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Kind of Like Cinderella
The three of us return the way we came, through the shrubs, and around the fountain.
“What is a carriage house anyway?” I ask.
“It’s rather like a garage,” she says. “But fancier. It’s where we park our carriage.”
“You have a carriage?” The only carriage I know of is the one that took Cinderella to the ball, so this is incredibly interesting.
“Why, of course I do, Dear. Why else would I have a carriage house?”
We’re almost where we started at the back steps, when she points slightly to the right. I can barely make out the shape of a door. I didn’t notice it the first time because of all the ivy and shrubbery hiding it.
She pushes some of the green stuff aside and gives the door a shove with her shoulder . . . and there it is, folks! Cinderella’s carriage! Only it’s black, and not shaped like a pumpkin. But, it’s the first real carriage I’ve ever seen.
“Can we ride in it?! Can we?!”
Tommy tries to climb up its step to peek in the windows, but the step is too tall, and he’s too short.
“We can sit in it,” she says. “To ride, there must be horses, and the horses have other things to do today.”
Mrs. Hallovich picks Tommy up, opens the carriage door, and deposits him inside. “Up you go,” she says, gesturing for me to follow him.
Even though I’m in shorts and a t-shirt, and my baby brother sits beside me with slobber shining all over his belly, I have to say, I’m feeing pretty Cinderella-ish.
“This is awesome!”
She smiles at me. “Maybe sometime, when the horses are here, they can take the three of us for a ride.”
I nod to be polite but I’m pretty sure she’s joking. She talks like the horses are people who might stop by someday for a visit. Not likely.
Tommy is trying to crawl out the open, front window and into the driver’s seat. He makes car noises, “vroom, vroom!”
Mrs. Hallovich hops up to the front seat, pulls him on through the window, plunks him in her lap, and begins explaining about horses.
I step back down to check out the rest of the place.
With the exception of all the torture devices, it looks a lot like our garage at home. There are some tools here that I’ve never seen before, with wicked looking blades and heavy chains and pinchers. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs cover garden tools that have fallen over and piled up on top of each other. Some of the tools on the shelves are not as dusty, like maybe they’ve been used in the last 10 years.
Across the back wall is a large workbench. Here, the tools are no less evil looking, but they’re neatly arranged, and I recognize what most of them are. On a shelf above is an old lantern, and a beautiful, broken clock that is stopped forever at 3:17.
I continue on around to the other side of the carriage. Tommy is now making the appropriate giddy-up, and clippety-clop noises that Mrs. Hallovich just taught him. She’s following me with her eyes.
This side of the carriage house is way more interesting. There’s an old sewing machine, a butter churn, an old bike, ice skates, a wash board, wooden barrels, and (oh my gosh!) could it be? It’s half covered up with a tarp but the end is sticking out.
“Go ahead and pull the tarp off,” Mrs. Hallovich says from the carriage seat.
I do as she says, and once the dust settles, and I stop sneezing, I see before me . . . a sleigh! Not exactly one like I imagine Santa has, but a real sleigh.
“When I was a very young girl, my mother and I would warm bricks to place at our feet, then snuggle under layer after layer of blankets while Daddy drove us through the snow. That was before anyone had cars.”
“Before cars?” I ask. I don’t think I know anyone else who lived before cars.
“Cars were just beginning to come into the world, but not many people had them yet.”
I’m taking this in stride when I think . . . wait a minute. My dad’s mom looks older than Mrs. Hallovich and I’m pretty sure she grew up with cars. Then, I remember what Mrs. Hallovich said about her parents not being able to smile in their photos. I’ll have to ask Mom and Dad, but I think Mrs. Hallovich is losing it.
“That must have been pretty neat,” I tell her.
“Maybe, if there’s a large snow this winter, we can get it out for a ride.”
Whether she’s off her rocker or not, that sounds amazing. I nod my head.
She points to something behind the sleigh: a croquet set covered with dust. “Do you play croquet?” she asks.
“No, I never have.”
“I’ll teach you this week, while you’re here.”
I nod and continue around to the front of the carriage. This wall is taken up almost entirely by a door large enough for the carriage to pass through. In the corner is a set of stairs.
“Where do those go?”
“Up to the guest’s quarters. No one has been up there for years.”
When she says this, I notice that the stairs have no dust on them. Someone has been using those quarters. I’d make a great detective. Maybe the police could even use me now. I nod politely. I’ll have a look for myself later this week.
As I complete my circle around the room, I notice something I didn’t see before. On the wall behind all the old, rusty tools is a fireplace. Its heavy mantle has so much junk piled on top, that it was hard to see at first.
“Was the fireplace to keep the horses warm?”
“No, the horses stay in a barn across the pond. This bottom floor was originally someone’s home. The top floor was added in 1893 when my father built the main house.”
I’m trying not to be annoyed and I’m also starting to feel sorry for Mrs. Hallovich. I’m not a math genius, but there’s no way her father could have built this house. I’m dying to ask if she’s immortal, but that would cross into the territory of not respecting my elders - a sin worse than murder at my house. So again, I smile and nod my head.
I think I’ll tell my parents tonight how crazy she is. Then, I think, if I tell them that, they won’t want to bring us here tomorrow, and I won’t be able to see what’s up those stairs in the corner, or have a look at the rest of the house. Then, I think, wait . . . do I actually want to come back here tomorrow? Am I losing my mind?
“Penny for your thoughts,” Mrs. Hallovich says.
Why offer to pay for them when she gets them for free?
“I’m still thinking about that sleigh ride,” I say.
“Sure you are,” she says.
I turn my head sharply toward her, but she is helping Tommy down from the carriage. When she turns back toward me she is wearing a regular expression, not an expression like someone who just made a wisecrack.
“Ready to go back inside?” she asks.
“Sure I am.”
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