicacy
in the cup holder, backed out of the angled spot, then continued
toward old Rockwall, minutes away from the house of mysteries.
She dodged construction through the town square, then