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The
things you talked about. You talked about the world—you know,
politics, the environment, whatever—you talked like it mattered.
Like it was up to you personally to do something about it. I always
felt just a little bigger than life with you two around."
    "I
appreciate that," Tom said. In fact he was unexpectedly grateful
to her for saying it—for recognizing what Barbara had meant to him.
    "But
that's changed." Loreen was suddenly serious. Her smile faded.
"Now Barbara's gone, and I think you have to learn how to be
ordinary. And I don't think that's going to be real easy for you. I
think it's going to be pretty tough."

    Tony
didn't apologize, but he came out of Barry's room somewhat
abashed and eager to please. He said he'd like to see the new house
and Tom seized on the offer as an excuse to leave early. He let Tony
follow him down the coast in the electric-blue Aerostar. Moving
inland, up the Post Road and away from the traffic, Tony became a
glare in Tom's rearview mirror, lost when the car angled around
stands of pine. They parked at the house; Tony climbed out of his van
and the two of them stood a moment in the starry, frog-creaking
night.
    "Mistake
to buy so far out," Tony said.
    "I
like the place," Tom offered. "The price was right."
    "Bad
investment. Even if the market heats up, you're just too damn far
from town."
    "It's
not an investment, Tony. It's my house. It's where I five."
    Tony
gave him a pitying look. "Come on in," Tom said.
    He
showed his brother around. Tony poked into cupboards, dug a
fingernail into the window casements, stood up on tiptoe to peer into
the fuse box. When they arrived back at the living room Tom poured
his brother a Coke. Tony acknowledged with a look that this was good,
that there was no liquor handy. "Fairly sound building for its
age," he admitted. "Christ knows it's clean."
    "Self-cleaning,"
Tom said.
    "What?"
    "No—nothing."
    "You
planning to have us out for dinner one of these days?" "Soon
as I get set up. You and Loreen and the whole tribe." "Good
. . . that's good."
    Tony
finished his Coke and moved toward the door. This is as hard for him,
Tom recognized, as it is for me. "Well," Tony said. "Good
luck, little brother. What can I say?"
    "You've
said it. Thanks, Tony."
    They
embraced awkwardly. "I'll look for you at the lot," Tony
said, and turned away into the cool night air.
    Tom
listened to the van as it thrummed and faded down the road.
    He
went back into the house, alone. The silence seemed faintly alive.
    "Hello,
ghosts," Tom said. "Bet you didn't do the dishes after
all." But the thing was, they had.
Two
    It
wasn't long before a single question came to occupy his mind almost
exclusively: What was madness, and how do you know when it happens to
you?
    The
cliche was that the question contained its own answer. If you're
sane enough to wonder, you must be all right. Tom had trouble with
the logic of this. Surely even the most confirmed psychotic must
sometimes gaze into the mirror and wonder whether things hadn't gone
just a little bit wrong?
    The
question wasn't academic. As far as he could figure, there were only
two options. Either he had lost his grip on his sanity—and he
wasn't willing to admit that yet—or something was going on in
this house.
    Something
scary. Something strange.

    He
shelved the question for three days and was careful to clean up
meticulously: no dirty dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the counter,
garbage stowed in the back yard bin. The Tidiness Elves had no scope
for their work and Tom was able to pretend that he had actually done
the dishes himself the night he went to Tony's: it must have been his
memory playing a trick on him.
    These
were his first days at Arbutus Ford and there was plenty to occupy
his mind. He spent most of his daylight hours studying a training
manual or bird-dogging the senior salesmen. He learned how to greet
buyers; he learned what an offer sheet looked like; he learned how to
"T.O."—how to turn over a buyer to