“The Painted Lady”
The snow—a heavy blanket smothering roofs, roads, onion fields, pasture. But Vic’s main concern is the roofs. He’s brought along a twenty-three-year-old Junior to save his bad back a little pain by shoveling off those of his rentals before they collapse under all that weight. But first, a pit stop on the way.
The call came, unexpected, that morning. This opportunity from the sister, Inga, one-half inheritor of her family’s Canadian timber fortune. Is Vic still available? Does he still have the plow? They’d almost forgotten about the house altogether. Turned out the bank didn’t foreclose on their place after all. Left to sit for nearly a decade, she and her brother still own it: the Painted Lady. The one just up past Sooner’s Orchard. Remember? Of course he does.
Junior rubs a porthole in the window and watches the orchards pass. The apple trees collect into gnarled, black cages on the hills. Even with chains on the truck’s tires, the driving is slow, the road yet to be sufficiently plowed and salted.
“Are you even listening,” Vic says to him. “I’m trying to teach you. Something important that’ll supplement your interests. Keep your dreams afloat in desperate times. The customer doesn’t buy your work. They buy you. You need to sell them. These people are rich. Crazy. The best kind.”
“I thought they only called about a plow,” says Junior, his breath pulsing across the frozen window.
Vic lowers his head to peer through the slot of visibility provided by the muttering dashboard defroster. “Never mind the plow. That’s just getting your foot in the door,” he says, and begins an outline of the work he’s done for these people: the Olsen twins—Inga and Otto. Mythical people Junior has only heard rumors of.
“Carpentry, painting, yard work, gardening—you name it. Didn’t matter,” he continues. “Back then I was willing to do anything for a buck. Between your mother selling her vegetables and me painting houses, we could barely make our rehab loan payments. There was this urgency. They had me to work from the outside in. But disappeared before I could get to the inside part. Vanished. Still paid the down payment on my first rental property, though. Hell, they paid for your diapers. If you play your cards right, they’ll pay for yours, too. Maybe another fixer-upper. Just wait. Soon enough you’ll care plenty about expenses. These people really are crazy with money—when you can catch them . . .”
Through the porthole, Junior watches the apple trees drop away into seamless white horse pasture, the top rung of the fence riding above the snow alongside the road, bobbing and snaking with an unevenness accentuated by the flatness of the snow, his father talking still. Talking, talking, as always—trying to drag back to earth any daydream of a thought. Until an incomprehensible sound issues from Junior’s mouth.
“Don’t interrupt,” Vic says.
“But the Sooner’s barn—” says Junior.
“This is important—”
“Collapsed,” continues Junior. “Completely gone. I hope Sooner managed to save the horses—”
“We’re almost there and I’m trying to teach you something—” But then Vic sees it, too. Or worse, yet, doesn’t. Sooner’s barn. Where it should be—where it isn’t—has been replaced by a small mound of snow porcupined with jagged boards. Now he makes an incomprehensible sound himself, a clipped window of worry slamming shut.
“See,” says Junior.
“I do,” says Vic, already turning back to the wheel. “I’m sure Sooner put those horses up somewhere.”
“Sooner doesn’t even put up the dogs,” says Junior.
“Never mind about the horses, never mind about the dogs,” says Vic, and blinkers the turn signal. “We’re here. Look alive.” And with a mechanical whir, he engages the plow.
About half a mile off, the Painted Lady burns yellow against the snow. Vic works his way along the driveway whose bounds he must guess at with small bites from the plow. Swath after swath, he crushes the snow into berms, the distant farmhouse lurching higher with every bite into a sheer cliff of tri-colored peaks, a spectacle toward which they need to crane their necks. The detail truly something to admire. Its variety of shingle shapes—tears, spear-tips, hearts. Each painted a different color. Ornate molding, still somehow well-defined, as if milled yesterday. Even after all these years. The intricacy of trim, especially. Accentuated by Vic’s brushwork. The way it snakes the yellow body with clashing colors of viridian and midnight blues, regal purples. Each shot through with one another. In conversation with the Victorian yellow. Each nook and turret, the balusters and façades.
“It’s called a Painted Lady,” Vic says, shifting the truck into park.
“You’ve told me that a thousand times,” Junior replies.
Vic opens his mouth to say something about how the boy should be more grateful. That Vic didn’t need to plow these people out, didn’t need their money. Not only was he doing Junior a favor, he was sacrificing a good man. He couldn’t justify paying Junior the kind of money these people could. Didn’t Junior realize? Wasn’t he mature enough now? He thought they’d grow past this indifference once he returned home from Costa Rica. If only he thought for just one second—
But then the porch’s screen door shrieks open and a woman in a neon snowmobile suit steps, blinking, into the light. Through the icy porthole rubbed into Junior’s window, Inga Olsen wades toward them, arms flailing for balance. A reflective patch on her arm glints in the morning light. She’s waving something madly—a rubber-banded billfold—as if she might miss them.
Vic rolls down Junior’s window to greet her with about as much haste. “Inga, it’s been too long!” he says as she thrusts her red-chapped face into the cab of the truck.
Breathless, and with wide, lidless, blue eyes, she says, “Vic, you lifesaver! This snow . . . So unexpected. My brother and I. We were only passing through. We never intended to stay. We shared a sleeping bag on the floor.”
“Not a problem,” says Vic.
“Not at all,” says Junior, chiming in like they’d talked about. Inga removes her head from the truck, slips off a mitten. Pinching it between her neon yellow legs, she snaps off the rubber band from the billfold and begins unfurling money. After less than a second, however, she pauses. The idea of counting already seems to bore her. She holds out the entire wad.
Vic pushes her hand away. Laughs. “Don’t insult me. Consider this a favor. I gave up plowing years ago. I only plow out my rentals now. Honestly, I just wanted the chance to show my son your place up close.”
“How gracious of you,” says Inga. “What a shame not to have finished!”
“Isn’t it? Haunts me every day,” says Vic.
“I’ve always imagined what it’s like inside,” says Junior. “I always try to explain the grandeur,” says Vic.
“I’m afraid we ran into family troubles up north, and never had the time,” says Inga.
“A crying shame,” says Vic, shaking his head.
“A crying shame,” says Junior, shaking his head too. A perfect mimic of his father when he wanted to be, a decent little actor.
Then Junior’s digging a path toward the Painted Lady while Inga brings Vic up to speed.
Of course, she explains, inside it’s only bones. Nothing new. Just like the day they had to let Vic go. Does Vic remember? Yes. Like it was yesterday. It was so hard to leave things unfinished like that. Six thousand square feet of nothing, atop fifteen acres. A daunting task. Over a century old. Would make a great bed-and-breakfast, though, if they could ever finish the inside.
But Vic’s heard it all before. Seen it, too. And knows full well any renovations wouldn’t be cost-effective. Nevertheless, entering the house, he oohs and ahhs. He makes these goals seem feasible. Unashamed of his melodrama, he chews the scenery, putting on a clinic for Junior in how to butter up a mark.
The screen door slaps shut behind them. And they stomp about the four-season porch, cleaning off their boots. While Junior leans his shovel against the wall, Vic shakes his head at the woodstove standing in the corner, large and black as the front of a freight train. “Someone should be warming their toes,” he says. Junior clicks his tongue in agreement as Inga calls into the house, “Otto, you’ll never guess who stopped by for a visit,” then beckons them to follow through a dark door. And sure enough, there’s Otto, at a long oak table. Bald and thick-headed, in an identical snowmobile suit to his sister’s. An egg held to one eye. Like some story his wife might’ve told a younger Junior at bedtime. At first, he doesn’t seem to notice them as they stand there without much else to look at—save the clouds of water-stain floating on the walls, the quiver of the dented copper ceiling in the camping stove’s light, or the stove itself. On it, a pot of water boils. And in the pot, a rolling egg, a moist, pupilless eye.
Otto drops the another egg into the pot to warm before removing the first. He pinches the hot egg to his eye like a monocle. Then he looks up, unaffected by the heat, his exposed eye bulging in a kind of greeting.
“Otto!” Vic says. “Looking as fine as ever.”
“God damn sties,” Otto says to no one in particular.
“The Greeners popped in for a visit, dear,” Inga says, as if he might not have noticed them yet.
“My son,” says Vic.
“Junior,” Junior says, holding out a hand that Otto ignores. “You have a wonderful home.”
“Not my home,” says Otto.
“I was trying to convince Vic we haven’t forgotten this place, dear,” says Inga. “That we’d turn it into a bed-and-breakfast sooner or later.”
Otto adjusts the egg. “Pipe dreams,” he says.
“I hope not,” says Vic. “B&B’s? A very lucrative business.” “Very lucrative,” says Junior as Inga grabs his hand in her
mitten.
“I promised I’d give this one a tour,” she says, pulling Junior toward a wall of tall doors. Before which she stops a moment as if not knowing which to choose. She eenie meenie miney moes, then swings one open. Plunges inside. And as their footfalls fade away inside the Painted Lady, Vic takes the seat across from Otto, a silence taking hold.
And up from the silence, the moan of rusty door hinges. The burble of boiling water, a cauldron between them. The collision of their icy breaths.
Just being here—how easily the memories come back to Vic. How easily he can picture the arboretum in the summer, its domed glass ceiling withered with vines. The cavernous dining room and chandeliers, the sweeping stairwell and crown moldings. Almost as if he were with Inga now instead of Junior. Room after room, each interior windowless and dark. So dark at times Inga had to use a flashlight. The house still with no electric all those years ago.
“Six thousand square feet of nothing,” he can almost hear her telling him, telling them. As she is surely telling his son for the second time, though he’d been little more than a newborn then. The dim shake of her flashlight on the wall, the creak of the floor. Empty and unfinished, every room. Full of possibilities. Its future branching out.
Not much later, they’re back on their way, Vic and Junior—on route to the rentals. To deal with the snow. Same as before, but in a different sort of quiet. Behind a service truck now, laying out salt that crackles across the windshield. Otherwise not much else, save the mutter of the defroster.
Vic lowers his head to peer out. He steers the silence. And all this time, Junior’s silent, too. Withholding. Vic waiting for the account. Waiting, and waiting—and finally, unable to take the waiting anymore, saying, “Well? How did it go?” Then for a moment, still, nothing. Just Junior’s breath’s heartbeat on the glass.
“If you’re still worried about the horses . . .” Vic says. “It’s not the horses,” Junior says. “And it’s not the dogs.” “Then what?” says Vic.
“You’ll never believe me—”
“Just tell me. I’m your father—”
“I saw something,” Junior says. “An old woman. Inside the house.”
“An old woman?” Vic says with a laugh. “Probably just their mother. Inga said she was sick. Didn’t she—”
“I knew you wouldn’t listen—”
“I am listening,” Vic says. “Go ahead. Have at it.”
And Junior does. He turns to him, eyes wide and animal-scared. “Fine, all right. Inga was giving me the tour. I was really working her. Really, I was. Oohs and ahhs, just like you said. You’d be proud. She must have gotten turned around. ‘I haven’t been here in years,’ she said. Something wasn’t right. But we continued. We continued, and cobwebs brushed my scalp. The ground dipped soft beneath our feet. Rot crept into my nose. The house, a maze. We were lost—”
“Jesus Christ—”
“But Inga must’ve thrown open the wrong door. Obviously, she’d made a mistake, the way she reacted. She didn’t want me to see. Slammed the door shut. But over her shoulder, I saw an old woman. Like I said. But maybe not how you imagine. Older. Dressed in a thin nightgown. A ghost, at first. Goose pimples broke out. Then I heard the beeping of machines. I felt the tropical warmth of the heaters from within the room. The radio played scratchy classical music. A bedpan and a wheelchair. A hospital bed. Insulated windows. I know what I saw. I saw her face. A mosaic of wrinkles and fear. Dead, but still alive, this woman—”
“What are you even saying—” says Vic.
“Aren’t you listening?” says Junior. “And all this in one glance?”
“Yes, all at once. But what’s more? The worst part—”
“Let’s hear it—”
“A chain. A chain running from her wheelchair to the steam heater. I saw it. They were keeping her there. Those freaks—”
“The way you talk. God. You remind me of your mother—”
“You said you’d listen—”
“I never said I’d believe you—”
“They’re keeping her hostage. I’m sure of it. That old woman is a captive. We need to call Social Services. The police. Someone!”
“First Sooner’s horses, now this? Give me one good reason.
Some real evidence. God, this is some story you’re writing. Maybe your finest.”
“Money. Inbreeding. Who knows?” says Junior.
“But they don’t even have electric, son. I worked there for years. Years and I never saw an old lady. It’s just a spooky old house. Your imagination’s just run wild—”
“Go back and check the electric box if you don’t believe me!” says Junior. “Go back and check!” But Vic’s heard enough. He isn’t going to waste his valuable time on these theatrics. These conspiracies of an immature mind. Not another second of his life. What value could be gleaned from this? It’s so early, and there are roofs piled with snow. Obviously, there must be some reasonable explanation, some misunderstanding.
Junior will talk himself out soon enough, he thinks. And sure enough, Junior does. After a while, the truck falls back into a silence. Just the crackling of salt. The dashboard defroster. The freeze creeping fingers across the glass. Junior’s silence growing louder by the mile. Save for his scribbling on his notepad.
*
In the paper the next week, there’s a news report: Sooner’s horses killed. Three Clydesdales. A mule. “I told you,” Junior says, driving the truck on the way to another job. But this proves nothing to Vic. Nothing about an old woman, anyway. No scandal in their small town. No car that visits the Painted Lady at night, bringing food and meds for the alleged captive. No reason to suspect, aside from what Junior couldn’t have seen. No proof. Vic never stops to check if the electric meter is turned on. Refuses. There isn’t even an investigation into the Sooner’s neglect of the horses. The humane society doesn’t even take the dogs.
After a while, Junior stops bringing it up altogether. And after another year or so of this, he moves off somewhere against Vic’s better judgment. Amid a global financial crisis, no less. High unemployment, low wages, and little opportunity—the opposite of what Vic offered. The literal worst time to chase your dreams. Which, for Junior, meant little more than working on a paint crew in order to buy enough time to scratch off his stories. Upstate. Out of state. Having learned nothing from Vic. A lost cause. Gone.
The years trail away in a white flurry. The Painted Lady languishes deeper into decay from the inside out. The Olsens never do call about the work. Even from the road, it’s obvious. On the way to the rentals. Junior off and married now, a child of his own coming any day, no doubt, to shake him awake, help him understand the sacrifices Vic’s made. Now it’s just Vic who passes, on his way to fix a faucet at another rental, to patch a cracked wall.
To keep up with appearances and collect the rent. Shovel snow. But in silence now. Heather continues to urge him to hire out. To assemble a reliable crew. But he doesn’t want to waste the money. He has no one to talk to and the Painted Lady is slipping fast. Like him. Once so glorious on the outside, but now sinking more and more into oblivion. The balusters rotting. Four-season porch bowing deep. The paint shivering off into the weedy gardens. His master paint job from long ago all for nothing. The colors falling out of conversation now, almost unrecognizable. The house festering in ways only the rich and crazy can allow. Such grand decay, against all he stands for. A part of Vic wants to fix the place up for free, put things back in order, where they belong. If only his back were better, he thinks. If only he were not so tired all the time.
Each time he passes, it’s the same. The daydream. In it, he stops, shoulders open the door to save the old woman inside from her captivity. Junior was right, it turns out, all those years ago. His son, more attentive than him, more observant than even his wife. Vic bolt-cuts the chain, then carries the old woman out the door draped in his arms. A hero. An apology. She’s nearly one hundred now, but still alive. Summer, spring, fall, regardless. In the daydream, it’s always snowing. Always there’s a news report, an article in the paper. Vic’s a hero. A handsome hero. His wife wraps him in her arms. The Olsens had been keeping their mother there, it explains, to drain her money. A dispute over the inheritance. All that wealth a corruption. The incestuous couple rotting in prison now because of him. The town will hold a parade in Vic’s honor. And when the day comes Junior’s there. They clap each other on the back, reunited on a float that rides past Sooner’s freshly raised barn. After all these years: Father, son, among the waving people. The bugle of a brass band. Heather there in her glittering vintage dress while the raining confetti mixes with the snow around them, leeching into it, dying it colors. So much confetti that somebody, somewhere, at some point, will have to plow.
__________________________________
From Foreclosure Gothic by Harris Lahti. Copyright © 2025 by Harris Lahti. To be published on June 10, 2025 by Astra Publishing House. Reprinted by permission.
