The Dwelling: A Novel (19 page)

“You were looking for a place with appliances, isn’t that right? I think you’ll find this home ready to move in! There’s brand-new wall-to-wall carpeting throughout, just imagine the expense!” and the three of them went up the walk, Glenn by then in the lead.

By nine they were still in the house. Glenn checked her watch covertly once or twice, but didn’t concern herself. The next showing was not more than five minutes from the bungalow. And she smelled a sale. While the two of them spoke in low whispers in the kitchen, Glenn busied herself in the living room.

At nine-ten they wanted to think about it. Mr. Winkler asked about any others who might have looked.

“It’s the busy season,” Glenn said. “A seller’s market, this year, I’m afraid. There haven’t been any offers thus far, but it’s a newer listing. Why don’t you sleep on it and we can talk about it tomorrow?”

On the sidewalk Mr. Winkler said, “If someone was going to make an offer on this house, say, what would be a good one?” In the seconds it took to size them up, their glassy-eyed, half-terrified look, and the dubious nature of the next showing (third showing for that couple, didn’t need something until October), Glenn decided. She explained that she had another showing in twenty minutes, but if they were serious about discussing it, she could meet them (and there she looked interestedly at her watch) at ten-fifteen at the coffee shop halfway between this house and the next.

“Okay,” he said, looking nervously and happily at his wife. For the first time, Glenn noted that she was pregnant. How had she missed such a thing?

“Won’t that be too late for you?” Mrs. Winkler asked.

Glenn flashed her brightest, most motherly smile at them. “Oh, no, not this time of year. I’ll see you then.”

In the car before the corner she checked her watch again. Nine-eighteen. There wasn’t time to stop for a bite, not even at a drive-through. Her stomach rumbled. Eating was sometimes (lately) difficult for her, and there was no need to stuff something dreadful down at this hour. They had a saying at Shelter.
Eat in January.
It was the busy season.

Glenn crawled into bed at twelve-thirty after a half-dozen crackers and a glass of water. She certainly wasn’t gaining back any of the weight she’d lost after—

After Howard died.
She said the phrase in her mind with trepidation, the way she still did, as though testing herself. It settled there, inside her, and she waited just a moment or two before the next thought, to take stock.

She had showed the second house and sold the first. Tomorrow she had three showings only, a sure sign that things were slowing down. In June, just three weeks ago, she’d shown on average five houses a day, with seven being her record.
(My husband is dead. Howard died. He’s never coming back. Never.)
In another two weeks, she would be trickling down to two—three a day and hold steady there, probably until a couple of weeks after school started. In January she would eat. And she would eat out. A lot.

Lists rambled over and under the other random thoughts. The bungalow on Washington should be reduced. It wasn’t moving. Neighborhood was just not in that range anymore. She would talk to the wife. The Dalls would probably make an offer tomorrow on the condo in Billingsford Estates. The Winklers’ offer had to be dropped off in the morning. First thing. First. Then the Garfield house showing.

Dunston. Crane Street. Ledbetter Road. Columbus. Belisle.

Belisle.
Glenn opened her eyes for a moment into her dark bedroom. Moonlight filtered in through pretty lacy curtains, dappling the silver light across her duvet and the two small mounds that were her feet underneath. The Belisle house had been her first listing; the first listing when she went back to work after—

Howard died.

I’m getting used to it.

Her last thought before succumbing was of the Belisle house. The smell of varnish almost tingled in her nostrils with it and then—

Sleep.

Two days had passed and Glenn hadn’t done a thing about the Belisle property, except drive past it twice on her way to other properties. Her book was full. By Thursday, with the weekend approaching, she had a decent nibble on the Ledbetter Road place, a nice couple from Ohio who were looking for something small to start. One of them had family in the area and they were relocating. That usually meant one of them (Him? Her? It was hard to tell these days) had lost a job and they’d run out of money and were relocating to save a little. Thursday morning she had gone directly from her little house to the Ledbetter place to meet them and was at her desk by eleven, ready to do some paperwork. Not much.

One bit of paperwork was the ad for the Belisle house, which really should have gone in directly on Tuesday. First thing upon sitting, she quickly jotted something down, a standard first-run ad. Appliances were a big coup, especially for first-time home buyers.

(She couldn’t believe Mrs. Mason was asking $96,500. The Masons had bought it on their first offer, a low-ball at $89,000. Even Glenn had been surprised at the acceptance. Now the widow was wanting to make a profit. It was somehow unseemly. And entirely none of her business.)

Glenn read it over. It didn’t say much. She frowned and fiddled with her glasses. Took them off her nose and polished them with a tissue. Bad form. Howard always claimed that tissues scratched glass. Seemed impossible. She put them back on her face. Read the ad once more.

It was a nicer house than could be conveyed in the ad.

That was just too long. She tapped a fingernail on her desk and stared blankly at the computer. Appliances and working fireplace—those were the big sellers.

She decided simply to rerun the original ad. Glenn opened her file drawer and while thumbing through in search of her
Sold
folder she ran across the still-unopened package addressed belatedly to the Masons. It was fat and inviting. She pulled it out.

With her letter opener she scored through the gummed flap, frowning over the wasted postage—out of pocket—and emptied the contents out on her desk, beside the computer. Tiny bits of paper scattered out along with letters and forms, the accoutrement of a house’s paper trail.

In barely legible handwriting, on what looked like the corner torn from a child’s school tablet, was the receipt for one grille sold as is, twenty-five dollars; a name was scribbled underneath that might have been Roy Leg or Ray Ley, but no buyer was listed. Another receipt was for PVC tubing from a large hardware chain. Receipts, for the most part computer-or cash-register generated, were for everything from screws to cans of varnish for the floor. Stain, paint, brushes, clothes, tarps, all came from the same local paint and wallpaper wholesale company. There was a large, detailed receipt from Stanley Mann Wood Finishers—another local company. In the bottom corner, before the subtotal of an outrageous amount, was the notion “Expenses,” with the bracketed reminder, “receipts attached.” It appeared that the Previous Owners paid a great deal of money to refinish the floors on the lower level. Glenn nearly blanched at the figure, even though they had been perfectly refinished. There were many little handwritten receipts, including one for the tub. She smiled, reading, “One tub. As is Scratched and Chipped. Antique. $1,000.” It was signed, but again there was no mention of who did the buying. She pawed through the papers, suddenly very curious about the installation of the beast, but couldn’t find a receipt among the little receipts for the crane that brought the tub to the second floor.
Maybe they just wanted to forget about that particular day,
she thought wryly.
I would have.

There were more receipts for the little things, screws and nails and sealants and wire and pipes. Taps, the sink. The floor tiles in the kitchen had come from Fleur de Lisle Flooring, a very high-end manufacturer, with no store mentioned, so Glenn wondered if they had had Stanley Mann or someone get it for them on a regular trip.

On lined paper, folded in the midst of the larger documents, was a letter that Glenn didn’t think she’d seen before. She unfolded it. It was a few pages thick, and written prose style. Unlike the little note that had accompanied the letter from the insurance company, which listed the renovation in point form, this appeared to be a detailed description of the renovation itself, from bow to stern. She unfolded it.

Simply, at the top of the legal-sized white, blue-lined paper, it said, “362 Belisle.” It was handwritten in what was probably a woman’s handwriting. She flipped through it quickly. It was unsigned.

Obviously, it was written by the elusive Previous Owner.

She began to read. It started as though in the middle of an as-yet uncompleted thought, but there were no other sheets, and the address at the top appeared to be the title of the piece.

Glenn scanned ahead in the letter, but nowhere was there a mention of how much the whole process cost. It must have been horribly, prohibitively expensive. She shook her head.

“The kitchen was tiled in stone—”
The letter detailed the kitchen floor, the process of the wiring, insulation throughout, the cupboard on the west wall in the kitchen, gutted and the built-in dishwasher installed, the gingerbread screen door added to the back of the house. The banister and stairs were refinished by another company—which explained why they seemed to have less luster; Glenn suspected that Stanley Mann Wood Finishers proved to be a little too expensive, either that or they had gotten in too deep by then financially and were cutting corners. There was no date at the top of the letter and no indication of year or real time frame of the renovation. The descriptions seemed to jump around as though the author had sat down and just written what she remembered.

The foreclosure? Their marriage breaking up? For surely that must have happened, with this loose wire running all over the state shopping with impunity, only to have to pay later when they were unsuitable. She wondered where the rest of the barn board was, but she supposed it was sitting in someone’s backyard, still. And the baby?

Paints and numbers for every room were listed neatly, with color names and finishes. All were placeable in her head, except for what was called “the back bedroom,” which could only be the godawful yellow room at the end of the hall, but the paint name was “lilac dust,” which (although you never really knew with paint, she sometimes thought, reading the chip colors, that they were named by deranged teenage girls with an inappropriate interest in Victorian romance novels) could have been anything, she supposed, but seemed to her that it would at least have some kind of “lilac” hue to it. As far as she remembered it was the yellowest room in all the world.

The letter went on and on. It was apparent, from its tone, that the renovation was entirely about the
renovation
rather than any sort of resale value being added to the property. It had to have been, given the number of foolish, expensive choices they had made. The time, expense (and likely, contention) that had gone into that house, and the Masons had gotten it for $89,000. It was a travesty, more so now, she thought, because they
(she)
were attempting to make a profit. How difficult it must have been for the owner to give it up.

“Get rid of that albatross, yet?” Glenn started a little at Paul, behind her.

She sat back and pulled her glasses off, rubbing her eyes. In the meantime, she raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. “I’ve only just got the listing. Am I that good a salesgirl?” she said.

“The Columbus place?”

“Oh,” she said, and sniffed. “I thought you’d meant—never mind.
That
listing is strictly charity. I shall carry it to my deathbed, I think,” she said, the deathbed sticking in her mouth, unseemly given her train of thought and the house she was writing up. The Columbus property was being sold by an older couple who wished to move to Florida. They had bought the house some time in the forties, likely for not much more than a small car, maybe less. A small
used
car. Through the years they updated carefully while the neighborhood collapsed indifferently around them. It was now not much better than a war zone.

“They’re asking sixty,” she said ruefully. “That’s nearly twice as much as the assessment. I’ve had one call, an out-of-town couple, and they wanted an evening viewing. Against my better judgment, I actually drove them into the neighborhood at night, terrified I would have to park my car on the street. It appears my terror was unfounded. There was a gang of teenagers in full, dangerous bloom on the corner and they started asking questions—”

“The questions will get you every time,” Elsie said seriously.

Glenn chuckled. “Anyway, they were very suddenly ‘uninterested.’”

“How old are the couple?”

Glenn shrugged. “I would say in the middle sixties.”

“Appeal to their children. Tell them to talk to their children about the asking price, if you’ve had no luck. You’ve had no luck, right?”

“Well, I haven’t gotten difficult with them.”

“Tell them to talk to the kids,” he said. “What’re you writing up?” The Belisle ad glowed on the computer screen. The letter was open beside the computer and, for some reason, Glenn casually leaned her arm over it, hiding it from his view.

“Belisle,” she said.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “keep a good thought.” He wandered off in the direction of coffee.