happened to all of them as if it were a contagious disease. The main symptoms were speechlessness and silly grins.
The real estate lady didn't understand that. She thought something was wrong. She became confused when none of them said anything, and she began to apologize for the house.
The study was lined from floor to ceiling, on every wall, with bookcases. And it had a fireplace. Anastasia's father stood in the center of the study with a silly grin and said nothing.
"I know you wanted a study," said the real estate lady. "Of course this room seems small, I know. But you could have all these shelves torn out, and that would open up the room quite a bit and make it larger, and..."
Her voice drifted away in confusion, because no one was listening to her. Anastasia could read her father's mind. In his mind he was arranging all his books, alphabetically, in the shelves. In his mind, he had a roaring fire in the fireplace; he was sitting in front of it, smoking his pipe, reading.
They moved on to another room, a huge octagonal room stuck onto the side of the house. It was all windows. They stood there, silently, with the same silly grins, and Anastasia read her mother's mind. Her mother was setting up easels in the room. She was doing huge paintings
with sweeping brush strokes. She was hiring models tc stand there in the brilliant light. She was doing sculpture Murals.
The real estate lady began to talk very fast, trying to mend the silence. "Of course, in the Victorian era, when this house was built, they always had these strange rooms that they called solariums. Useless, now. You could close it off to conserve heat. Or, in fact, you could even have this room torn down. It does stick out rather awkwardly, from the side of the house, I know. The yard would be bigger if you just had this room taken off, and..."
But no one was listening to her. She stopped talking, mid-sentence, confused, and they moved on.
Upstairs, they moved from one bedroom to another. Big bedrooms, with fireplaces and huge closets for playing hide-and-seek. Their feet echoed in the empty rooms: the heavy, decisive steps of Dr. Krupnik's size-twelve shoes; the staccato taps of the real estate lady's high heels; the duet of Anastasia's sneakers and her mother's sandals; and behind them, the pad, pad, pad of Sam's little feet.
Now not even the real estate lady was saying much. She was embarrassed. She thought they hated the house. Halfheartedly, in a bathroom, she said, "New plumbing. Wonderful copper pipes," but then she fell silent again and looked through her pocketbook for a cigarette.
Finally, she opened a door on the second floor and gestured toward the narrow, curving staircase behind it.
"You could just close this off," she said, and puffed nervously on her cigarette.
Anastasia scuttled up the little staircase alone to the tower room and stood there looking out and down, at the green lawns, the huge elms, the curving streets, and in the distance, the Charles River and the buildings of Cambridge and Boston.
Her parents didn't come up the stairs. They had read her mind and knew that she wanted to be in the tower room alone.
But after a moment she could hear Sam's small feet climbing the stairs. He appeared in the room, looking puzzled, and said, "Do you want me to cry again? Do you want to do the plot now?"
But Anastasia said no and took his hand. They went back downstairs just in time to hear her father tell the real estate lady that they would buy the house.
***
"The Mystery," wrote Anastasia carefully, "of Why You Sometimes Hate the Idea of Something, but Then You Like the Thing Itself."
Now that had possibilities for a book. She would have to refine the title a little, because it seemed a little complicated. But it had real possibilities.
Below the title, after she reflected on the possibilities, she wrote, "Subtitle: Or Why You Sometimes
Like
the Idea of Something, But Hate the Thing Itself."
Moving, and the new house, seemed to
The real estate lady didn't understand that. She thought something was wrong. She became confused when none of them said anything, and she began to apologize for the house.
The study was lined from floor to ceiling, on every wall, with bookcases. And it had a fireplace. Anastasia's father stood in the center of the study with a silly grin and said nothing.
"I know you wanted a study," said the real estate lady. "Of course this room seems small, I know. But you could have all these shelves torn out, and that would open up the room quite a bit and make it larger, and..."
Her voice drifted away in confusion, because no one was listening to her. Anastasia could read her father's mind. In his mind he was arranging all his books, alphabetically, in the shelves. In his mind, he had a roaring fire in the fireplace; he was sitting in front of it, smoking his pipe, reading.
They moved on to another room, a huge octagonal room stuck onto the side of the house. It was all windows. They stood there, silently, with the same silly grins, and Anastasia read her mother's mind. Her mother was setting up easels in the room. She was doing huge paintings
with sweeping brush strokes. She was hiring models tc stand there in the brilliant light. She was doing sculpture Murals.
The real estate lady began to talk very fast, trying to mend the silence. "Of course, in the Victorian era, when this house was built, they always had these strange rooms that they called solariums. Useless, now. You could close it off to conserve heat. Or, in fact, you could even have this room torn down. It does stick out rather awkwardly, from the side of the house, I know. The yard would be bigger if you just had this room taken off, and..."
But no one was listening to her. She stopped talking, mid-sentence, confused, and they moved on.
Upstairs, they moved from one bedroom to another. Big bedrooms, with fireplaces and huge closets for playing hide-and-seek. Their feet echoed in the empty rooms: the heavy, decisive steps of Dr. Krupnik's size-twelve shoes; the staccato taps of the real estate lady's high heels; the duet of Anastasia's sneakers and her mother's sandals; and behind them, the pad, pad, pad of Sam's little feet.
Now not even the real estate lady was saying much. She was embarrassed. She thought they hated the house. Halfheartedly, in a bathroom, she said, "New plumbing. Wonderful copper pipes," but then she fell silent again and looked through her pocketbook for a cigarette.
Finally, she opened a door on the second floor and gestured toward the narrow, curving staircase behind it.
"You could just close this off," she said, and puffed nervously on her cigarette.
Anastasia scuttled up the little staircase alone to the tower room and stood there looking out and down, at the green lawns, the huge elms, the curving streets, and in the distance, the Charles River and the buildings of Cambridge and Boston.
Her parents didn't come up the stairs. They had read her mind and knew that she wanted to be in the tower room alone.
But after a moment she could hear Sam's small feet climbing the stairs. He appeared in the room, looking puzzled, and said, "Do you want me to cry again? Do you want to do the plot now?"
But Anastasia said no and took his hand. They went back downstairs just in time to hear her father tell the real estate lady that they would buy the house.
***
"The Mystery," wrote Anastasia carefully, "of Why You Sometimes Hate the Idea of Something, but Then You Like the Thing Itself."
Now that had possibilities for a book. She would have to refine the title a little, because it seemed a little complicated. But it had real possibilities.
Below the title, after she reflected on the possibilities, she wrote, "Subtitle: Or Why You Sometimes
Like
the Idea of Something, But Hate the Thing Itself."
Moving, and the new house, seemed to
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