Chapter One

The New House

April 1951, Cambridge,Massachusetts

Maple Avenue had long been considered one of the prettiest streets in all of Central Cambridge. Sandwiched between Inman Square and Harvard Square, the street was lined with elm, oak, and maple trees on both sides, sprouting out of its richly colored red brick sidewalks. Its many properties consisted mainly of Greek Revivals and Victorian homes built in the late nineteenth century, once occupied by some of Cambridge’s wealthiest families.

Many homes had since fallen into disrepair, given their sheer size and constant need for upkeep. Several had been split into two or three separate units, reflecting the current economic times while providing rental income to help with the costs of running such large homes once inhabited by live-in servants.

The particular house in question—No. 27 Maple Avenue—was one such home. It was a three-story Queen Anne Victorian that now had three separate units, each requiring considerable work. Its once-glorious exterior had been beaten down to chipped, old brown paint, broken turrets around its dormers, and missing shutters from several of its many large windows. There were visible bare spots along its steep roof where the original scalloped shingles had been blown off by the harsh New England weather. A rusted rooster weathervane sat on its highest perch, tied on by some wire, having been rescued before, as it tilted too much to one side while twirling in the soft April breeze.

A realtor’s “For Sale” sign was on the front metal gate, and a recently added “Sold” sticker was slapped across it. It looked rushed and conspicuously applied. Parked by the front gate sat four members of the Gillis family inside a 1948 Buick Special, staring up at the massive home and its current state of disarray.

The thirty-seven-year-old driver, Bernie Gillis, peered through the bug-splattered windshield with a proud look before addressing his mother, Marceline Gillis, who sat in the back seat of his car.

“So, what do you think, Ma? You wanna go in and take a look around?” Bernie asked, holding out the keys in his hand. “I got the keys right here.”

Marceline ignored her eldest son, staring out the passenger window. She had been given the best view of the new house, while her youngest, thirty-year-old son, Johnny, sat up front with Bernie, and her elderly husband, Fred, sat in the back seat beside her.

She didn’t respond, still floored by the sheer size of the “new” house. She was a stocky woman of sixty-two, dressed in a plain brown dress and hat she often wore to church.

“Well, say something, Marce. The boys are talking to you!” her husband, Fred Gillis, said next to her. He was a frail-looking man of seventy-three, who lowered his newspaper, annoyed. “Do you want to take a look inside or what? We’re all getting hungry back here,” he complained.

Marceline again failed to respond, too