Seventh Heaven

  Seventh Heaven

  A Novel

  Alice Hoffman

  1959

  1

  IN THE COUNTRY OF THE KING

  LATE IN AUGUST, THREE CROWS took up residence in the chimney of the corner house on Hemlock Street. In the mornings they set up a racket that could wake the dead. They picked up stones in their beaks and tossed them down at picture windows; they plucked out their feathers, which would surface all day long in odd places, in bowls of Cheerios, in the pockets of shirts drying on laundry lines, inside glass milk bottles delivered at dawn.

  This corner house was the only one to have been vacated since the subdivision was carved out of a potato farm, six years earlier. Before the builders began working, the town was nothing more than a post office up on Harvey’s Turnpike, surrounded by farms. All that first spring renegade potatoes were unearthed when the men on Hemlock Street put down their lawns and planted mimosas and poplars; on trash day there would be heaps of potatoes alongside the aluminum cans. Everything in the neighborhood was brand new, the elementary school, the high school, the A&P, the police station on the Turnpike. The air itself seemed new; it could make you dizzy if you weren’t used to it, and relatives visiting from Brooklyn or Queens often had to lie down on a couch with a damp handkerchief pressed to their temples. The bark on the trees left fresh, green patches on your hands if you dared to climb the thin, wavering branches. Each house in the subdivision was the same, and for the longest time husbands pulled into the wrong driveways after work; children wandered into the wrong houses for cookies and milk; young mothers who took their babies out for walks in their new carriages found themselves wandering past identical houses, on identical streets, lost until twilight, when the ice-cream man’s truck appeared, and they could follow the sound of his bell, which traced his reliable route past their doorsteps.

  To outsiders, the houses might still seem identical, but after six years those who lived here could now easily tell the difference by the color of the trim on the brick fronts, by the flower boxes or the lawn statues or the hedges beside the driveways. Now when the children played kickball on summer nights, they knew exactly which screen door to swing open, and which bedroom was theirs to throw off their damp, sweaty clothes. Mothers no longer tied address tags to their babies’ wrists when they set them out to play in backyards. Even the dogs, who were so confused that first year they huddled together on street corners to howl at noon, now knew precisely where their bones were buried, and where they would stretch out for the night.

  To have peace with your neighbors you needed to adhere to two unspoken rules: mind your own business and keep up your lawn. And because they all came from the same circumstances, because this was the first house they, and most likely anyone in their family, had ever owned, the unspoken agreement was kept—until Mr. Olivera violated the pact by dying. One day in November, when the sky turned black at four thirty and the children dragged their sleds over to Dead Man’s Hill on the other side of the parkway at the first hint of snow, Mr. Olivera climbed into bed, beneath two wool blankets. He turned on his side, breathed deeply three times, thought about adding antifreeze to the radiator of his Chrysler, then went to sleep and never woke up again.

  Olivera’s wife, who was old-fashioned and made jam from the grapes her husband grew by the side of the house, immediately went to Virginia to stay with her married daughter. While Mrs. Olivera was deciding whether to stay with her daughter or move back to a neighborhood where she would be the only woman over sixty, widowed or not, the house, for reasons no one could fathom, began to fall apart. By Christmas the shutters had split and come off their hinges. By February the concrete along the front stoop was crumbling. Late in the spring, the grass in the front yard grew so tall people swore mosquitoes were breeding there, and they crossed over to the other side of the street so they wouldn’t have to pass by. Joe Hennessy, who had been on the Nassau County police force for five years and was up for review, finally dragged out his new power mower and went across the street. Hennessy was six-foot-two, with strong muscles in his back and arms, but after he had cut half the front yard he was so exhausted he had to sit down on the front stoop just to catch his breath. By July, when Mrs. Olivera decided to sell the house, it was too late. By then there was a peculiar smell emanating from it, even though the windows were closed tightly and locked, and the overripe odor, which made people in the neighborhood wonder if a pot of jam had been cooked too long and then forgotten on the rear burner of the stove, drove prospective buyers away.

  All through the summer the smell persisted; it grew riper and sweeter each day. The women on the block bought Air Wick and they washed their floors with Lysol, but the smell came in through the screen windows and seemed to slap them in the face. Ace McCarthy, who was seventeen and scared of very little in this world, lived right next door to the Olivera place, and although he would never have told anyone, there were times, late at night, after he had turned off his transistor radio, when he swore he could hear someone groaning. Some jokester on another block, on Poplar or Pine, started the rumor that the house was haunted, and on Saturday nights carloads of teenagers parked outside. The boys honked their horns and dared each other to spend the night in the Olivera house; they called each other chicken and kissed each other’s girlfriends, and they wouldn’t budge until Joe Hennessy went out, opened the door of his squad car, and let the siren rip.

  Why this should happen on their block, of all places, no one was sure. Hadn’t they raked all their dead leaves into heaps they burned along the curb each October? Hadn’t they brought lemon pound cakes and brownies with walnuts to the bake sales at the elementary school? Their children were rowdy, but good-natured; the worst their teenaged daughters would do was slip a tube of lipstick into their pocketbooks in the drugstore, or eat an entire bag of chips while they baby-sat. The neighbors looked to those around them for an explanation. A punishment of some sort had befallen them, but who was it directed toward? Not John McCarthy, who owned the Texaco station up on Harvey’s Turnpike, even though he was the most logical candidate since his house was right next door to Olivera’s; but perhaps the curse was aimed at his two wild sons, Jacki eand Ace, who called their father the Saint behind his back. The Shapiros, on the other side of the McCarthys, certainly deserved something that would knock them off their high horse. They’d been suspiciously lucky with their children; Danny was too smart for his own good, and Rickie liked to comb her red hair right in front of you, just to show off. It was unlikely that the punishment was directed at the Durgins—Donna Durgin’s house was so clean she put everyone else to shame—or the Winemans, whose crab apple trees formed a bower of pink blossoms each spring; and certainly it was not directed at Joe Hennessy; you could tell Joe was a good husband and father just by looking at him, you were lucky to have someone like Joe living on your block.

  But there it was, punishment all the same, and no one was the least surprised when the crows appeared from the south. People turned off their TV sets and their radios and went out to stand on their lawns just to watch. They were big birds, with eyes like rubies, brave enough to chase cocker spaniels and Irish setters out of the Oliveras’ yard. When the Hennessys’ boy, Stevie, shot at one of them with his BB gun, the largest of the crows caught the BB in its beak, then chased Stevie across the street, managing to tear a patch out of his blue jeans before the boy could escape into his house, crying for his mother. Ellen Hennessy swooped Stevie into her arms, and after she was sure he hadn’t been wounded, she ran into the street, waving her apron at the crow, but the bird simply ignored her and went right back to perch on the Oliveras’ chimney.

  Finally something had to be done. On a Friday night Phil Shapiro and John McCarthy met in Hennessy’s rec room after supper.
Hennessy’s wife had put out some Fritos in a bowl and made sour-cream-and-onion dip, which she set on the laminated bar. Phil Shapiro and John McCarthy tried to get comfortable on the black vinyl couch. Hennessy took the knock-hockey game off the low coffee table and sat down opposite them. In six years the men had rarely been to each other’s houses, and then only for a holiday party or to borrow a siphon or a screwdriver. Sitting down face to face and accepting a beer from Hennessy didn’t make them any more comfortable. The rec room was in a finished nook of Hennessy’s basement, and the washing machine was thumping away behind the knotty-pine-paneled wall. Phil Shapiro was the one who suggested the meeting; he was the one who found out that the realtor wasn’t even bothering to show the Olivera house anymore. Phil had come directly from A&S, where he was the head of accounting, and although he hadn’t taken time to have supper, he wished he’d gotten out of his suit because John McCarthy was wearing his Texaco uniform and Hennessy wore old chinos and a short-sleeved sports shirt.

  “God, it’s hot,” Phil said, and he took off his tie and put it in his pocket. He sipped a Budweiser, to be polite.

  “Hot,” John McCarthy agreed.

  The three men thought this over and swallowed beer. They could still smell the overripe scent of the Olivera house, even here, across the street.

  “The way I see it,” Phil Shapiro said, “if we don’t do anything, our property values are going straight down.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Hennessy agreed.

  “Every time I look next door I worry about some child falling in the window wells or getting trapped inside Olivera’s garage,” John McCarthy said.

  Hennessy and Phil Shapiro were silent, momentarily embarrassed by what now seemed to be their greed. Hennessy had heard the McCarthy kids making fun of their father, calling him the Saint, and it was true: when he looked at you you felt guilty no matter how blameless you might be.

  “Well, yes,” Phil Shapiro finally said. “Exactly. Someone could get hurt. Those crows could find a pack of matches, rub them the wrong way, and poof, up goes the house in flames.”

  “I never thought of that,” John McCarthy said, worried. “And don’t forget that someone could cut across the lawn, get tangled up in the weeds, fall down, and break his leg.”

  “Yep,” Phil Shapiro said. “We need to move on this.”

  Ellen Hennessy opened the door upstairs and called down, “Can I fix you boys anything else?”

  “That’s okay, Ellen, we’re set,” Hennessy said. “Or are you interested?” he asked his neighbors. “Cheese and crackers? Coffee cake?”

  Both men politely shook their heads; they preferred to eat at home.

  “Set,” Hennessy called upstairs. “So,” he said to his neighbors.

  “So we take an ad in the paper,” Phil Shapiro said. “And we have the buyer connect with Mrs. O. down in Virginia.”

  “Who’s going to look at that dump?” Hennessy said. “Anyone you want living on your street?”

  “A handyman,” John McCarthy said. “A fix-it fellow.”

  Hennessy stood up and brought over the bowl of Fritos, then took a handful for himself. Getting involved in someone else’s business just seemed wrong, but before an hour had gone by it had been decided. Phil Shapiro would contact old Mrs. Olivera and get her okay, Hennessy would place ads in the real-estate sections of three newspapers, and John McCarthy would show the house in the evenings.

  Across the street you could see the yellow light in the Hennessys’ basement, and from where Danny Shapiro and Ace McCarthy sat, on the bumper of Jackie McCarthy’s blue Chevy, it was a truly amazing sight. What on earth could their fathers and Hennessy possibly find to say to each other for more than an hour? Neither of their fathers said more than a few sentences a day to their children, unless pressed by an emergency, but there the men stayed until half past eight, when the yellow light was finally turned off. The men came up the basement stairs and lumbered past Ellen Hennessy; their own kitchens were equally small, so they knew to squeeze past the kitchen table.

  “Well, I hope you came up with some good ideas,” Ellen said to Hennessy after he’d walked his neighbors to the front door—as if they didn’t take the exact same path in their own houses every single day. Hennessy watched his wife wipe down the linoleum countertops with a pink sponge. She was wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar; her hair was cut short, so you could see the back of her neck.

  “Sure we did,” Hennessy said. He had brought the Fritos upstairs and now he held the bowl and tossed chips into his mouth.

  They could hear the crows cawing as they nested for the night. John McCarthy had told the other men that he wore earmuffs to bed so he wouldn’t have to hear the birds fussing.

  “We’re going to dynamite the place.”

  “Ho,” Ellen said, “that’s a good one.”

  The crows didn’t bother Ellen as much as they did her husband. She set her hair on wire rollers at night, and before she put on the hairnet she tucked wads of cotton over each ear.

  “I like your hair when you don’t set it,” Hennessy said to her. “Just straight.”

  “Please,” Ellen said. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Hennessy went to her and put his arm around her waist. The house was small, but at times like this, Hennessy could almost forget that the children, already tucked in, might not yet have fallen asleep. “Let’s go to bed early,” he said.

  “Uh uh,” Ellen told him. She wiped the burners of the electric stove with even strokes.

  Hennessy let go of her. He waited to see if she would turn around, and when she didn’t, when she kept on cleaning, he went to the kitchen hallway that led to the garage. He walked into the garage, flipped on the dim light, and rolled open the door. It was cooler here; a circle of moths gathered around the light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Hennessy didn’t even feel angry anymore when she said no. He crouched down behind his workbench, and when Ellen came and stood in the doorway she couldn’t see him in the dark, searching for a can of gas.

  “Joe?” she called.

  Hennessy picked up the gas can and pulled his new mower out of a corner.

  “I’m going to finish up at Olivera’s,” he said.

  He rolled the mower out past their car in the driveway, then guided it across the street. Ace McCarthy and Danny Shapiro saw him approaching; they knew, from Hennessy’s son, Stevie, that he often wore his gun when he wasn’t on duty.

  “You boys bored?” Hennessy said as he rolled the mower past them.

  “No, sir,” Danny Shapiro answered right away.

  “Because if you are,” Hennessy said, “there’s a lawn that needs mowing.”

  “Oh, no,” Ace said. “Sir,” he added, so easily you’d never guess how the word stuck in his throat. “This being Friday night, we have much, much better things to do.”

  “Yeah,” Hennessy said, because he suspected Ace of following in his brother’s footsteps, with a pocketful of fake I.D.s and those pointy black boots. He probably had some bottled beer cooling in the creek behind the high school. “I’ll bet you do,” Hennessy said.

  The half of the lawn Hennessy had mowed had already grown as tall as the wild side. He stopped in the Oliveras’ driveway and looked up at the chimney. The crows cackled to one another, then edged out of their nest and peered down at him. Hennessy had to pull on the mower’s starter three times before it caught, and when it finally did, the engine started with a roar that sent the crows circling into the sky, screaming. It took Hennessy nearly an hour just to finish the front lawn. At first the crows tossed stones at him, but after a while they gave up and went back to the chimney; they watched him carefully as he worked.

  It wasn’t a good job, but it would do, although the lawn was still uneven in patches. McCarthy would be showing the house in the evenings, and you could get away with a lot in the dark. Hennessy was sweating hard; he took off his shirt and wiped his face with it, then opened the chain
-link gate and dragged the mower into the backyard. He stopped only for a moment, beside the grapevines. In August the grapes always turned purple; because there had been no one to harvest them, they had dropped to the ground in overripe mounds. It was getting darker, already it was difficult to see, and Hennessy had to work fast if he wanted to finish tonight. And even though Hennessy worked without stopping, the children on Hemlock Street fell asleep to the sound of his lawn mower, and on all sides of the abandoned house neighbors could finally throw open their windows, thankful that at last the disturbing odor of the Olivera place had been replaced, at least temporarily, with the crisp scent of newly cut grass, a scent that made your throat tighten and reminded you exactly how good it was to live here.

  On summer evenings like these, when the children were tucked into bed, safety hung over the neighborhood like a net. No one locked windows, no one locked doors. The G.E. refrigerators hummed and the stars were a brilliant white. In the morning, the traffic on the Southern State would be loud enough to wake sleepers from their beds, but at night the parkway was nothing more than a whisper, lulling the children to sleep beneath their white sheets and their quilts patterned with rocking horses. The later it grew, the more the hands of kitchen clocks lingered on each hour. A summer night lasted longer here than it did in other places. The chirp of the crickets was slower, and when children fell out of their beds they never woke, but instead rolled gently under their beds, still clutching onto stuffed bears.

  In the moonlight you could see that, even after six years, everything still seemed new: lunch boxes and bicycles, couches and bedroom suites, cars parked in driveways and swing sets in the yards; there weren’t even any cracks in the cement. When the potato farms were being torn apart and the builders were bulldozing the sandy earth, the fireflies grew so confused that they left one night in a shining cloud. But this year they had returned and had stayed on for an unusually long time to drift through the rosebushes and the crab apple trees. None of the children who grew up here, or even those who moved here from apartments in Brooklyn or Queens, had seen a firefly before, yet they immediately knew what to do, as if their response to the bugs had been tacked to their brain waves. They ran inside for empty pickle jars and filled them with the fireflies they’d trapped in their hands. Beneath these children’s beds were green globes of light that never dimmed until morning. Good night, these children had been told, and they always believed it. Sleep tight, they’d been told, and they always did. When monsters appeared in the closets, or under the catalpa trees, the children kept it to themselves. They never told their parents or whispered to each other. Sometimes the monsters reappeared on paper in school, drawn with crayons and colored pencils; they had purple hair and large yellow eyes, and you could tell they didn’t believe in good nights or sleeping tight.