by Holly Brown
But I’ve got bigger problems than the lawn. We approach the back door, next to the laundry room, and I see muddy footprints across the linoleum. The footprints are large, men’s. They must have been made by someone Dawn is manipulating, or paying.
Paying might be worse for me. A mercenary might have no limits as to what he’s willing to do.
Just a few minutes ago I was mocking Kimberly about representing a house where a murder had happened. Now I’m worried that I’ll be the victim.
I’m blowing this out of proportion. A rat, some footprints, a tub ring—it’s not like it equals . . .
This all started with some sheets and $200. I’ve already refunded her double. Anyone else would have dropped this long ago. Dawn really must be nuts, capable of anything.
“If you hadn’t already laid those cleaners off,” Larry says, “I would tell you to fire them immediately.” He yanks open the back door.
Kimberly is rattling off more ideas about the cheapest way to improve the yard, ASAP. “It absolutely can’t stay like that,” she says, “but maybe we can get away with just buying a play structure. That could mean we’re cultivating parents with young children, which has its advantages and disadvantages, especially since it’s only a two-bedroom. Let me think on it more.”
We return to the living room and Kimberly delivers her findings. “I want this listing,” she says. “Someone will pay top dollar for it, I’ll see to that. But I won’t blow smoke.” She thinks we need to stage the house—“this nautical thing is not doing you any favors”—which she’ll pay for, but we’ll also need to do some renovations, which we’d need to cover ourselves. “I’ll tell you exactly which types of fixtures, enamels, trims, et cetera. You’ll want to follow my recommendations exactly.”
“Why’s that?” I ask. My social graces are gone by this point.
“Because with the Santa Monica tech boom and the right upgrades, we can get four and a half million for this house.”
Larry shoots me a glance of barely concealed pleasure. That would be an improbably huge profit—almost triple what my parents paid in the span of ten years.
Larry turns back to Kimberly with his poker face. “And how do we know you’re the one for the job?”
Kimberly pulls out her portfolio: glossy pictures of houses she’s sold, and the listings of nearby comps, highlighting the records she’s broken. Larry grills her for a little while but it feels purely de rigueur. He’s already sold, and he’s convinced that she’ll do the same for whoever comes in the front door.
“You’re on a walk street, and location is everything,” she says. “Plus, the house is gorgeous. The views are spectacular.” Her voice is affectless. She seems unaware that it’s the first compliment she’s paid to the property she’s declaring to be worth more than four million dollars. It occurs to me that this could be a strategy on her part. We expect Realtors to fawn all over us, the customer is always right, blah blah. She’s playing hard to get. Based on Larry’s expression, it’s working.
Now she’s explaining what a genius marketer she is, all the different themed open houses she’s done, the creativity she’ll bring, the catering, the high-end staging, all on her dime. “I haven’t broken any records yet in Santa Monica, and I want to. I think this is the house to do it.”
“We’d like that, too.” Larry grins at her.
“The views are the star, but,” she warns, “the improvements have to be made. A $100K investment will net you half a million. We’ll have a bidding war, I guarantee it.”
“Four million plus a bidding war?” I can’t contain my skepticism. The hubris of young people—the Kimberlys, the Dawns, the Thads—is revolting.
“We price it at four million, or just under, and we’ll end up where we want to be. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
“There’s something I should mention,” Larry says, and it has a sound like he’s putting on the brakes. I look at him hopefully. “The house needs a new foundation. To the tune of thirty-five thousand.”
“Well, that will need to be taken care of before we sell, absolutely. We need to do it fast, just like the rest of the renovations. We want this on the market during the summer months, July at the absolute latest. We want the option of families, and kids start school in August.”
Larry takes the foundation estimate out of his wallet. I feel stricken. I didn’t expect him to actually bring it here, to hand it over to another woman. It’s like he’s just felt her up right in front of me.
As Kimberly scans the paper, she adopts a look of overblown horror. “You cannot go with these people. Where did you ever find them?” She might as well have asked if I got a degree from Moron University.
This is how she talks to a potential customer? I look at Larry, expecting him to be offended, but instead he just says, quietly, “Miranda found them.” Like I’ve embarrassed him. Like he’s losing faith in my judgment by the second. Instead, he trusts Kimberly, whom he met a half hour ago, the woman least likely to understand a sentimental attachment.
“They came recommended,” I say.
Kimberly shakes her head. “Good thing I came along. I have my own guys. They’ll give you a great deal, plus they’ll work fast. You might not need as much work as you think.” She holds the estimate back out to Larry, as if it’s dripping with blood. “These guys are notorious for upselling. You might need a minor repair, and they’ll tell you it’s a total replacement, like they did here.”
That’s what I was counting on.
My face flushes. How long until Larry’s onto me?
I won’t just sit and wait. I flash on the tub, and the muddy footsteps. Dawn’s taken this battle straight to my door and beyond the threshold, literally. It’s time to stop playing defense.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” I say, implying that Kimberly should step out.
“Of course.” She doesn’t budge from our couch. She’s staggeringly impudent, that’s the only word for it. Well, there’s another. Bitch. This is an entitled bitch. She’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted. I do not want her to have this listing, especially if it’s worth four million and change.
Larry follows me into the kitchen and I commence whispering. Whispering, in my home! Because she’s planted on our couch like an azalea bush, like she’s the native.
“I don’t trust her,” I tell Larry. “She’s too young, for one thing.”
“That’s in the plus column, in my book. She’s full of energy. It’s amazing, her success in such a short time.”
“We didn’t see her failures. The houses she overpriced and couldn’t sell.”
“You saw the link I sent you, right? I did my research. What do you take me for?”
I’m not sure if that was a dig about the foundation work estimate or not. I choose to think not.
“Who recommended her,” I ask, “Peter?” He nods. “I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping with her. She’s just his type.” Peter’s conquests are legendary. His wife is a mousy old thing who stayed home raising their children, and the criteria for his girlfriends are that they’re pre-thirty and ambitious.
Larry waves a hand dismissively, but he doesn’t actually deny it. “She knows her stuff. She’s got a vision, and a hell of an impressive track record already. Let’s go with her.”
“We haven’t decided we’re going with anyone. Have we?”
He squinches his face. It’s clear that we—as in, he—have already decided.
No more defense. I’m going to need to go on the offensive, if I want to save all I have.
Nice hasn’t gotten me anywhere in life. I don’t have the respect of my son or my husband. I’m dealing with people who are capable of anything, and I have to be, too. They’re soulless; I’ll be heartless. After all, Thad’s already ripped mine clean out of my chest.
39
Dawn
Thanks for the refund. Better late than never, I guess. And while I appreciate your epiphany, I’m standing by my reviews. You did what you di
d, and you can’t undo it now. We all have to sit with the consequences of our actions, no matter the size of our bank accounts or our houses or who we married.
I delete everything after “actions” and send the text. It’s not nearly as satisfying as I would have hoped. Sure, I’m an irritant, a pebble in Miranda’s shoe, but we’re still worlds apart. For example, I’m about to go fishing in the bathtub drain with an unspooled wire hanger, and she’s got people for tasks like this. No review I post can change that.
But she’s also got Thad. And, in my way, so do I. It’s just a question of what to do with him.
After a few probes with the metal formerly known as a hanger, I remove the dangling hair clot and carry it over to the trash can. This cannot seriously be my life.
Sure, I do most household tasks since Rob works more hours than I attend class, and he brings home the bacon; it’s only fair. But he should be able to wipe up Doritos crumbs, and his own urine from the rim of the toilet. I feel like he’s on some passive-aggressive trip. He got home after ten on Saturday night, claimed he had lots of engraving to do, and he didn’t send a single text, day or night. He was probably waiting on one from me, something sweet, telling him I couldn’t wait to see him. Well, I’m not feeling so sweet lately.
I don’t even get what his problem is. Is it that I have my own mind and feelings and past, and I won’t jump at his every suggestion? Why is he so eager to get me out of town to visit my mother anyway? It would be the ultimate irony if my straight-arrow husband had someone on the side.
No, despite everything, I know he wouldn’t do that. It’s just that something’s changed between us, and I don’t know if it’s him or me. My dad’s death is killing my marriage.
Another text from Thad, saying nothing. Well, he’s saying something. He’s saying, “Waah, I’m insecure.”
What part of “don’t call me, I’ll call you” does he not understand?
Still, it’s harder than I would have expected to ignore him. I don’t miss Rob, exactly, but I do kind of miss Thad.
I take a quick shower, get dressed, and head for campus. Professor Myerson told me to stop by his office before class, and some part of me is sure it’s bad news. I feel the hot breath of graduation on my neck.
If finally getting my bachelor’s degree doesn’t create a sense of pride and excitement, would having a baby? What if it didn’t? Sometimes having a child just seems like Russian roulette. You could get Rob, or you could get Thad. You could have a bullet lodged in your brain for years on end. Years without end.
I wait outside Professor Myerson’s door while he finishes up with another student. My phone pings another incoming text.
Don’t freeze me out, Dawn.
Oh, shut up.
Real mature.
Like it’s real mature to say “real mature.”
This is what you do, Dawn. It’s your m.o. You get too close, and then you disappear. You don’t want anyone to really know you. I’m not going to let you get away with it.
You don’t know me, or my m.o.
Exactly my point.
This is pointless.
I don’t want to be clever with you. Let me in.
No. Stay out. Where’s my skull and crossbones emoji?
Does your husband let you get away with this shit? Is that why you stay with him?
I’m not going to answer that. I shouldn’t have answered him at all.
See, now you’re going to run away. You’re too good for that.
See, he really doesn’t know me at all.
Finally, Professor Myerson ushers me into his office. If possible, there seems to be even more paper and less space than last time.
“I’ve been thinking about your conundrum,” he says, “and I think I’ve got something for you.”
It’s the last thing I expected to hear. In our previous meeting, he slipped out the back door rather than continue our conversation. Not that this broom closet has a back door. This office does not engender hope, frankly. It reminds me how third-tier my school really is.
“I can get you an interview with a VP at Whaley-Barnum.” He’s practically oozing self-satisfaction.
“The pharmaceutical company?” I tell him I want an ethical job that pays and he comes up with Big Pharma?
He nods, still looking all puffed up. “You’d be part of a program to combat the misunderstandings about vaccines. Measles has made a comeback, and potentially deadly diseases could do the same. So you’d be on the front lines, so to speak. You’d be trying to reach all the parents who believe, without any real scientific evidence, that vaccinations could cause autism and other problems.”
“I’d be communicating about something that really matters,” I say. I want to smile, but I’m afraid. It seems too good to be true.
“Exactly.”
“And making real money to boot.”
His grin broadens. “Exactly. I’ve already talked you up to the VP. All you need to do is get me your resume, I’ll pass it along, and he’ll schedule the interview.”
“You really think I’ve got a shot at this?”
“You’ve got a great shot. I told him all about you.”
Now I am smiling, bigger than I have in I don’t know how long. “You don’t know what this means to me. I’ve been so stressed out. Thank you so, so much!” I’d like to hug him but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I’d hate to learn that there’s a catch.
“You’re very welcome.” He stands up, glancing at his watch. I love this guy. Who actually wears a watch anymore? “Let’s get to class.”
I nearly dance out of the office, with Professor Myerson by my side.
A few minutes ago, I was afraid it was all over for me. Now I feel like it’s just beginning.
40
Miranda
It was so good to meet you, Miranda! Just let me know if I can answer any questions for you. I’ve got a million ideas about your house. Really, I can think about nothing else. I’d make you my first priority.
Kimberly
Larry and I made it through a dinner of takeout Thai food without talking about Kimberly Zhou, though that meant we were nearly silent. Neither of us wanted to broach such an incendiary topic.
Larry and I have always had a very civil marriage. It was modeled by my parents, while Larry’s parents illustrated the opposite. They used to have knock-down-drag-outs every few days, to hear him tell it. In contrast and sometimes through great effort (and fraught silence, like tonight), we’ve created a peaceful home. I think that’s to our credit, given the strain of Thad’s problems. A family member’s addiction is a series of earthquakes, and marriages built on a fault line don’t survive. Nar-Anon has certainly taught me that.
Larry scoops up one last mouthful of tofu and vegetables. “That hit the spot.”
I was mostly pushing the food around my plate, too nervous to eat. I’ve lost five pounds over the past few weeks. “Do you want any dessert?”
He shakes his head, his expression turning grave. “You know we need to talk, right?”
“I’m afraid so.” I try to smile.
“Selling’s the only thing that makes sense. You must realize that.”
“The market keeps going up. We could call Kimberly in a year.” I’m fighting to sound as reasonable as he does.
He shakes his head again. “The bubble could pop, and Kimberly is excited now. She wants to take this on. Who knows how she’ll feel in a year?”
“She’ll feel like she can get five million.”
“There are no guarantees.”
“Right. She might not be able to get us the price she says she can. So why not let the house keep appreciating?” My reasonable tone is fast becoming whiny. I need to hold my own. Be a grown-up. “Larry, I want to keep the house.”
“Why? You said yourself that you’re tired of handling the rentals.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
I’m trapping myself already. I’
m not as good with words as other people. Larry, or even Dawn. What’s she doing in this conversation? Rats and muddy shoes, that’s what. They haven’t been far from my thoughts, nor has Thad’s blackmail. “I want to do a long-term rental. I’m not ready to let go of the house yet.”
“It’s just a house. It’s not your father.”
I flinch.
He extends his arm, like an olive branch. His fingers caress mine. I want to pull my hand away. He has no compassion, he’s just learned the mannerisms. This is what he does with his patients. “What I mean is, all your memories will still be yours, whether we keep the house or not. It isn’t going to bring him back.”
“I never said it was. I thought it might bring us forward. You and me. That we could retire there.”
He looks at me with astonishment. “Retire ten miles away?”
“It’s a whole different way of life. You saw what it did for my father. He was like a new man. My parents were the best I’d ever seen them.”
“You think it’ll do that for us?” It’s almost like he pities my naiveté.
“I’d hoped.”
“We don’t need to grow closer. I’m not the workaholic your father was.” Only he’s more like my father than he realizes.
I want to tell him it’s not about his work, or about that California king bed, or the vacations I have to mandate, and maybe it’s not even about Thad, not entirely. I don’t have the words, just the feeling, but that feeling is strong. Something’s not right with us. The house that is my life has dry rot; the foundation can’t hold. I want to think Dawn is the dry rot. If I rid myself of her, once and for all, by whatever means necessary . . .