The McAllister House is alternately a flurry of activity and a place of nearly serene quiet and solitude. Since completion of the major renovations those quiet moments have increased dramatically to the point I find them disturbing. This place should not be so empty, so lacking in life and purpose.

I find myself asking: have I made a mistake?

Throughout my life I have avoided such moments as this, so to find myself here, within these familiar walls, surrounded by names and people who carry the unmistakable bearing of their ancestors, it is unnerving at times and more so those nights I find myself alone. I desire so very much to be here though my presence awakens thoughts and memories of that which was and is now gone. Something holds me here beyond the ties of the past.

I have no family in this place. The house is large even by modern standards- thirty-two rooms including nine bedrooms and attached dressing rooms, two parlor rooms, a large library, gentlemen’s smoking room, a spacious study, and then the two dining rooms- one of which doubles as a ballroom. It had been such an imposing and pretentious structure for its time and place, but it had been filled with family, three generations in the year before my Jeremy left me, and there had been a working farm growing wheat, feed corn and producing dairy for the community. It was alive.

I have my visitors, mostly Edna, but others stop by from time to time. I have developed a reputation as a soft touch for worthy causes so there is no shortage of people calling. During the day there is a cook on staff, and of course my stable hands tending the horses. Thee days a week the housekeeping service comes. It is not enough to bring the flavor of home to this space. It is still just another place I spend time, larger than my apartment and so rather disconcerting.

My only constant companion here is George, the houseman. Part butler, part manager he arranges the affairs of the house, seeing to it the kitchen is stocked, minor maintenance issues are addressed and the assorted comings and goings of the housekeepers and landscapers and whatnot all take place with a minimum of interference. He is a good soul, a tall, gangly black man with more salt than pepper to his hair and the silky warmth of Mississippi in his soft voice. Fifty years old he lost thirty of those years to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, penance for a drunken bar fight that left one man dead and another maimed. I encountered him in Philadelphia when his parole officer backed in to my car in a parking garage. As my driver and the parole officer exchanged papers, George and I exchanged pleasantries. Two days later that same parole officer was shocked and mightily relieved to see her problematic client suddenly gainfully employed with a place to call home.

I suppose he is but another of those wounded souls towards whom I gravitate so readily.

As the holidays approach Edna has been urging me to host the family for the occasion. It is a truly splendid idea and the notion of this home filled with people, children, conversation and laughter is quite appealing. I have the notion to contact the far-flung members of the family and see if I can manage to bring all of them here for that week. Edna would so enjoy that…

It is such a happy scene. Why can I not shake the dread of what would follow? That this place would again fall silent… it nearly moves me to tears contemplating such a thing. How has solitude become loneliness in such a short time? Solitude that was once my best defense- the fa?ades I wore so easily to keep others engaged in the fictitious entities I became for them are suddenly pale and lifeless. The desire to be shut of them is so very powerful yet I know in my heart it is still too dangerous. The time has not come for that.

I am very patient. Patience teaches me to wait for events to develop. It does not counsel that I should enjoy the wait.

Posted on October 18th, 2004 by Zsallia
Filed under: The Present