The House in the Cerulean Sea(110)

He didn’t. Not really.

He huffed as he lifted the crate and suitcase.

He was almost there.



* * *



His street was quiet as he turned onto it.

The streetlights were lit, beads of water clinging against the panes of glass.

86 Hermes Way was dark. Oh, the brick pathway to the house was the same, and the lawn was the same, but it still felt … dark. It took him a moment to realize what little splash of color there’d once been—his sunflowers—was gone.

He stared at the front of his house for a moment.

He shook his head.

He’d worry about it tomorrow.

He walked up the path and reached the porch. He set down his suitcase as he fumbled for his keys. They fell to the floor, and he grumbled as he bent over to pick them up.

Through the rain, he heard, “That you, Mr. Baker?”

He sighed as he stood upright. “It is, Mrs. Klapper. I have returned. How are you?”

“Your flowers died. Drowned, if you can believe that. I had a boy come pull them. They were rotting. Hurts the resale value of a neighborhood when a house looks so rundown. I have the receipt for what I paid the boy. I expect to be reimbursed.”

“Of course, Mrs. Klapper. Thank you.”

She wore the same terry cloth robe and was smoking out of the same pipe. Her hair was in the same bouffant. It was all the same. Every little piece of it.

He started to put the key in the lock when she spoke again. “You back for good?”

Linus felt like screaming. “Yes, Mrs. Klapper.”

She squinted at him from across the way. “You look as if you’ve gotten some sun. You don’t seem as pale as you once did. Lost some weight too. Quite a vacation you had.”

His clothes were a little looser on him than they’d once been, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself not caring about that at all. “It wasn’t a vacation. I told you I left for work.”

“Uh-huh. So you said. Though, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with snapping at the office, threatening to murder everyone, and then getting sent away to a rehab facility.”

“That’s not what happened!”

She waved a hand at him. “None of my business if it was. Though, you should know it’s already the talk of the neighborhood.” She frowned at him. “Hurts the resale value.”

He gripped the doorknob tightly. “Are you planning on selling your home?”

She blinked at him as smoke curled around her craggy face. “No. Of course not. Where would I go?”

“Then why on God’s green earth do you care about the damn resale value?”

She stared at him.

He glared back at her.

She took a puff on her pipe. “I got your mail. Most of it was ads. You don’t seem to get much personal mail. I used the coupons. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’ll get it tomorrow.”

He was sure that was the end of it, but of course she continued on. “You should know you missed your opportunity! My grandson met a nice man while you were gone. He’s a pediatrician. I expect there to be a spring wedding. It will be in a church, of course, because they are both godly men.”

“Good for them.”

She nodded as she stuck the stem of her pipe back between her teeth. “Welcome home, Mr. Baker. Keep that filthy animal out of my yard. The squirrels have known a month of peace. I’d like to keep it that way.”

He didn’t bother saying goodbye. It was rude, but he was tired. He went inside the house and slammed the door behind him for good measure.



* * *



It was stale inside his house, the smell of a home that hadn’t been lived in for a while thick in the air. He set down his suitcase and the crate before switching on the light.

It was the same. Perhaps a bit dusty.

There was his chair. His Victrola. His books.

It was all the same.

He bent down and opened the gate for Calliope.

She shot out, tail standing straight up behind her. She was damp and didn’t appear to be amused. She disappeared down the hall to the laundry room where her litter box was.

“It’s good to be home,” he whispered.

He wondered how many times he would need to say that before he believed it.



* * *



He set his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

He changed out of his wet clothes.

He donned his spare pajamas.

He fed Calliope.

He tried to eat himself, but he wasn’t very hungry.

He sat in his chair.

He got up from his chair.

“Some music,” he decided. “Perhaps I should listen to some music.”

He selected Ol’ Blue Eyes. Frank always made him happy.

He slid the record from the sleeve and lifted the lid to the Victrola. He set the record on the spinner. He switched the player on, and the speakers crackled. He lowered the arm and closed his eyes.

But what came from the Victrola wasn’t Frank Sinatra.

He must have switched up the sleeves before he left.

Trumpets flared brightly.

A sweet masculine voice began to sing.

Bobby Darin, grooving about somewhere beyond the sea.

He remembered the way Lucy had bounced in the kitchen, bellowing the words at the top of his lungs.