The plain irony of storing a stepstool just out of reach was not lost on me as I watched Ms. struggle to reach her rarely-used tumblers, stored at the top of the cabinet just below the very device that would've helped her reach them. The kitchen of her Victorian home was small, barely a skip from the cramped dining room where I now sat, elbows resting atop the sturdy table tucked into a recessed bay window, the curtains drawn for privacy in the later hours of the evening.
Altogether, the house was lifted almost farcically from a children's tale; the paneling on the cupboards and seemingly everywhere else was a collage of pastels, mostly a combination of soft yellows and purples that I found particularly offensive to observe in congress. Even the banisters of the short, narrow staircase had been painted, now wearing a shade of puce at odds with the surrounding golden and lilac furnishings. Someone had chosen these colors. I wasn't sure if it was Ms. , though what little I knew of her suggested she was a more practical woman just as unimpressed with them.
Ms. thunked a glass of cloudy liquid onto the table in front me. She'd insisted on fixing me a drink, though it only took one sip to realize she'd forgotten—or perhaps omitted—the alcohol. I hadn't really asked for the drink, but I wasn't about to question my host, who had offered room and board more affordably than any other place I'd been able to find in town. And on short notice, too. Fire season was just around the corner, and much of the temporary housing had already been taken up by the firewatchers rotating in and out of the bunkhouses they used in the field.
“So, how do you like our town so far?”
“Huh?” My reverie was interrupted by the short shrill voice of Ms.
“, the town. How do you like it so far?” she repeated. “I know you've only been here for a few days, but you've been out so much I assume you've had a fair chance to explore.”
She was right, of course. I had been exploring. Investigating, really, to get a sense of the people. was quite small, with only 3,200 or so residents, aptly named for its location in rural Oregon.
“I find it quite interesting,” I finally replied, taking another sip of my drink. I wasn't sure what was in it, exactly, but I couldn't honestly say I didn't like it.
“You know, you should visit , if you haven't. And of course, if you can make it over, I'm always interested in snooping near .” She paused, as if waiting to see how I would react to her mention of .
In the few days since I'd arrived, I had already seen plenty the influence that the family had on the little town.
[Several pages are missing here. –Ed.]
Many of the fences were covered in neatly-groomed hedges, though near the front gate you could catch a glimpse down the main street. The outbuildings were small and square, with white siding and black trim. Each was the same as the next, with a small green lawn out front and a black mailbox complete with red flag. At the end of the main road were tributary streets leading to other parts of the neighborhood, but beyond them was the large building that lent its name to the entire complex.
was an enormous construct. A ring of housing comprising several wings surrounded a large open space, up from which jutted a massive Tudor-style house, positioned like a castle's keep at the center. All of the buildings were painted with the same white and black scheme. Even from the exterior roads, one could see the immaculately painted wraparound decks that joined the outermost buildings, forming an apron of sorts and making it appear as though the main building was hovering above its bright green lawn.