The Stations of the Angels
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In the quiet town of Angelica, Texas a street of quaint old houses attracts amused week-end tourists. And sometimes a family feels drawn to move within the circle, finding a home that echoes some need or truth within their lives. Because the homes of Circle St. are the Stations of the Angels; houses of fire and madness, clowns and lions, ghosts and dreams.Clarence lives in a burning house. It’s just home, interesting as white socks. He’s fascinated by the haunted house across the street. In the windows the face of a mysterious girl appears, smiling. For years she waved at Sinclair, who lives in the Fun House, a home of mirrors and whirling floors. Not that Sinclair ever laughs. Granted, Shannon from the House of Sorrow is always upbeat. Anastasia lives with a lion; but takes things calmly. Perhaps the houses don’t define the families; only present them with their choices of who to be, how to look at life.Then again, as Nancy from the House of the Moon realizes after escaping from an asylum: everyone in Angelica just might be a bit crazy.MasonMy parents run a bed-and-breakfast: The Mason’s Due. The name was ‘Le Maison Dieu’. That’s French for ‘The House of God’. Doesn’t market well in Baptist country. So dad relabeled it, me already being Mason. It’s a family name. Besides, God doesn’t have all the house, just half. It’s a duplex. He gets in and out from the stairs in the back. When He wants, I mean. I suppose He can get in any way He wants. There is a big door on the third floor connecting our side of the house and His. It’s kept locked, part of the lease agreementAnastasiaPeople ask, what is it like to live with a lion? They seem disappointed to hear the answer ‘nothing special’. The creature keeps to himself on the third floor. Except for the faint cat-smell, the occasional thump of heavy paws, you could live here a week before realizing you share a home with a lion. Sure he roars in the mornings, but in a lazy way around ten, after yawning and stretching. By then we are long up, dressed, and off to school. Milo”Our parents are insane,” observed my brother. He wasn’t telling me, he was sharing the revelation with himself. We faced a long hall where a clock-work pendulum swung in slow arcs, back and forth and back. Points of nails, jags of knife glittered as they swung. Not a bit hypnotic. My brother hurried me past, timing our crossing.”Invisible Cities” and “Wayside School” meet in Central Texas.