Floating Staircase(6)

“Ha. Don’t quit your day job.” I strolled past him down the hallway toward the one door I hadn’t yet opened.

Adam called after me: “The movers put all your boxes marked storage down there.”

“Thanks.” I opened the door on a set of rickety wooden stairs that sank deep into a concrete cellar. Somewhere down there a light burned, casting a tallow illumination on the exposed cinder block walls. I descended the stairs halfway until I saw an exposed bulb in the center of the low ceiling, hanging from several inches of wire. Its pull cord swayed like a hypnotist’s pocket watch.

A number of boxes were stacked at the foot of the stairs. I stepped over them and tugged on the pull cord, which broke off in my hand and sent the bulb swinging, casting alternating shadows around the room.

“Goddamn it.”

Standing on my toes, I reached up and steadied the light but couldn’t slip the cord back into place to shut it off. In the end, I padded my fingers on my tongue, then gave the bulb a half turn. The light went out.



We spent the rest of the daylight hours moving boxes from room to room, putting pieces of furniture together, scrubbing the bathrooms and the kitchen, and overall warming up to our new surroundings.

By the time night had fallen, we were all hungry and exhausted. The kids began to fuss, and Beth herded them home, insisting that we join them for dinner.

Their house had a closed-in porch, heated in the winter, where we charged through a meal of roast pork, some string bean and bread crumb concoction, mashed potatoes, and corn bread. For dessert, Beth set out an apple pie and ice cream, eliciting cheers from the children, and Jodie poured the coffee while Adam hunted around his basement for a bottle of port that was bent on remaining elusive. My brother finally returned from the basement empty-handed and defeated, then cut himself a giant slice of pie to make up for his efforts.

Beth talked about my last novel, Water View, and how she’d introduced my work to the neighborhood book club. “You’ll meet most of them next week. We’re having some people from the community over for a little Christmas party. It’ll be a great opportunity for you two to meet your new neighbors.”

“Please, Beth,” I said. “Don’t go wearing yourself out on our account.”

“My book club was going to meet anyway. I’ll just invite a few more people over, have them bring some desserts. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s a nice town,” Adam said. “Quiet, friendly.”

“Did you know the people who used to live in our house?” Jodie asked.

“The Dentmans,” Adam said. “We knew them a little, I guess.”

“We didn’t know them at all,” Beth corrected. “They were weird. Kept to themselves.”

Adam shrugged. “Desiring privacy doesn’t make you weird, hon.”

Beth flapped a hand at her husband, then turned to Jodie. “Don’t listen to him. They were weird.”

“Well, the house was a steal,” I said.

“Property isn’t very expensive out here,” Adam said, his mouth full of pie. “It’s like a well-kept secret from the rest of the state. Those mooks in Baltimore don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Mooks,” Madison parroted, giggling.

“And,” he went on, “it’s the perfect place to raise a family.”

“Yes, Adam,” Jodie piped up. “Please explain that to my husband. He seems to be ignorant of the whole biological clock phenomenon.”

I groaned and leaned back in my chair. “A week ago we were stuffed in a two-room flat with no central heating. We had to chase homeless people off our front steps every morning. You wanted to introduce kids to that?”

“Look around. We’re not there anymore.”

“Hey,” Beth said, lifting her glass of wine. “I want to make a toast. I’m so happy you guys moved out here.” She glanced at me, too obvious not to notice. Anyway, I think she wanted me to notice. “To new beginnings.”

“New beginnings,” Adam repeated.

We drank.





CHAPTER THREE

It was closing on ten thirty when Jodie and I walked down the snow-covered dirt road that led to our new home. The air smelled of winter and of grist from the distant mill on the outskirts of town. Immense and overarching, the dark trees leaned down toward us like living things hungry to pick us off the Earth. Our commingled breath puffed out in clouds.

I gave Jodie a squeeze. “You happy?”

“Of course.” She’d been quiet and introspective for the rest of the evening following dessert.

“What is it?” I said.

“I wish you’d be more open to discussing things.”

This was about the comment Adam had made at the table—this was about getting pregnant and having babies.

“We just moved in the house today. Can’t we do one thing at a time?”

“We’re adults. We’re capable of doing more than one thing at a time. We’re capable of making adult decisions.” We paused at the foot of the porch. The house, dark and brooding and contemplative, looked down on us. “Don’t you want kids?”

“Eventually.”

“Well,” Jodie said, “my eventually will eventually run out.”