Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (11 page)

The next day I visit Katrina and Ruben, and we haul out Ruben’s fat book on home construction. He’s trained as an architect, and has recently reentered his field after a stint of odd jobs: bartender, tour leader, trolley driver. Ruben is movie-star handsome. He’d play the Latin lover, irresistible, passionate. But he’d have to work to fit the dark, stormy stereotype. Ruben is as warmhearted and kind as they come, and when he smiles, you’d swear someone turned on a light in the room. Together, he and Katrina are a knockout couple.

“Ten-inch walls, ten-by-twenty footings,” Ruben announces. “You might want to read this section about foundations,” he suggests, and hands me the book—dense, but interesting all the same. I love learning this stuff. Take footings. I never thought about the idea that something needs to hold the foundation walls in place. I guess I thought the floor did that, through some bizarre principle of expansion. But then that wouldn’t explain dirt cellars. Footings. I taste the word, think of the expressions I have heard, the metaphors of certainty and security that I have understood without any knowledge of this construction term. Footings. I study the illustrations in Ruben’s book and sense, almost as much as I see, the thick perimeter of concrete that will be the solid resting place for the foundation, the very base of what will one day be my office.*

*
THE WEEK TAKES ME BACK
to Town Hall. I want to make sure my building paperwork is good to go as soon as I get the official document from Conservation. On this my second visit to the Building Department, I am introduced to Mr. Martin, the building inspector who is in charge of my section of town. He is kind and patient with me, and intrigued with the cottage-moving plan. I show him some photos of the cottage we will move, and when he hears of my time constraints, he advises me to show him everything I have before I actually apply for the permit. He’ll look it over and make sure nothing is missing. “You don’t want to get hung up on some technicality,” he says with a grin.

“I have my stuff with me now,” I offer. “Do you have a minute?”

He leads me into his office and offers me the plastic seat next to his desk. His workspace consists of a small metal desk in a windowless room he shares with at least two colleagues. The room could use a paint job, but at least he doesn’t suffer with that strange shingled façade that delineates the boss’s office at the rear of the space.

As soon as we are seated, I show him my foundation plan. The existing house sits on a concrete block foundation that is only four feet high. To avoid disturbing that foundation wall, we have designed something Ed calls a “shelf.” The back section of the cottage foundation (which will be poured a distance of four feet from the original house) will match the existing foundation, with a four-foot depth. The front section, starting about ten feet away from the existing house, will be a full eight feet deep. To create this split-level basement, we will actually construct two separate foundations. Looked at from the side, the base of the shorter foundation is like a long shelf four feet above the base of the taller foundation. Thus, the terminology.

I’ve drawn the plan on the computer, with phone support from Harry. Mr. Martin looks it over, listens to my explanation, and asks about the extra wall that will support the section of hallway that leads to the kitchen. Concrete block, I tell him, and he tells me I need to specify that on the plan. “Show me where it’s poured and where it is block. Do you have elevations?”

“I’m working on those.” Elevations—face-on drawings that in this case will show the walls, the locations of windows, and the cellar door—are my least-favorite thing to draw. I can see in space better than I can represent what I see in two dimensions, especially with a computer program. I knew I’d need the elevations for the foundation guys, but I didn’t realize that the Building Department would want them, too. Mr. Martin also needs a basement plan, he tells me, and all the smoke detectors must be indicated on the plan. The code on “smokes,” as he calls them, is based on square footage of living space and requires one in every bedroom, but the enforcement in my case is complicated because the bulk of my project is not new construction.

“Is the one you have already hard-wired?” I confirm that it is. That smoke alarm was added about ten years ago—when the new furnace was installed. “Well, that might do it for the old house. But you’ll need at least one up and one down in the new section. And one in the hallway.”*

*
THREE DAYS LATER,
Conservation order and building application in hand, I begin my long march through the offices in Town Hall. The assessor’s office is a breeze. I’m all paid up on my property taxes; the signature is easy. Planning, no problem; another few minutes, another signature. But Health. Despite my earlier conversation with Mr. Barry of the Health Department, I am now informed my application is questionable.

“You’re adding bedrooms,” she says.

I explain that I have only one bedroom now, but that I have a three-bedroom septic system. “Yes, but you’re adding bedrooms,” she says.

“I am adding one room that qualifies as a bedroom. That will make it a two-bedroom on a certified three-bedroom system.”

“Yes, but you’re adding bedrooms,” she repeats, and this becomes her mantra, a response to every argument I muster. I tell her that I have already discussed this with her colleague. I try to explain my hurry, that the cottage is coming, that I don’t have the luxury of building an addition at my leisure, that the addition will simply arrive—and it needs to do that before Memorial Day weekend. She has no sympathy. Mr. Barry is not here, and I am adding bedrooms.

As we grow more frustrated with each other, I begin to suspect that she is giving me a harder time because I am a woman. I have watched three male contractors come and go, joking, flirting, asking her about her vacation. She helps them with a smile, signs on their dotted lines, chats about Disney World before she returns to me with a frown, withholds her signature.

I am not feeling very warm toward the fact of her femaleness, either. I find myself wishing I were dealing with a man. I hate my gender-biased, antifeminist thinking, but I do suspect I could charm my way out of this questionable application were I facing one of her male colleagues across the counter. When at last she decides to get a second opinion, I am hoping it will come from her boss, Tom, my bandmate, but he is nowhere in sight.

“It’s a gray area,” her colleague agrees, as he looks at the plan, and the little 3-by-5 card with my septic system on it. “Did you check the codebook?” Together, they consult the Title V Septic Code, an 8 ½-by-11 sheaf, which is easily one inch thick.

“I am only a one-person household,” I say, while they search for the answer in the fine print. “Well, one person and a cat, and he uses the litter box.” No laughter. They confer some more and decide my septic system may be adequate, but must be inspected. I’ll need to produce a completed report from a certified septic inspector before the Health Department will sign off on my building application.

I thank Ms. Adding Bedrooms for the list of town-approved and certified septic inspectors and consider I should have never come to Town Hall before lunch. If I weren’t hungry, I could put this setback into perspective. As it is, I am close to tears when I run into Tom in the hallway outside the Health office. In the few rehearsals since the last time I saw Tom at Town Hall, he’s learned about my project. I am always slow to pack up after playing—we flute players have a lot of swabbing to do after a two-hour session, and Tom tends to linger a bit, reviewing the tough passages on his horn. With two small kids at home, it’s hard for him to practice uninterrupted. Lately, we have been leaving the auditorium together, walking to our cars while he quizzes me about my project. Until recently, our small relationship was largely based on the fact that we respect each other’s playing. We hear each other across the band; I play soprano to his bass. It’s funny getting to know someone in such a setting: You know the sound and skill before you know the person. The cottage has provided us with a reason to know each other just a little better.

“Kate,” he says, because he sees me first.

I pull myself together in the manner befitting the principal flute player he knows. “Your colleagues sent me packing,” I say, holding up my building application and the list of inspectors.

“You need an inspection?” he asks. I realize I could put him in a very awkward position if I tell the whole story, so I just nod. “Let me see the list.” He runs through it. “Some of these guys charge way too much for the same job. But we can’t control the pricing.” He tells me whom he would call if he were in my shoes. “They all fill out the same form, do exactly the same thing. This guy only charges $125 or $150. Some of these guys try to get $300—even $325—for the same job.” I can tell this really bothers him.

I thank Tom for his insider information, but I have already decided to call Mr. Macomber. In the town of Barnstable, his family controls all the elements of our lives that we would prefer not to mess with ourselves; septic systems, trash collection, and bookkeeping services represent the three branches of the family. I tell Mr. Macomber, when he answers the phone himself, that I’ve been getting my trash taken away for the last fourteen years by his brother’s company, and that before I had my new septic installed, I’d been a customer of his. I explain my situation, the cottage, the hurry, and then I beg him to write me in for an inspection this week.

“Tomorrow or the next day. How about that?”

“That would be great.”

“Now, it will take me two more days to fill out all the paperwork. Sounds like you don’t want me to mail it—that will take another day. You’re close by. I can probably just drop it in your mailbox when I’m done. Or send somebody by your house on their way to a job.”

My thanks are profuse, excessive, and completely sincere.

Thirty minutes later, a big red Macomber’s truck backs into my driveway, and I can tell the driver is amused by my enthusiastic welcome. “This is great! Are you really going to do the inspection right now, today?”

“Had some time between jobs, so he sent me over,” he says. “Where is it?” I lead him to the approximate location of my septic system, where he sticks a metal stake in the ground, brings it up, moves a few inches, taps down, hauls up. This process continues for several minutes until he strikes concrete. Then he begins to dig. Egypt, fascinated by this process, stays behind with the inspector when I decide to move inside, out of the rain, away from the contents of my septic system, which I fear may be on display at any moment.

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I’ll knock on your door when I’m done,” he says, and gets back to his digging. “Hey, what’s with this cat?” he yells after me. Egypt is poised several feet from the inspector, watching his every move.

“He thinks he’s in charge of you,” I call back to him. “He thinks he’s a dog.” I know Egypt would be insulted by this remark, but the man hears it as a recommendation on my cat’s behalf. I walk back towards him. “Do you want me to bring him inside?”

“No, that’s okay.” He leans on his shovel, takes another look at Egypt, shrugs. I hear the sound of metal scraping concrete as I walk away.*

*
FRIDAY AFTERNOON,
I emerge triumphant from Town Hall. I feel like skipping down the steps, shouting my good news to the world.
I have a building permit!
It is a small, everyday thing that builders do. But I feel like I have accomplished a great and enormous feat. I am exhilarated. I want to call friends, celebrate, have a party. I settle for paging John. He calls me back immediately.

“I have the permit!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. It’s right here in front of me.” I am pleased that he is surprised.

“When you told me you had to get a septic inspection, I figured we’d just lost two weeks, easy,” he tells me.

“I’m glad you didn’t say that then.”

“How’d you do everything so fast?”

I tell John about Mr. Macomber and the red truck that came so quickly. I tell him how I called each morning for two days to check on the report, and how, once the passing grade was hand-delivered to my mailbox, I gathered everything up and raced to Town Hall, arriving within the confines of that critical one-hour window, and how when I got there, my friend Tom was at the counter, how he smiled and signed off, accepting as evidence, but never opening the report to verify I had passed. I tell John how I made my way up to Conservation to find no one available for the sign-off, but how when I explained my situation to the secretary, she told me to pay the fees over at Building, and leave the package for her to pass back with the signatures. I tell him about the holdup in Building over the estimates, and how I had to show Mr. Ralph Crossen himself some photos of the cottage to prove it was in fine shape.

“I didn’t realize that the fee for the permit is based on the size and cost of the project. He thought we bid low. But he approved it in the end.”

“Yeah,” John says after he listens to my excited monologue. “That’s great.” He’s low-key, but I can tell he does think it is great, and he is happy we won’t be delayed. It isn’t a champagne toast, but I’m glad I called John with the good news. “We can start Monday like we planned. I’ll call Brian and get the Bobcat lined up. I still can’t believe you got the septic that fast.”

“Perseverance,” I say. “Oh, and also having my system pumped the next day. A thank-you for the quick service that I was asking Mr. Macomber to provide.”

“Did it need to be pumped?”

“Probably. It hasn’t been in years.”

He laughs. “See you Monday morning.”*

*
I WAS HOPING
for another warmish day, the kind of day that makes you want to be outside, to be in the dirt, to welcome spring, but this Saturday morning is chilly, gray, and threatening. Tony and Harry are here already, and Katrina is on her way. The plan is to move as many plants as we can in a day’s time. We need to dig up more than half the perennial garden in the front yard to make way for the equipment and rescue as much as we can from the patio area where the cottage will land. The Bog Boys will take care of the heaviest work—pulling up the slate patio, moving some of the larger shrubs—and they will also construct the silt fence with the hay bales and fencing material that Scott dropped off yesterday. Katrina and I, meanwhile, will dig and dig, moving the tender shoots that we can see and the invisible roots that I know are there.