“I thought,” lied Homer, making a frolicsome leap into the unknown, “there was some question about the title?”
“Who told you that?” said Small sharply.
“Can’t remember,” said Homer glibly. “Heard it somewhere.”
“Well, there isn’t.” Small led the way into a narrow living room. At once a memory of the past welled up around Homer, because an old building was like a time machine. This one evoked memories of the 1920s. Not the fashionable decade of cloche hats and short skirts and cigarettes in long holders, but the one that appeared in old photographs—rooms crowded with brown furniture, women with odd haircuts sitting on porch swings, radios with matching veneer and lighted dials, chairs upholstered in brown plush. Some of Homer’s aunts and uncles had lived in houses like this. They had sat in the dim light under sepia reproductions of The Light of the World and Sir Galahad, rooms in which the only spot of color was the Sacred Heart.
There was no Sacred Heart hanging on the walls of this room; in fact, the pictures—Homer turned his head from one to another—were quite extraordinary. He moved to look at one of them more closely, but Small was unrolling a map, spreading it out on a table, holding down the corners with a lamp, a couple of ashtrays, and a paperweight.
“What exactly are you looking for? The lots will not be available until the—uh—effectuation of the agreement with the developer. This is the plot plan of my—I mean our land.”
Homer pounced on Small’s slip of the tongue. At once he asked a nosy question. “You live here alone?”
“Yes,” said Small, then, quickly, “No.” His soft eyes blinked. “My wife’s away.”
“I see.” Homer wanted to explore the house and find the room in which Bluebeard stored the bodies of his murdered wives—hadn’t he been widowed several times? But Small was pointing to the map, running his finger around the pink area of Meadowlark Estates, spreading a proud hand over the broad rectangle of Songsparrow. “Ninety-nine acres, sixty-five lots accepted by the planning board.”
“How much per lot?”
“Well, of course, that depends on the lot in question. Some are more desirable than others.”
“But the average price might be—?”
“Oh, say, two hundred and fifty, three hundred.”
“You mean three hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand dollars for a lot?”
“Yes, I’d say that was about average.” Small had a way of looking around the room as he talked, frowning at the backs of chairs and the glass knobs of doors.
Homer trailed his finger over the map and stopped at the lot farthest from the highway. “How much is this one?”
“Oh, well, that’s a very choice lot, looking out over the pond. I’d say four hundred for that one.”
“Might I see it?”
Small looked surprised. “Well, I guess so. I don’t see why not.”
The landscape of Songsparrow Estates was a monoculture of burdock. This year’s growth was green and flowering, last year’s bristled with burrs, which caught in the fabric of Homer’s coat. Small evergreens emerged from the burdock, just visible above the prickly surface. “You planted those?” said Homer, pointing to a cluster of infant white pines.
“My wife—” began Small, then stopped and said feebly, “That’s right.”
“Ouch,” said Homer, tripping over a lump of brick. He rubbed his shin and looked down at a low structure almost hidden by burdock.
“Feeding platform,” explained Small. “This used to be a pig farm.”
“Ah,” said Homer, the light dawning. “Of course.” He gazed around, imagining the landscape teeming with pigs. “How many did they have?”
There was a pause, as if Small were weighing the question, considering his answer carefully. “Oh, thousands, I think. They were long gone when my wife—when we came into possession of the property.”
“Was the other place here then?” asked Homer inquisitively. “Meadowlark Estates?”
Again there was a wary pause. Then Small said, “No, Meadowlark is only about five years old.”
“So, when your wife—when you got hold of this place, the whole area around here was rural Aren’t you sorry to see what’s happened to it?”
“Sorry! Oh, no!” Small looked shocked. “Property values, they’ve gone way up.” Instantly regretting this remark, he looked sidelong at Homer and took it back. “That is, the land is worth a little more. Individual parcels have more value.”
“You’re still classed as agricultural, is that right? So your town taxes are way down? Even though the pigs aren’t here anymore?”