Rise: How a House Built a Family(23)

“Know how to set da rebar?” he asked, truck door open and one foot on the bent, mud-encrusted running board.

I angled my head toward the oak where I’d propped the stakes and pink string. A fat bag of black rebar chairs rested against the oak like a lumpy pillow.

“Shit.” Jimmy spit a nauseating brown stream. “Better off usin’ rocks in dat clay mess. Got a mini spring yonder.” He pointed at the far corner of my den. “Wear yo hip waders.” He laughed and I joined him. Might as well. Once I sorted out what all that meant, it would probably be funny.

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll be calling you for the Donna Fill before long.”

He nodded and pulled away, no doubt with a fine story to tell at the next job site.

I had barely squeaked through the ground breaking even with a professional on site to fix my mistakes. Now that I was all alone, the gaping foundation holes were as daunting as pathways to the underworld. Even repetitive viewings of geo39th’s wise overview of footings hadn’t managed to make me look like an expert. If I went back and watched the video, I was willing to bet I’d see a line of chalk or paint when the backhoe ate a hole in the earth. He had probably imagined that any imbecile would know enough to take that step. It went without saying. You couldn’t leave the strings and stakes up for the dig. That would be just plain stupid. And even though geo39th had sworn by the rebar chairs, he wasn’t working in red clay. And what was this about a mini spring? I walked around the trench, my courage as unstable as the wet earth.

The far corner where Jimmy had directed his laughter was closest to the neighbor’s pond. It was still a good 250 feet from the water, but there was no question he was right. The neatly squared corner held at least six inches of water, and the water was pooling higher and building to a stream moving toward the front of the footing.

“Hip waders? All my boots have heels.” I kicked a layer of mud off my old running shoes. They weren’t going to be the ideal footwear for the construction project after all.

Look at your feet, I heard Matt say with a contemptuous snarl. And as badly as I wanted to feel superior and strong and a million years away from the effect of his shaming, I didn’t. I felt inadequate, like I was a failure with big feet and a small, small mind. What made me think I could build a house? I had just made a fool of myself, breaking ground with our self-rising Christmas flour. The loan officer would flash me a classic smirk for that one—and I deserved it.

I pulled my muddy shoes off into a shopping bag and drove back to the house in cold stocking feet. The image of Caroline’s tornado house that had been perfectly clear in my mind that morning had faded into a blur that barely felt real. Balancing the kids, work, and building a house felt impossible. What had I been thinking? I had a big software project to roll out. My mystery novel, which I thought of as my future, had a weak protagonist and a weaker plot. I had freelance articles to get to the newspaper, and we needed the cash to keep paying the bills. It wasn’t going to be easy. What had Mr. Rothschild been thinking? The bank had been insane to loan me money; I was a terrible gamble.

Hershey greeted me with a stripe of fur on her back raised into a Mohawk. The house was quiet and empty.

I had less than an hour to work on an article before the kids came home. Hope would pick Roman up on her way, and he would be clingy and cranky after a long day in day care. I felt a little clingy and cranky myself, so that suited me just fine. Everything worthwhile had run out of my mind, leaving me raw and empty. My editing progress sucked even more than usual, and tomorrow’s deadline loomed closer and more impossible by the minute.

The courage I hoped to find building a house wasn’t going to drop in my lap; I was going to have to hunt it down and trap it. Fifteen minutes before the afternoon chaos arrived, I stretched out on my bed with my eyes closed, my mind buzzing with to-do lists. Years ago, I had tried guided meditation but had never mastered it. There had never been a time when I needed to clear the space between my ears more than that moment.

I talked myself through what I remembered of the old meditation CD. Squeeze and then relax your toes. Your calves. Your fingertips. Feel a warm breeze passing over your body. A bright light rose up and wrapped around me. Had that been part of the CD? It was peaceful, so I floated awhile, weightless and empty. The CD man had told me in a low, gravelly voice that people often met their true selves on deep meditation journeys. My true self was superb at hiding, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet her anyhow. I shivered, losing my concentration. What if I found Caroline there, standing in the upstairs window, framed by the red curtains? Even though I admired that imaginary woman, I was afraid to meet her, afraid she would narrow her eyes at my weakness, my fear.

Breathing deep, I fell weightless in the center of the warm light. I opened my eyes—not for real, but in the little dream world—and someone was sitting cross-legged near my right hip, chin pressed on his chest to look down at me. It wasn’t my true self unless my deepest soul was an elderly black man with a sun-weathered face and narrow, dark eyes.

He sat perfectly still with his hands in his lap. His lips stretched flat, expressionless, and I had the sense there were few teeth behind them. His eyes felt wise and a little world-weary. He was trying to tell me something with those eyes, and I hoped it wasn’t another damn secret I was supposed to intuitively absorb. I was tired of life’s coded messages. I willed him to speak, to tell me the grand secret of life. He didn’t say a word, just continued looking down at me, rarely blinking but stretching it out long and slow when he did, like he was falling asleep and waking again. His name was Benjamin; I knew that without him saying.