called it, in a burst of imagination, “The Brown House,” and why Kenny had sworn he’d sell the house every week or so. But the truth was, Kenny wasn’t home so much in the last five or six years. The Brown House had become more of a favored boutique hotel to him: he knew where to get food; he knew where his favorite towels were.
But Gracie had loved that house—it was just the right size for their small family. The lush backyard boasted a canopy of oak trees which curved protectively over her daughter’s wooden swing set. When Jaden was a tiny baby, Gracie had purchased the old-fashioned swing set on a whim, setting it up in the middle of the backyard. She’d put Jaden on the baby swing, holding her tight, and push her back and forth and back and forth until her baby would sleep. The moments so sweet she could literally taste them, like biting into a yellow cake with vanilla frosting.
Gracie hadn’t wanted a big house; she hadn’t wanted the burden of more space to take care of, more “things” to worry about. She had been friendly with showbiz people with huge houses. And it was always the showbiz people who had the biggest houses, houses that ranged from 10,000 to you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me square feet; six, seven, eight bedrooms (not counting the maid’s); twelve bathrooms, foyers, decks, huge swimming pools, lap pools, indoor swimming pools for those bitingly cold Southern California afternoons, a panic room (for the wife?).
Kenny continued griping about being a prisoner in this “shit-brown house.” Every time they’d have dinner at someone’slarger, fancier, staffed-to-the-gills house—and they only had dinner with people who had fancy houses—he’d come home in a funk, complaining about how “poor” he felt in his place.
Maybe it was fear of real estate—“acrephobia,” Gracie called it. Gracie was supposed to be trying to find that perfect acre lot replete with McMansion and sycamore trees which had been planted yesterday, rather than forty years ago. Why was it that everything in Southern California had to be new, including the wives? What was wrong with an old house, an old tree, a worn bench, creaky floors, a lined face, gray hairs that sprang up like wiry jack-in-the-boxes? If she had searched long enough inside her psyche, Gracie might have come to another conclusion, different from the fact that in a world where New = God, she preferred Used = Comfort. She would have come to the conclusion that she was fearful of losing that last vestige of herself. She was fearful of losing whatever evidence there was that she was an individual, a fully formed human being with opinions and furrows and a soft tush. The Brown House had become her.
Finally Gracie had given in. She’d called a Realtor by the name of Jameson Rosenau who seemed to appear everywhere, from bus benches to the pages of the
L.A. Times
realty section to the postcards she continually found in her mailbox. He looked handsome in his photographs, but in person he was Lilliputian—from his doll feet to his wee hands, all of five feet and spare change. He stood military-style, chest out, chin high, teeny hand just about ready to salute his new client. “I can get you a millsky for this place, I’m not kidding,” he said, smiling up at Gracie.
Gracie raced back into the house to find her purse and recover her bearings.
G RACIE AND K ENNY moved into the house on Rockingham three months after that fateful trip with Jameson Rosenau. The house had five bedrooms, a guesthouse, a large pool, a cabana, a tennis court, and a long driveway that would be difficult to navigate without the aid of a car and driver.
The house was big, it was grand, it was extravagant.
Gracie hated it. Kenny, on the other hand, loved it, and pirouetted from room to room, a thick, graceless ballerina.
“We’ll throw tons of dinner parties!” he exclaimed.
Gracie just nodded.
“We’ll have people over to play tennis every weekend!”
Gracie
But Gracie had loved that house—it was just the right size for their small family. The lush backyard boasted a canopy of oak trees which curved protectively over her daughter’s wooden swing set. When Jaden was a tiny baby, Gracie had purchased the old-fashioned swing set on a whim, setting it up in the middle of the backyard. She’d put Jaden on the baby swing, holding her tight, and push her back and forth and back and forth until her baby would sleep. The moments so sweet she could literally taste them, like biting into a yellow cake with vanilla frosting.
Gracie hadn’t wanted a big house; she hadn’t wanted the burden of more space to take care of, more “things” to worry about. She had been friendly with showbiz people with huge houses. And it was always the showbiz people who had the biggest houses, houses that ranged from 10,000 to you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me square feet; six, seven, eight bedrooms (not counting the maid’s); twelve bathrooms, foyers, decks, huge swimming pools, lap pools, indoor swimming pools for those bitingly cold Southern California afternoons, a panic room (for the wife?).
Kenny continued griping about being a prisoner in this “shit-brown house.” Every time they’d have dinner at someone’slarger, fancier, staffed-to-the-gills house—and they only had dinner with people who had fancy houses—he’d come home in a funk, complaining about how “poor” he felt in his place.
Maybe it was fear of real estate—“acrephobia,” Gracie called it. Gracie was supposed to be trying to find that perfect acre lot replete with McMansion and sycamore trees which had been planted yesterday, rather than forty years ago. Why was it that everything in Southern California had to be new, including the wives? What was wrong with an old house, an old tree, a worn bench, creaky floors, a lined face, gray hairs that sprang up like wiry jack-in-the-boxes? If she had searched long enough inside her psyche, Gracie might have come to another conclusion, different from the fact that in a world where New = God, she preferred Used = Comfort. She would have come to the conclusion that she was fearful of losing that last vestige of herself. She was fearful of losing whatever evidence there was that she was an individual, a fully formed human being with opinions and furrows and a soft tush. The Brown House had become her.
Finally Gracie had given in. She’d called a Realtor by the name of Jameson Rosenau who seemed to appear everywhere, from bus benches to the pages of the
L.A. Times
realty section to the postcards she continually found in her mailbox. He looked handsome in his photographs, but in person he was Lilliputian—from his doll feet to his wee hands, all of five feet and spare change. He stood military-style, chest out, chin high, teeny hand just about ready to salute his new client. “I can get you a millsky for this place, I’m not kidding,” he said, smiling up at Gracie.
Gracie raced back into the house to find her purse and recover her bearings.
G RACIE AND K ENNY moved into the house on Rockingham three months after that fateful trip with Jameson Rosenau. The house had five bedrooms, a guesthouse, a large pool, a cabana, a tennis court, and a long driveway that would be difficult to navigate without the aid of a car and driver.
The house was big, it was grand, it was extravagant.
Gracie hated it. Kenny, on the other hand, loved it, and pirouetted from room to room, a thick, graceless ballerina.
“We’ll throw tons of dinner parties!” he exclaimed.
Gracie just nodded.
“We’ll have people over to play tennis every weekend!”
Gracie
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