A Lot of People Live in This House

CHAPTER ONE

888 IS A GOOD NUMBER for a house, Rachel thinks as her Lyft drives off, leaving her at the end of the driveway of her new home. Temporary home, she resolves. In many cultures, the number eight is seen as a sign of prosperity because, turned on its side, eight is the symbol for infinity, of perpetual new beginnings. Prosperity aside, living with ten strangers isn’t her idea of a good time.

She stares up at the great white house, and the great white house stares back, its many-windowed eyes framed with black shutters. She thinks it has too many eyes and that its bright red front door is too big. But what else can she expect with Federal-style architecture, especially in this part of the country? Nothing but symmetry and friezes. In a way, it is comforting to Rachel to know what to expect of the inside: high ceilings, curved open staircases, maybe the rogue Palladian window. The almost-architect inside of her breathes a little more freely. A little.

Rachel reaches into her thin snow

coat—a

poor panic purchase made in Atlanta after reading the Boston weather report the day

before—and

fishes out her cell phone. She calls Job. He answers right away. Hello?

Do I have to do this? she asks without ceremony.

You made it! he says, voice bright and more than a little relieved.

I made it, she says. Her backpack feels heavier than it did when she got off the plane, and her roller bag’s handle is awkward under her palm.

Snowstorm remnants cling to the bushes and brick steps, reminding her of an old life and bitter Chicago winters. Even still, that life was predictable. Whatever they’re trying to do now is something else entirely. "Are you sure we want to do this?" she asks, fighting hard to keep her voice from trembling. It was easier to be brave for Job when they were saying goodbye to one another in Egypt because bravery is easier to muster in warmer places.

Job hums, a patient sound. Sweetheart, we’ve been over this. The rent is reasonable, it’s furnished, there’s enough space for all my shit, you liked Ted and Daniela. And, most importantly?

She sighs, knowing he’s right and hating him for it. "And they have pets."

Exactly. Are you inside yet?

No, I’m on the driveway.

You’re just standing outside like a crazy person?

She chuckles, breath fanning into a mist. Yeah.

"Cool.

So…are

you gonna go in?"

We found this place on Craigslist, she reminds him.

Yeah, but we interviewed and met all those people. They were legit. Social media certified and everything.

Rachel’s anxiety grasps at straws now, trying to find a way to back out of this deal.

What if I get murdered? Serial killers have social media, too, y’know.

Job is patient, though; he specializes in walking her through her anxieties. There’s only a small chance that you’ll get murdered.

She eyes the upstairs windows with suspicion. Still a chance.

But like, there was a chance you’d get murdered on the way there. Hello, you got into a car with a stranger. And, you know what? You could even get hit by a car right now.

The grotesque what-if game is enough to calm her nerves, it usually does, and Job has known that longer than she has. With the most ridiculous possibilities out in the open, seen for their ridiculousness, reality is easier to grapple.

Rachel’s gaze turns back down to the driveway. I guess that’s true.

Job’s voice is gentle again. Then you better get inside, huh? At least you can fend off an attacker there. What are you going to do against a car?

Yeah.

Her snow boots crunch against the asphalt as she takes the first step.

Sweetheart? Take a breath.

She stops and listens. He’s taking care of her from a million miles away, even though he was the one who needed to stay in India to learn to better cope with himself. Even though he’s the one who needs tenderness from her. Rachel stands taller and resolves not to be selfish; she resolves to be brave. She looks at the house head-on, daring it to scare her. It doesn’t blink. Okay, I’m gonna do it. I’ll call you when I get to my room. Okay?

Of course, sweetheart. I love you.

Love you. She hangs up and opens her email to find the message chain from the owner.

Hi Rachel, we’re all so excited that you’ll be here on Sunday! There will definitely be some folks around the house when you get here. If you have any trouble finding a ride and/or don’t want to take the T, let me

know—I’d

be more than happy to pick you up! If you get here by other means, come around to the side. We don’t open the front door in the winter because it’s too drafty, and I’m pretty sure the doorbell is broken (joy of old homeownership!). So just come around to the mudroom door (right side of the house) and call me. I’ll let you in! xx Ted.

As she rolls up the hill, she wonders if his enthusiasm is a persona or if Ted really is just this jazzed to be alive. After meeting him and six of her soon-to-be roommates on a video call three weeks before, she’s inclined to believe the latter. She follows his instructions all the same: up the driveway around the right side of the house, casting sidelong stares at the three-story building. She mumbles to herself, How many rooms did they say this place was? Nine bedrooms? Ten? God, it must have cost the earth. Compared to all the other multi-family homes and four-story apartment buildings, this place is a veritable palace. Plus, from what she can tell from the outside and aged brick wall, it’s well on its way to being a part of some historical society’s next walking tour. It’s hard to put a price on history, but something in the way of two million is probably about right.

She is careful walking up the stairs, opting to drag the roller bag behind her instead of bending down and picking it

up—too

top-heavy. When she gets to the door, she finds her phone again to call the number provided. Ted picks up halfway through the first ring.

Hello, hello! Are you outside? Ted’s voice is as bright as it had been over Skype all those weeks ago while Rachel and Job were in Egypt. She assumes he always sounds like he’s done a rail of coke.

Oh, yeah, hi. I think I’m in the right place. Outside?

Fabulous. Two seconds! Ciao.

Rachel looks over her shoulder towards the street and into an empty wooded lot that surprises her. Not too many empty spaces left in this part of the city from what she can tell. Scraggly oak trees burst out of the frozen ground, their branches already tall enough to tangle. She wonders how long developers have been trying to slap some condos into that bad boy.

There’s not much time to wonder about zoning board logistics as the door swings open to reveal a gregarious, well-dressed businessman in his early thirties.

Hi! Welcome, welcome! So good to finally meet you in person! There is no ceremony before he slings thin arms around her neck in a quick embrace, kissing Rachel on one cheek and then the other.

She stiffens but does not pull away. Thanks, same to you.

Ted steps back, still smiling, and puts his fists on his hips. He looks good in his expensive, navy-blue sport coat. How was your flight?

She shrugs and pretends she’s not horrible at small talk. Pretty good. The flight out of Atlanta’s short.

Yeah, totally. His face turns curious, the way faces do when someone wants the latest gossip but was raised better than to ask for it outright. Were there any issues with the coronavirus thing? I saw on the news that flights were getting canceled in Europe.

Rachel shrugs again, thinking about the two-hour wait time just to get through American customs after arriving in Atlanta. Everyone seemed tense, more than just jet-lag tense. It frightened her. She doesn’t say this, though, doesn’t know how to say it. Instead:

Lines were long. People were trying to get home earlier, I guess, but it didn’t affect my flight. There haven’t been any cases reported in India.

That’s good, that’s good. Hopefully, Job will have the same experience. Relieved, his smile returns. Well, come on in out of the cold! He steps out of the house to reach for the bulky roller bag. Here, let me grab that for you.

She leans beyond his reach, unwilling to relinquish her anchor. This is the bag that Job packed, which means that it is of

him—that

he is, in a way, with her. As long as he is with her, nothing can go wrong. No worries, I’ve got it.

Ted’s expression falls slightly. Sure! Is that everything?

Yeah, this is me. Rachel gasps in remembrance. Oh! You mentioned that our other stuff arrived a few days ago?

Ted lights up at the prospect of being useful. Yep! We put the crates out in the garage, which I will show you whenever you want. And the boxes marked ‘House’ are up in your room.

She blushes at the thought of someone making such a fuss over her. Traveling with Job has made relying on the kindness of others and accepting favors a more daily practice, but this generosity from total strangers makes her feel guilty in a deep way. Really? I’m so sorry. Y’all didn’t have to do that.

He waves her away. No trouble at all! With all the hands we have around here, it only took a few minutes.

"Well…I

appreciate it." She knows firsthand how heavy Job’s woodworking equipment is. It had taken them four weeks to get his whole workshop packed into storage.

Of course. If you need any help with moving stuff one way or another, let us know. He puffs out his cheeks and jokes, That bench is something else, though. I didn’t realize they were so sturdy! But of course, they are. They have to be, right? Ted laughs.

Rachel’s blush deepens. Job will be happy to know it got here safely. She quickly adds, And, if it didn’t, we paid for the insurance.

Ted bobs his head in enthusiastic agreement. Good, good! He claps his hands again and reaches for Rachel’s carry-on before she can stop him. Before she knows it, her piece of Job is in Ted’s grasp. Well, let me grab your bag, and we’ll head up to your room.

The red door swings into a small room full of snow boots, coats, umbrellas, reusable bags stacked into one another into infinity in the corner. Despite the grandiosity that the house had displayed from the road, it is obvious that regular people live here. This is a home. What strikes Rachel, though, is the smell: a sharp scent of onion and bacon. Her mouth waters as Ted puts his hand on another doorknob, smiling over his shoulder.

Some folks are in the kitchen, which is good. You can meet everyone in stages. We can be a lot all at once.

CHAPTER TWO

THE KITCHEN IS LARGER THAN it has any business being. What Rachel notices first, of course, is the massive copper-topped island. It is littered with cutting boards, knives, spoons, towels, a bread box, two-wire baskets full of fruit, laptops, books, and a loaf of bread so fresh that it is still steaming. She looks at the far wall lined with its shabby cabinets. She sees the giant kitchen table beset by at least ten chairs and a small bench; she marvels at the stainless steel refrigerator and the double-stacked ovens. Her eyes feel wide before she even notices the two people at the range, looking back at her with expectation.

The first is a tall Black woman with hair that’s short on the sides with a shock of sapphire blue corkscrew curls on top. Her smile eats half her sharp face as she sets a skillet into a deep sink. It hisses and smokes upon contact with water.

The second is an even taller man with a well-groomed beard, glasses, and dirty hair in need of a cut. He smiles, too, though the look is made mischievous by a scar that splits his left brow. Though turned to greet Rachel, he continues to stir a giant pot. They both say hello.

Rachel closes the door behind her as Ted plops her luggage down and launches into introductions. "Hello, hello, everybody. This is Rachel. Rachel, this is

Markeya—she’s

an ER nurse at Beth Israel. She waves. And this is Vernon. He says he works at Google, he leans into Rachel’s shoulder to loudly whisper, but we’re all pretty sure he works for the CIA." Markeya chuckles at whatever inside joke the three of them share.

Why’s that? Rachel asks as her right hand holds her left arm in uncertainty. There is a history here that she doesn’t know.

Markeya rolls her eyes and leans her hip into the counter. He’s secretive for no damn reason. Always been that way. He won’t tell them when his birthday is, so they think he works for the government.

But you know when his birthday is? Rachel asks, trying to determine relationship lines.

Markeya shrugs. More or less.

That’s cryptic.

Yep! Vernon rejoins, pleased while he reduces the heat on the stove. Hey, Rachel, have you ever had an aspic?

She flicks through her mental lexicon and comes up empty. A what?

The tall blonde man’s face blooms with joy. An aspic is when you take a good food, such as beef chili, he points to the pot with a meat-stained spoon, and you chill it up with gelatin until the consistency is questionable and then you attempt to recover it by making it pretty. For some aspics, that means adding flowers or fruit. In this instance, it means covering it with molten cheese.

So, you’re making lukewarm chili?

Vernon chuckles. Yeah, but in a heart mold. He picks up a piece of silicone to show her. The empty plastic shell is already so grotesque looking in its anatomical correctness that Rachel refuses to imagine it full of meat.

We’re all looking forward to it! But anyway, I’m going to take the newest addition up to her room so she can get settled, Ted announces as he leans down for Rachel’s bag, but she recovers the handle and wheels it close to her legs. This is the first frown he gives her, and it looks foreign on his face. Are you sure I can’t get that for you? he asks.

It’s really no problem, she says, knuckles nearly white with effort.

Sure thing. The smile returns. Follow me.

It was nice to meet both of you, Rachel says, bowing her head over her full hands.

You, too. Looking forward to chatting later, Markeya says so sincerely that Rachel almost believes her.

Rachel waddles with her suitcase past the tall chairs into a long hallway, at the end of which she can make out the bottom of a large chandelier. She glances up and sees just how high the ceilings are. No, the Craigslist photos had not done this place justice.

Ted pauses and gestures to doors like a flight attendant. On the left is one of the communal bathrooms. House guests on the first floor use the shower here. On your right is the door down to the basement. If you have anything that needs to be stored, there’s plenty of room in the back left corner. They take a few more steps to the second set of doors, both closed. There’s the library here, and across is the informal sitting room. He pauses to listen at one door and then the other. Shoot. They’re both being used right now. That doesn’t usually happen. Okay if we look at them later?

Informal sitting room, Rachel wonders ruefully. How the hell did we find this place on Craigslist? Sure, that’s fine, she says, already overwhelmed by the doors and the people and the aspic. I’d be happy to just head up to my room, too.

Oh! Ted turns with a hand on his chest while the other successfully snares Rachel’s luggage once again. I am so sorry. I’m sure you’re exhausted. Yes, of course, we should go up to your room! Follow me.

Rachel frowns as her host insists on hospitality and lugs her suitcase up a narrow staircase designed in the long-long ago when servants being seen going up and downstairs was a primary concern of the day. She admires the engraved spindles that hold up the handrail. Expert craftsmanship. When did you say this place was built? she can’t help but ask.

Late 1700s. Y’know, an architect that designed quite a few of the churches in Boston actually designed and lived in this place. Of course, that’s probably why the house has aged so well. Good bones, Ted replies with a little chuckle, and Rachel can tell that he has a curator’s tour speech down pat, lame jokes and all. There’s no doubt she will hear it in full at some point.

Ted looks over his shoulder, expecting a laugh with so pleasant a smile that Rachel finds herself giving in with a muted chuckle. She averts his gaze, drawn instead by the sunlight coming from above. Glancing up, she finds a skylight. The snow covers its glass, obfuscating the world outside with milky white.

Your room is here at the end of the hall, Ted sighs winsomely. So glad you got here when you did. The light is so nice in this part of the house in the afternoon.

They step onto the landing, and Rachel can appreciate that these ceilings are tall too, and the hallway is wide and white, and there are so many closed doors. The air smells like fresh laundry laid out in sunshine. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart, she thinks as a hinge squeaks.

Come on in, he says as he swings her luggage around and places it just inside the door.

Pulled almost by a magnet, Rachel follows him inside. The room is stunning. The bed is made with fresh linens, a chandelier, and matching wall sconces over a bricked-up fireplace. The walls are white, the curtains black, the outside light divine. It is spacious, certainly more spacious than any of the other rooms she saw online, even with all of their boxes stacked on the far wall. Her eyes are caught by the small doorway that leads to a full bathroom that she won’t have to share with anyone, and she is in disbelief.

This is mine? After sharing a toilet with twenty other people for the last month, this is a paradise.

Ted is beaming yet again. She’s pretty sure he smiles in his sleep. All yours! Do you need some towels? We have plenty.

She gestures to her bag. I brought my own.

He nods again and again. Sure thing. If you ever need extras, let me know. There are stacks in the basement. He claps his hands together, onto the next thing. So, in lieu of a tour, can I get you a drink? Some tea, perhaps?

Rachel’s head is swimming with information, smells, and the boundless energy that Ted exudes. No, thank you.

Well, you settle in, then. We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. He spins on his heel and heads back out, closing the door behind him. His footsteps are soft, but the wood still creaks. It is an old house, after all.

Properly alone, Rachel wraps her arms around herself and spins in a slow circle to take in every detail she can. The floors have been recently refinished, gleaming chestnut in the sunlight pooling in from the far window. The white walls are without a single suggestion of a previous occupant. There are things that don’t belong to them: large bed, white metal desk, side tables, two lamps, linens, all courtesy of Ikea. Nothing is broken or shabby. Just as the post had stated. It seems like this place wasn’t a scam after all. She enters the bathroom and is astonished by the size of the shower and the cleanliness of the mirror. It’s a far cry from hostel life.

Placing her hand on the bathroom window, she’s pleasantly surprised by the giant oak tree that waves its branches outside. Though mostly leafless now, it will be beautiful in the spring. She almost believes her luck. She calls Job. He answers after one ring: Not dead?

His voice reels her back into herself. Not yet.

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL HUGS HER FREE arm tight around her middle, trying to smother the loneliness that her husband’s voice evokes. Job is a million miles away in an ashram. She reminds herself that the trip is a good thing for him and that to mention her missing him now would be selfish. Because, of course, he would come home if she wanted. That’s what Job does. Instead, she says, You’re never going to believe this place. There’s so much space. Way bigger than the pictures.

The bugs are buzzing so loud in India that Rachel can hear them over the phone. Oh yeah? Job asks, excited. How’s the room?

Good. She looks up at the ceiling, eyes drawn to the chandelier in the center. Bigger than I thought.

He chuckles softly, no doubt trying not to alert anyone to his cell phone’s presence. It’s hard to be spiritually present when you’re focused on your phone, or so Jon’s guru had told him when he arrived in the small village two hours north of Kerala.

That’s because you don’t have good dimensional awareness. I told you it would be big enough.

Rachel rolls her eyes and takes a seat in front of the desk. You were right.

I’m sorry, you broke up a little bit there. Job’s tone is playful. I’m what now?

She sighs dramatically and gets up to pace to the window, peeling back the gauzy inner curtain. Below there is a wide yard covered in snow. Too much snow. Rachel shudders and steps away from the glass. You were right. As usual.

He snorts. Okay, okay, let’s not fluff my ego too much. What else?

Rachel is glad for his questions. Moving in without him is overwhelming enough. At least with his partial presence, she can begin to catalog her new reality. "Um, let’s

see…it’s

very clean. Smells like Murphy’s Oil and lemons.

There’s…a

bed."

King or queen? he asks. Nothing is ever too small a detail for Job. He prefers to know everything.

Rachel tucks the phone into the crook of her shoulder so she can hold out her hand and close one eye, trying to mentally measure the mattress. A queen, I think. Maybe a full. She straightens, returns the phone to her hand. Something is amiss; she knows that already. She feels herself frown. The bedspread is different than the one in the photos. Everything is ruined.

Job, of course, will not allow his wife to spiral. His voice does catastrophize but instead teasing, Oh my God, pack up our shit and call the police!

Rachel ignores him and goes to stroke the top comforter with suspicion. It is soft to the touch but she hates it. I liked the blue stripes better. This one has little red and yellow flowers.

He gives a stage gasp. I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you!

That, at last, breaks the comforter’s spell. Rachel blushes, grins, and sits at the end of the bed. Shut up! she says, inflection high. It’s like she’s fourteen again, talking on the phone with some high school crush.

He chuckles. What else is different?

Her attention drifts to the fireplace, and she is struck by a painting that rests on the mantel. She squints. Surely she isn’t seeing what she’s seeing? Um, there’s a life-sized Mona Lisa replica with, um, googly eyes glued on.

No way! Take a picture.

She peels the phone from her face and snaps a photo. It will be good to have him confirm that this strange bit of art is real. I’ll email it. Suddenly, she sits up and remembers that Job is across the ocean. What time is it there?

"Um…around

one."

Oh my God. Guilt runs hot in Rachel’s face and hands. She shouldn’t expect Job to hand-hold her like this. He’s the one who needs consideration right now. "I’m sorry, you

go—"

He cuts her off. No, no, I wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing whether you made it okay or not.

Heat travels to the back of Rachel’s neck. But I don’t want to keep you up.

Honey, we talked about this. Everything is okay. I can stay up for a bit longer and will still have plenty of sleep before Sun Salutation. Okay? Job’s voice is tender because he knows better than anyone how guilt can get under his wife’s skin and run amok. Tell me more about the house. Please.

It’s been a long day, and her emotions are running high. She recalls what her therapist said about getting in front of panic. Okay. Rachel takes a deep, steadying breath with one hand on her heart. She focuses on the facts. There are a lot of people in this house. Like, a lot. I came in and met, like, four people down in the kitchen making an aspic. Well, perhaps the facts are a little exaggerated.

A what?

She stretches out on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. There’s something about the blankness that’s comforting. It’s Jell-O with stuff inside of it. Like a whole fish or something. Served cold.

Rachel can almost hear her husband wrinkle his nose. Ew.

"Right? Some sort of curiosity that

Vernon—do

you remember him? He was the bearded guy with glasses. Anyway, it’s something he’s into right now. The flavor of the month, I guess. Remember Ted said they do that vegan month thing once a year?"

Oh yeah! That sounded cool. That aspic thing, though, his voice turns incredulous, I’m not sure about that.

Rachel is silent, gaze fixed on the ceiling as the scene in the kitchen swells around her. Even after spending a year traveling the world with Job, she still has a hard time meeting people, no matter how welcoming.

Job is sensitive to this shift in mood, as usual. Are you okay, honey?

She closes her eyes and sighs to coax her busy brain back into her skull. It’s nothing, really. Just tired. A deep sigh, a shuddering breath. "There are just so many people here, and not everyone is even here yet.

It’s…it’s

a lot."

You don’t like it. He’s matter of fact.

"It’s not that. I’m

just…"

She places the back of her free hand against her forehead. Why did we decide that this was a good idea?

They’ve had this conversation before. Many