Blue Home
When I was quite young, I often caught myself staring at the blue-tinted light that casted a dancing tree on my neighbor’s white siding. Mother and I had only lived in Milton a week, but each night the blue magnetized me to our living room windows, not quite large enough to do it justice. This blue light was particularly special, because I had come to find that every other streetlight in town burned orange. The glow projected the maple’s branches upon the house, always fluttering with leaves dancing, even when the air felt still. On the calmest of nights, the smallest leaves would twirl and wave at me from their thin green stems. This display was a movie just for me that started the moment the sun went down, growing more vivid every darkening minute.
Milton as a whole was nice enough, but it was hardly even a town. It was more of a village amongst the constellations of the other little communities that dotted our rural Midwest landscape. There wasn’t even a mayor, just a police chief, overseeing a population of about 250 people, a small market, a barber shop, and the two state routes that intersected to create an abandoned-looking downtown. Mother inherited our small cottage in the southwest corner of Milton, the last house on Acadia Court, when her own mother passed. I had never met my grandmother, but in Mother’s mourning, our move to Milton marked the beginning of the days when she started sleeping in, only coming out of her bedroom to fetch hot water for her tea. It was as if the air itself in Milton was enough to afflict a person.
Still, our home was quaint enough, with the perfect front porch view of the dancing maple tree. But, while any roof over our heads was a blessing, that home was in quite a state of disarray when we moved in; Grandmother had become lax on home repairs in her old age. There were leaks in the ceiling, dripping pools into metal pails littered around the hardwood floor. The wallpaper was peeling and yellow with aged cigarette smoke. The worst out of all these conditions, though, was the infestation. Every night, I fell asleep to the sound of rats squeaking, rustling in our walls, stealing crumbs of the cookies I brought Mother every night, and chewing holes through my favorite pastel dresses. I grew restless, feeling dirty in my own space with these invaders terrorizing us. With Mother in no mental state to help solve this nagging problem, I took it upon myself to seek out rat poison at Milton Market in the heart of our little town. I sprinkled the white powder everywhere a rat might find itself: the backs of kitchen cupboards, behind beds, on closet floors.
Despite my best efforts, I continued losing sleep over the walls of that cottage that felt so unfortunately alive. In my attempts to drive the rat’s incessant noise from my brain, I would sit on the front porch’s bench swing to admire the dark blue leaves and branches dancing a shadow on the neighbor’s home. I needed to see it, closer. The thought of the hypnotizing display consumed me, a distraction from my fixation on the rat bodies bloating among the insulation and drywall of the cottage.
About a month into our time in Milton, one particular night was moonless, warm, and clear, making the blue hues of the streetlight rich, the dancing shadow deep, almost black. I wanted to celebrate with a front row seat to the show, finally. I packed two blankets: one for the ground, one to wrap around myself in the night’s brisk chill, a basket, crackers, aged cheese, and set myself a picnic. I sat on the edge of Acadia Court’s asphalt that divided us, these neighbors I didn’t know. I never saw them mow their lawn, but the grass remained neat and trim. Until that night, I hadn’t given much thought to the occupants of 213 Acadia Court. Its walls had only ever been a silver screen to me.
A slight breeze moved the branches just so, and I was thrilled to be so close. Still, I felt my thoughts wandering back to the home’s occupants until I was consumed with the lives of strangers. Was the resident someone elderly, who couldn’t make it outside with ease? Was it some reclusive, gruff old man who did not share my interest in community building? Maybe it was a young couple with a toddler, and I had just missed them every time they ventured outside to play. I had never been very observant. Before our move to Milton, Mother had always told me I lived in my own little world, wrapped up in my diary.
“Participate in the world today, please, dear,” she used to say, and on this night I was finally doing as I was told.
The only light on in 213 Acadia Court shined through a window’s blinds on the top most floor, and flicked to black. My wristwatch read 10:30pm and I was engrossed in forming hypotheses, trying to solve the mystery of the home. I thought the window must have been attached to a sweet cream bedroom with slanted ceilings that came to a point, the precipice of the great house. That window was a sign of life, proof that this projector-screen home was real, that someone milled about inside while a beautiful mingling of nature and infrastructure danced upon their siding.
Ending my night, I packed my picnic up and ran across my own front yard, back into our pathetic cottage. I completed my nightly routine: changed into my nightgown, brought Mother her nightly cookies and warm milk, tucked her tightly in the covers to comfort her in any way I could, and settled myself in for the night. Mother’s condition only worsened and worsened, her mind mauled by the depression grief brings, clearly, with all the sleeping she had been doing. She never left her room, those days.
Finally in my own bedroom, I smeared soft cheese upon my crackers, avoided the ones clearly nibbled upon by the pests, and crafted a letter.
Dear 213 Acadia Court,
I’ve become fond of your home. Did you know your great maple tree casts a beautiful shadow from the streetlight on the corner? Do you know how the leaves are projected onto your lovely home? It’s almost as if the branches dance even when I can discern no breeze at all. I would love for you to watch this gorgeous display with me at dusk, but I’d prefer you wait until the sky is pitch black. That’s when the blue is its most vivid. Look for me and my picnic spread across Acadia Court. I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Your Neighbor
I didn’t bother with an envelope— written on a page torn from my diary, I sat it gingerly, folded in thirds, in their mailbox the next morning. It was the closest I had ever been to the house, especially in the daylight, so it was only then that I noticed the perfectly mulched flower beds and the blooming hydrangeas. The lack of weeds and sharp trimming told me someone with great pride lived here, who paid close attention to detail. This was someone who would surely check their mail regularly, and I couldn’t wait to meet them.
As for our mail, it was overflowing from our box stuffed full. I knew Mother would appreciate a helping hand to gather it all in a neat pile for her to sift through, later, whenever she felt up to it. Upon entering the house again, it was as if the walls were a crowd whispering louder and louder over each other, and I knew the rats must have been multiplying despite my best efforts.
Evening was finally falling again, and giddy with anticipation, I kissed Mother’s forehead as she slept, tucked away in the backroom as became the norm, and I was off to catch the show with my new potential friend. I packed brie and apricot jam procured at Milton Market, only the best artisan goods for my neighbor. I just kept slipping 20s from Mother’s purse. She’d understand.
Hours passed and my expensive picnic spread was being invaded by ants. It seemed my neighbor couldn’t make it, but my heart raced every time I saw a light flick on or off, here and there around the home. I convinced myself it would only be a moment until they were sitting next to me; one moment until they saw the dance of the branches in aqua and navy on their front porch, how these branches skewed and slanted past the corner on the west-facing side of the great home. But the moment never came and I thought I might nod off out there in the cold, until I saw a break in the blinds on that topmost window. Two pinhole eyes peeked outside at me. This could be the moment. My sweet prim and proper neighbor could be down in just a moment to sit and watch with me. Someone so dignified wouldn’t knowingly leave a little girl outside, alone in the cold dark. I picked one of the picnicking ants from my forearm and squished between my thumb and index finger until it was only a smear.
I couldn’t believe it when finally, a graying woman stepped from her front door to greet me.
“Little miss, what are you doing out here?” She stayed on her front porch, not joining me as I had cordially invited her to.
“Have you noticed how this beautiful tree’s shadow dances on your house? It’s mesmerizing! You should come sit with me and take it all in,” I said.
“Oh Honey, I’m sorry. I saw your letter, but I’m too old to be staying out late and sitting on the cold ground. Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you some tea.” She held the front door open for me, beckoned me inside with her arm. Her cardigan hung from her loosely; she was small in the way age makes you shrink. She almost reminded me of Mother, before Grandmother died, before Milton.
I walked inside, leaving my picnic spread outside for the ants to finally claim.
“You’re Mrs. Harmon, is that right?” I asked as I sat at her dining table. Her kitchen was spotless with lemons on the wallpaper.
“Yes! How’d you know my name?”
“It said it on your mailbox. Is there a Mr. Harmon?”
“No, little miss. He passed on about 15 years ago now. But I’d rather not discuss that. What’s your name?”
“The last name is Reiley. So, Ms. Reiley is what you can call me.”
“Okay Ms. Reiley, tell me about yourself. What would compel a little girl such as yourself to stay out all night staring at a stranger’s home?” She asked as she filled the kettle.
“Well, ever since Mother and I moved in, I’ve admired the tree in your front yard, just outside of these walls, and how it looked shadowed by the blue streetlight. — Look! You can see the blue glow from that window! I find it so interesting how the rest of Milton’s streets bathe in that orange-ish light, but down here, it seems the town couldn’t be bothered to give us a matching light bulb. It was all so intriguing, it kind of consumed my mind.”
“Well, while the troubles of local government plague my own mind, I have to ask, shouldn’t you have school to consume your mind?”
“Mother was my teacher, but it seems she’s fallen ill. I’ve been reading ahead in our textbooks like I know she’d want me to, but it’s all such a bore to me. I spend the rest of my time writing, for schoolwork and for myself. I write the most about the tree’s shadow; I even draw it sometimes.”
“That’s flattering, I guess. But maybe you should focus more on school and helping your mama feel better. She needs to hire someone to mow that lawn of yours. It’s getting a bit out of control, but you didn’t hear that from me.” She sipped her tea as she set mine down in front of me, on an ornate saucer. I sipped my own tea politely. After a beat she continued, “Sorry, that was impolite. Do you know what’s ailing your mother, Sweetie?”
“Well, when we first moved here, she started sleeping in more and more, but now she doesn’t even come out of her room. She’s just so sad. Profoundly so.”
“That’s nothing a casserole can’t fix. I’ll have to bring one over to y’all sometime,” I thought about how she must make the best casserole, like Mother used to, before.
“I would appreciate that. I’m not a great cook myself, so I’ve been buying little snacks at Milton Market. The finer things, like jams, jellies, sweet pickles, the crackers with the black sesame seeds. Mother never allowed such things, back when she was…present.” At that, some kind of expression flashed across her face that I couldn’t quite place. I was always so bad at reading people.
“Go home to her, little miss. Tuck her into bed, nice and warm. Bring some tea,” she said as she tucked three tea bags into my hand.
“Oh yes of course! I always do so. Mother will never miss a night of evening tea. Not with me around.” I was being polite; Mother preferred her warm milk in the evenings.
She smiled warmly, I think, as she ushered me out of her front door. Her hands were cold and tense on my shoulder as she led me away. I rushed to my ruined picnic spread, shook the ants off of my blanket, and hurried home to bring Mother her nightly snack that I knew she’d hardly touch.
Warm milk for Mother, Mrs. Harmon’s tea for me. I poured the hot water over the tea bags she gave me, thankful to not have to deal with loose leaves. Ever since we moved in, the rats had been chewing their way into our tea bags.
Armed with Mother’s plate of cookies and milk, I visited her at her bedside. She slept so soundly, cocooned tightly in the bedsheets. I said a quiet prayer over her, and grabbed last night’s snack untouched. “Mother, you must eat something,” I said under my breath, but not loud enough to wake her.
I ended the night by updating my diary with the night’s latest developments, while a rat watched from my closet. I could feel it watching me. Its eyes reflected my candle’s light and I almost felt bad when I dealt with its body the next morning.
Every morning in Milton was like this, going around the house, climbing in cupboards and closets, searching for the dead. I bundled them up in paper towels like sick little packages and placed them in the garbage can, nice and neat, because I thought, for some reason, these pests still deserved some dignity in death. Otherwise, I’d have thrown them in the culvert behind our house to be picked over by the forest. That option crossed my mind more than a few times, especially as the distinct smell of death started to fill our peaceful cottage over our time in Milton. I knew there must’ve been some bodies rotting in the walls, and I feared I’d never be able to locate the source. I’d have to live with the awful assault on my nose until they became dust and bone. I was so relieved when it became clear Mother had not yet become aware of the house degrading around us; she didn’t need to note my failure, my shame. She was always one to nitpick.
In an attempt to find a reprieve from the walls’ breathing and the stench, I poured all of my attention even further into the tree and the streetlight, listening for the comfort of rustling leaves, needing, now more than ever, my aqua escape.
So, for a third night, I kissed Mother’s forehead on my way out around 9pm. I brushed her gray hair back from her closed eyes and thought about how proud she would be to know that I was going out and participating in the world. The forecast called for wind with a chance of some storms later in the night. The wind would make for a dazzling show.
Sitting peacefully outside with my picnic basket, I heard the pop of gravel under tires before I finally saw the village’s lone police cruiser.
“What a pleasant surprise! Lovely to see you, Officer Truman.”
“Hello Ms. Reiley,” he called from the driver's side window, almost yelling over the roar of the wind scraping against our ears.
“What are you up to out here in the dark with this crazy weather? A storm is brewing,” he continued.
“Do you see how the whole tree there casts a dark blue shadow on that house? Isn’t it beautiful?” I yelled back.
“Sure, Ms. Reiley, but that doesn’t quite answer my question.”
“I’m watching the show, Officer.”
“Mrs. Harmon called, told me to check up on you,” he said, stepping out of the cruiser and staring down at me.
“Won’t you join me, Officer Truman? Sit with me and watch the show? I have molasses cookies,” I gestured toward my picnic basket lined with gingham cloth. Officer Truman hesitated. “Please sir. The wind gusts tonight are creating a thrilling climax to the shadow show. I would hate to witness it all alone.”
Because he is, as I suspected, more gentleman than cop, he sat with me, squinted at 213 Acadia Court, and took a bite.
“Ms. Reiley, it sounds like Mrs. Harmon’s pretty worried about you.”
“What is there to worry about?”
“Well, to start, Mrs. Harmon feels a little uncomfortable with you staring at her home these past couple nights.”
“She should come out here! I want so badly for her to see what she’s missing. This beautiful display up against the cold dark of night in this sleepy town. It’s truly something to behold.”
“Sure, sure. But how about you just watch the tree’s shadow from your front porch next time? I’m sorry, but Mrs. Harmon isn’t interested in hanging out in the cold with you, little lady.”
“She’s told me as much. I shiver at the thought of growing too old to participate in life, to marvel at its beauty. But at least I have someone to experience this stunning display with me. It’s nice to know I didn’t pick up these cookies for nothing.” I said as he took a stack of them from my basket. After a moment, he changed the subject.
“Ms. Reiley, go home to your mother. She’s probably worried sick about you being out in the dark and the wind.”
“Mother doesn’t mind.”
“You know, you two have been living here in Milton for a couple of weeks, but I haven’t seen her since that day y’all moved in,” he said, looking behind us at my own home.
“Mother’s always sleeping these days.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harmon mentioned your mother is going through a lot right now. She sounds quite ill.”
“So, so ill, Officer Truman.”
Just then, the strongest gust I had ever felt swept across our little village and the great maple tree bent so far forward it looked close to uprooting.
“This is it! The thrilling climax!” I screamed over the atmosphere between us. The maple tree star of the show creaked with effort as it stood back up after its bow, too close to the roof of Mrs. Harmon’s home. With that, Officer Truman stuffed my picnic blanket into my basket and told me to get inside quickly before the thunder and lightning started.
I stumbled through my yard, legs pumping with the adrenaline an incoming storm imbues. I made it through the front door threshold when the rain began to splatter upon our shingles. The rain from the leaks in the roof spilled into their regular pails.
That night’s show was such an exhilarating display that my mind went straight to the ways the thrill of it all could be topped the next night. Still, I knew I had to push the obsessive thoughts down like Mother always told me to, but I was always so bad at doing so.
Finally winding down, my heart rate slowed to normal. I unpacked my picnic basket and found the last two molasses cookies. I placed them on a small plate, and carried another glass of warm milk back to Mother. She slept so peacefully there on the plush bed, wrapped in the cool sheets. She especially loved her blue lipstick lately, and her gray eyeshadow that seemed to be applied more and more liberally every day. I placed the cookies and milk quietly on her bedside table and removed the last night’s stale cookies and milk left to thicken and curdle. Disturbingly, the cookies had small nibbles stolen from them, clearly from a rat and not Mother’s teeth. I shuddered to picture the rodent crawling across her chest to get to the bedside table. I tried to push the image from my mind but failed.
The smell of the dead things in the walls, the smell of curdling milk, they mixed together in the worst way, and conspired to create the most foul smell concentrated in Mother’s room. No matter how much rat poison I sprinkled, no matter the bodies I discarded, the smell of it all hung in the air, and it grew more putrid day by day.
The storm of last night turned to a drizzle that continued into the next day and night. Much to my dismay, I found a bloated rodent floating in one of the metal pails, close to overflowing from the downpour. I heaved the lifeless thing and its rainwater into the culvert outside. I was so tired of it all.
I needed away from the cottage, needed to lead my mind someplace more pleasant. I needed to see the tree’s shadow dance more than ever before, and I didn’t care who attended its showing. I needed to embrace being alone if life were to continue to Milton. I felt stranded there, and the shadows were my only escape; they were a peek into a different world where everything was flat and simple.
So, it was then that I finally decided to put myself in the movie. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. On the final night, I splashed and danced in Mrs. Harmon’s front yard, projecting myself on her siding, where I always belonged. I turned her yard to mud as I watched myself in shadow projection. The mud splattered across my skirt, my sneakers stuck themselves in the thickening mud, but I simply left them half buried. I was filthy, for the first time, since Mother wasn’t here to reprimand me to act right, like a lady should. I was filthy and wild and I loved the feeling. I must’ve been making quite the scene, because eventually I saw Officer Truman’s flashing blue lights coming for me. I was sure he’d hop out of his cruiser and join me and my muddy display.
Instead, he parked in the cottage’s driveway. At that moment, Mrs. Harmon came outside and right up to me, struggling to not slip in the mess I made of her yard.
“Oh Ms. Reiley! What did you do?”
I thought for sure she was angry about her yard, the way I trampled her perfectly manicured, weedless grass.
“What did you do to her?” she continued.
“Her?”
“I smelled the death on your clothes that night you visited. I was always suspicious, but that’s when I knew.” She looked disgusted.
“Oh no! You found out about our little rat problem. Oh, I’m so embarrassed!” I had never been more mortified. Mother would be furious if she found out I let appearances slip this far.
In that moment, I watched from across Acadia Court as Officer Truman got out of the cruiser and knocked on my front door. With no answer, he let himself in, and I noticed a rat scurry from the opening he left as his body slipped inside.
Kasandra Christner is a poet from Wilmot, Ohio, located on the cusp of Ohio’s Amish Country. Kasandra earned her bachelor’s degree in English with a concentration in writing, and a Spanish minor, from Heidelberg University in December of 2019. She started the NEOMFA program in the fall of 2021 as a poetry student at Cleveland State University. Since then, she has worked as a writing tutor at CSU’s Writing Center and currently interns at the University of Akron Press. She plans to continue working in higher education in the future.
