Running With Scissors_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [14]
A doctor’s house.
I had dressed up in pressed gray slacks, a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer for the occasion. At the last minute, I added a gold-tone ID bracelet.
“It’s just down here,” my mother said. “On the right.”
The street was lined with immaculate homes, each more stately than the next. Perfectly trimmed hedges, double fireplace chimneys, tall front doors painted glossy black, porches fronted with latticework. It was a protracted-jaw, New England money street. “This is nice,” I remarked. “I’d love to be a doctor.”
“I imagine a lot of the Smith professors live on this street,” my mother said. Smith College was just past the center of town.
And then up on the right, I saw one house that did not belong. Instead of being white and pristine like all the others, this house was pink and seemed to sag. From a distance, it looked abandoned. In a neighborhood of whispers, it was a shriek. “That’s not it, is it?” I said warily.
My mother hit the blinker and slid the car over to the side of the road. “That’s it,” she said.
“It can’t be.” Utter disbelief.
“That’s it, Augusten,” she said. She killed the engine and tossed the keys in her bag.
“Wait,” I said, feeling panic. “That can’t be it.”
“That’s Dr. Finch’s house,” she said, finally.
We got out of the car and I shielded my eyes from the sun as I scanned the house. The pink paint was peeling off, exposing veins and patches of bare wood. All the windows lacked shutters and were covered with thick plastic, making it impossible to see inside. And the lawn—at least what was once a lawn—was nothing more than firmly packed earth that had the look of heavy foot traffic. Parked crooked in the driveway with the nose touching the corner of the house was an old, gray BuTck Skylark. It was missing all its hubcaps.
My mother walked across the dirt to the front porch and I followed. She rang the doorbell, which generated a strange and very loud electric buzz. I pictured wires deep inside the wall crossing, then sparking to make this sound, which was reminiscent of a chain saw in the distance.
Nobody answered the door, but I could make out the distinct sound of running from inside, a tinkle of piano keys and then a crash.
She hit the buzzer again, holding it.
A moment later, the door opened and a hunchback appeared. It was a lady hunchback with kinky, grayish, almost purple hair. She was holding an electric can opener, the cord dangling to the floor.
“Hello, Deirdre,” the hunchback said. “Come in.” She stood back and waved the can opener in the air, indicating our welcome. She resembled a candy cane without the red stripes. She leaned forward, head down, as if trying to assume the crash position in an airplane while standing.
My mother said, “Thank you, Agnes,” and she stepped inside.
I followed. The lady reminded me of Edith Bunker from All in the Family, except with really bad posture.
“Hello,” the hunchback said to me. “You must be Augusten. Am I pronouncing your name right? Uh Gus Ten, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” I answered with practiced courtesy. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’m Agnes, Dr. Finch’s wife. You two make yourself at home and I’ll go get the doctor.” She turned and walked down the narrow, creaky hallway that was next to the stairs.
My mother turned to me. “Stop making that face,” she whispered.
The house smelled like wet dog and something else. Fried eggs? And it was such a mess. The runner I was standing on was so threadbare that it appeared to have melted into the wood floor beneath it. I stepped around my mother and peered into the room on my right. It had tall windows and a large fireplace. But the sofa was turned over on its back. I stepped around to look into the opposite