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“Crazy Uncle Jimmy, for as long as anyone can remember, has lived in the small room the rest of us see as a basement. The “normal” (if you could consider any of us “normal”) people mostly inhabit the first floor. Hell lives upstairs.
I’m one of the ‘normal’ ones. So is my husband.
…Mostly. Hell really does live upstairs.
“I’m eight. I’ve lived here my entire life. If you were to ask me my name, I would tell you, “Lizzie-And-I-Live-On-724-Old-Oak-Lane.” This place, this beautiful house right here is my home. It’s a part of me. No, stupid, it’s not attached to me, or anything like that. I love it here, and so does anyone else with half a brain. Any more questions? No? Good. Now, like I said, Uncle Jimmy lives down there. We really aren’t supposed to go down there, but I’ll take you anyway, seeing as how you’re new and all. Old Crazy—er, I mean Uncle Jimmy—likes to play around with these things. What is it they’re called? Oh, Roman candles. Every now an then you’ll hear a couple routine explosions. You get used to it after a while. See that? That’s something Mommy told me I shouldn’t touch. She called it ‘gun powder.’ I don’t really know what it’s used for, but they all tell me Jimmy’s a fool for putting it so close to the hot water heater.”
These were the very first words I ever heard upon reaching—I suppose you could say being introduced to, because really, the house had a mind of it’s own—the formal residence of the Newton family. My name is Mary Ann Hurst-Newton. My little friend, the one doing the introducing, was Elizabeth Arabella Amber Newton. Number 724 is an old, rambling farmhouse on the very edge of an old, rambling country lane. There are real, honest-to-god gingham curtains on the kitchen windows. The Newtons churn their own butter. We have a cow, you know. A year ago, I couldn’t even have imagined such a thing. I guess you could say I wasn’t thinking when I married Joseph Newton. I certainly know I wasn’t. I was “adopted” the day of the wedding. That’s when I really met his family for the first time. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was definitely surprised when I saw this laughing herd of brightly-festooned crazy people stampeding towards us. I don’t quite know what I was running from, but I hiked up my white skirts and took off, tearing down the lawn as they stopped in amazement to watch the spectacle. Joe told me later they were attempting a group hug.
As for them, they settle into stereotypes. My mother-in-law (whom everyone calls “Mom,” even her brothers and sisters) is the matriarch. Her long grey hair is half-curly half-not, giving her a homey persona. You’ve never met someone that makes a better pot roast, trust me. Jimmy (the crazy one) is truly the villain’s villain. None of us exactly are sure how he fits into the family tree. He’s either a third cousin four times removed, or a fourth cousin three times removed. He just showed up on the doorstep one day. He’s been living here ever since. Lately, he’s taken to wearing an eye patch and an old black cape in imitation of an old Sherlock Holmes’ character. No one is really quite sure what he does for a living, but it involves Grade-A explosives and quite a lot of blue smoke. Lizzie is a brooding child-genius. Hell is my grandfather-in-law. It’s amazing to me that Joseph’s parents, dear as they are, put up with this cantankerous old man. He’s horrid really, but we won’t go into that just yet. The story I’m here to tell you, well, it all began a year ago on November seventeenth, just two days after our wedding…
“Lizzie, be a dear and pass the marmalade.”
“I’m not done with the marmalade, Uncle Jimmy.”
“Really, Lizzie, I must have it. Now.”
“Just a moment crazy—I mean, Uncle Jimmy. I just need a bit more for my tea…”
Jimmy Newton reached over and made a snatch at the sterling silver container. Elizabeth Arabella Amber Newton, however, was no amateur when it came to fights for the jelly. She held on determinedly while Jimmy continued an attempt to pull it just a bit closer. Lizzie tugged. Jimmy heaved. Lizzie pulled harder. Jimmy resorted to pinching her fingers. Scenes like this weren’t uncommon at the Newton breakfast table. In fact, they had become somewhat of a daily routine. Inevitably, every morning, the two would give a polite greeting, sitting civilly for minutes at a time on a good day, before the day’s first meal turned into a wrestling match. Other family members would join in, of course, each egging on their favorites. Today, the table was suspiciously quiet. Well, as quiet as it could be, anyway.
“MOM!” yelled Lizzie. “Mom, Uncle Jimmy’s trying to steal my marmalade again!”
“Shush, Lizzie. Just hand it over like a good girl, and no one has to get hurt…”
“MOM!” yelled Lizzie. Catherine Newton bustled in at her daughter’s cry, her long flyaway grey hair fanning out behind her as she rushed from the kitchen. “ELIZABETH! JAMES! I’M ASHAMED OF YOU BOTH, HOW DARE YOU START A BRAWL AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE!” The end of the spatula Catherine was carrying rapped briskly on the tops of the combatants’ heads, though not to much effect. The two continued squabbling. Seeing no other choice, Catherine dove headfirst into the melee, wrenching the marmalade jar from the combatants’ hands. SWAT! This time, Catherine’s none-too-gentle tap was enough to startle the squabbling pair into submission. Jimmy dropped his head and assumed the expression of a child that had just been scolded. Lizzie stuck her tongue out. Catherine, marmalade still in hand, walked around the table to assume her usual seat. She began to spread the sticky orange jelly on her toast. Jimmy eyed them both warily.
“Catherine, if you’re quite finished…” Jimmy gestured toward the marmalade.
“Oh, really Jimmy, some patience would do you no harm.” Catherine set the container down and took a sip of her tea, leaving the precious orange jelly unguarded. Jimmy longingly stole a peek at the tarnished silver container just as the doorbell rang.
“Jimmy, love, will you get the door?” Catherine gave him a placid look, but he knew that look meant don’t-cross-me-unless-you-want-the-wrath-of-Catherine.
Heroically, he refrained from snatching the marmalade and answered the door, walking from the table with the feeling as though he were a starving child asked to come away from a banquet. Standing on the white, peeling porch was a rather official-looking gentleman in a bowler hat. He carried with him a clipboard and a hammer.
The clipboard wasn’t unusual, but the hammer certainly was a bit odd. Jimmy stared at it as the man spoke.
"Mr. ah, Newsweek?"
"Newton." He corrected.
"Ah, right. Mr. Newsley. I'm ah, here about this." the strange man gestured vaguely in the general direction of the property.
“What about it?”
“I’m here to purchase it on behalf of the city.”
“We don’t want to sell it.”
“Mr. Nestle, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter. The city council’s looking to build a highway through here.”
“It’s NEWTON. N-E-W-T-O-N. Do you need me to spell it out for you again? And I’m sorry, good day, the property is most certainly not for sale.” Jimmy shut the door in the stranger’s face. As he started back to see a certain little lady about some marmalade, he heard another loud series of knocks. Again, he opened the door, delaying his return to the precious marmalade, but instead of a strange little man, a strange sign was nailed to the front of the old green door. Aha, thought Jimmy vaguely. That explains the hammer. Staring closely, Jimmy made out the word “condemned.”
“Condemned… Hmm.” he mumbled to himself. “CONDEMNED?!”
“Jimmy, what’s all the fuss?” came a call from inside. It was Mary Ann. “Is it another of your strange visitors?”
Jimmy walked inside, mumbling incoherently about monster machines coming to tear down the whole house. He sat down, eyeing the other family members at the table. Suddenly, he made a snatch at the silver container of marmalade. He picked it up, peering inside. It was suspiciously light.
Empty.
Jimmy let out a low groan of frustration.
“Now, I’m sure you all know why we’re here…” Patrick intoned as he began the family meeting. These weren’t infrequent, as Mary Ann had learned of late. They were often long; many of the other family members had brought something to occupy their hands. Jimmy was crocheting a floral pillow case. Lizzie was tucked into the window seat. She had a book ready in her left hand, as though ready to whip it out and resume her reading if the adults’ talk became too boring. Patrick, Catherine’s husband, was a giver of long, boring speeches.
At the moment, he was waving the pink “condemned” notice around at everyone in an attempt to gain their attention. It wasn’t working. Joseph and Mary Ann, the newlyweds, were whispering some meaningless mushy nonsense back and forth into the other’s ears. Jimmy was knitting contentedly. Manny, Catherine’s youngest son, was balancing the family checkbook. Marge, Patrick’s sister, was frantically scouring a fashion magazine for the latest trends in her favorite accessory—hats. Curiously, she didn’t seem to notice the magazine’s faded yellow pages, or the date—January 1957. No one bothered to tell her. To find out her penchant for large, loud, fruit-covered hats was forevermore a fashion faux pas would simply have crushed her. Catherine was busily cataloguing recipes. After Jimmy’s encounter this morning, the family (acting as one) had graciously allowed the poor, babbling Jimmy exactly one hour before avidly pressing him for details of his ghastly encounter. Jimmy was always having interesting visitors, and the Newton family loved nothing more than a good bit of talk. Their espionage was played out stealthily. Catherine herself dropped the dress she was hemming to personally feed him his tea. Throughout the meal, he refused to let go of a puzzlingly empty silver container. Lizzie understood this to be her marmalade. Unable to speak, Jimmy had taken his thumb out of his mouth long enough to point to the door. Cousins and mothers and patriarchs had all regarded him quizzically. It was Lizzie who finally broke the spell, walking outside and poking around to see what in the world had scared her oddball uncle out of his wits. It took her a few moments to spot the evil pink notice. Quietly, she tore it off the nail and brought it inside, presenting it to her mother. Catherine’s face fell.
“Oh, dear.” She said sadly.
“Excuse me!” Patrick feebly interrupted. “Excuse me… I need your attention.”
“QUIET!” hollered Marge. She had always been the more outspoken of the two.
“Now, you all know the problem by now. All that remains is what to be done.” Catherine’s husband, was a rather pale man who didn’t speak unless it was to lecture. Today, however, he didn’t say much. Everyone waited with bated breath. Usually outspoken Lizzie or Jimmy would come forward with a brilliant plan or harebrained scheme, something to get them by. Both remained silent.
It was Mary Ann, who was barely even a family member at all, who saved them.
“What if we could somehow convince them not to want it?” she ventured cautiously. “If they thought the land wasn’t suitable for their highway, they wouldn’t want it. They’d go somewhere else, right? So all we have to do is convince them they won’t want it.” Now everyone was looking at Mary Ann. It was distinctly uncomfortable. Jimmy, who hadn’t spoken since the incident earlier that morning, was the first to break the silence.
“Well,” he said quietly. “Well, I think it’s brilliant.”
“I second that!”
“I’m in!”
“Sounds like a plan to me!”
A chorus of assent rose from the ranks as the large family rallied around its newest member. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, this. She smiled, encouraged by the words of assurance. “Now, it’s going to take all of us to pull this off…”
What had a week before felt like a death sentence now was a source of great excitement. Everyone was making plans, inventing strange creations designed to frighten off the city inspectors that were inevitably going to come and survey the property. Though the Newtons never really functioned as dutiful citizens, (“I haven’t voted in years,” said Marge dismissively, waving a lazy hand. “I don’t see the point in electing one of those jowly bulldogs to make a bunch of decisions as to what color curtains should hang in the city hall. That’s about all those politician types are good for anyway.”) they certainly knew their city well, and the city would never buy something carelessly. Catherine had once known the mayor personally, and a favorite philosophy of his had always been, “look under the hood before you buy the car.” Selling things to these legal types would doubtlessly be a lengthy affair, perfect for their scheme.
T__T Can't post the rest right now, I don't have enough time to pull it up. Um, hope you enjoy?
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