Free Filter House by Nisi Shawl Page A

big ones under his arms. “Your bags all up in the Rose Room, Miss Margaret. If there’s anything else?”
    “Not at the moment, Troy. I might ask you to go into town to pick some things up at the drugstore; I packed in kind of a hurry, and I’m not sure what I missed.”
    “If it’s all right with you, then, I’ll just use the boat and take Anniette out on the lake.”
    “Fishing? Wrong time of day for that, isn’t it?”
    “Well…”
    “Tell you what, save the fishing for evening. See if Aunt Nancy’s got anything for you to do. I’m sure she can find something. This place is getting to be a wreck.”
    “Yes, ma’am. But Anniette…”
    “Oh. Well, Anniette, you’re going swimming, aren’t you?”
    Anniette nodded. There was nothing more to say. She slipped into the water and dog-paddled away.

    The gentle mutter of rain through the eaves troughs woke her. Her room was high up, a turquoise-colored place full of bunks and cots. Lots of people used to stay there and help out around the place. But now there was only Gransie, and sometimes Uncle Troy drove over from Paw Paw.
    Gransie stayed downstairs as much as she could because of her rheumatism. So during her visits Anniette had the whole room to herself. She slept in the top bunk, opposite the window.
    Scorning the knotty pine ladder, she jumped down onto the sea-grey carpet, then crossed to the window seat. The sash was already up. All she had to do was rest her forearms on the white enameled sill, press her forehead against the dark, rusty screen, and breathe.
    Cool. The scent of grass, of wet clover. The exhalations of worms, writhing in the earth. And closer, sad, pungent mildew rose into the air, remembering itself from other rainy days.
    Clouds hung low over the lake, almost seemed as though they would touch the trees. The rain would be here for a while, for all day probably.
    She put on her clothes: red corduroys and her black-and-yellow-checked cowboy shirt. There were stars sewn over the pockets and pearl snaps instead of buttons. A shirt to have adventures in.
    She went down to the back porch and stood over the bell. The rain was louder here, falling in fine streams from the porch roof, splashing on the sidewalk. Breakfast smelled good. She washed her hands and considered how to approach the day’s project: top to bottom, or bottom to top? Miss Margaret wasn’t up yet, so downstairs first, she decided.
    After they ate Gransie headed to the little yellow room, so she went into the “morning” one. Bare boards stretched before her. There used to be a big pretty rug here, with so many colors she didn’t know all their names. There was still a dark spot on the floor where it used to keep off the sun.
    The wall to her left was made up of glass doors with sparkly handles, so that one was not worth checking. But to her right square panels of wood promised great things. She pressed along the trim with patient, sensitive fingers. There would be a whir, a click. Something would give way, and a new aspect of the house would be revealed, mysterious facet of a familiar stone.
    She came to the end of the wall without discovering anything. Maybe higher up…but she couldn’t reach all the way unless she had a stool. She would have to see about that later.
    The bathroom next. Black and yellow, like her shirt. The tile gleamed royally. The shiny black toilet was just a little bit scary.
    “Did you find it yet?” The boy leaned against the sink’s butter-yellow pedestal.
    “No,” she answered. “I just started. Is it in here?”
    “I’m going to teach you a song.”
    “Okay.” She had learned from past experience, it was best to let them take the lead. Some questions they just ignored.
    “It’s a very bad song. Promise you won’t tell anybody that I taught it to you, or I’ll get in trouble.”
    She felt a thrill of guilt as she hunkered down next to him, shoes scuffing damp echoes from the floor. “Promise.”
    “It goes like this:
    Well,