by Lisa Cach
This was someplace I could see living.
The house was on a corner, huge and white and shaded by leafy trees. I parked next to the curb and walked up the brick path, taking in the yard that, while tended and neat, looked like nothing new had been planted for years.
I imagined myself taking on the role of gardener. Climbing roses for the trellises on the sides of the portico; lilacs in a hedge along the front, for privacy; the usual tulip bulbs for spring, and dahlias for summer. Mom would have some good suggestions, if I asked.
The paint on the house was sanded off in places, as if awaiting a fresh coat. Two of the small panes of glass in the sidelights were cracked. I was reminded of Dad’s comments through the years about the pains of fixing up an old house, and couldn’t help but be struck by the possibility—the synchronicity?—of ending up doing the same thing myself, with Tyler.
I rang the bell.
I caught a glimpse of movement through the sidelights, and then the door opened.
“Hannah? Hi.”
“Hi.” He was as cute as his photo: about five-eleven, a runner’s build, blondish-brown hair a little too long, and a pleasant, if narrow, face. He was wearing an earring, though, a small sapphire stud. I hadn’t seen that in the photo.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“It’s kind of hard to miss,” I said.
“Come in,” he said, stepping back. “Careful, don’t let Sassy out,” he added, as an overweight marmalade cat brushed by his ankles. “She’s an indoor cat. She’s declawed—she wouldn’t stand a chance out there.”
I slunk inside. He’d told me in an e-mail that he had two cats, but somehow I’d manage to block the information from my consciousness. As long as he didn’t start talking about “Kitty did this… Kitty did that…” maybe it would be okay.
Men with cats. It just wasn’t right.
“Wow. Nice entryway,” I said, and meant it. The floor was gleaming parquet, and opposite the front door was a curving staircase with a carved balustrade. There was no furniture, and nothing on the walls, but directly above us was a huge crystal chandelier that looked as if it had been stolen from Versailles.
“Thanks. It took me ages to decide on the floor, and you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find someone to do this kind of work. My friends kid me about how long I take to make a decorating decision, but this is my dream house, you know? I want it to be perfect.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“You want a tour?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure. Do you want me to take off my shoes?” He was barefoot, wearing khaki walking shorts and a clean white T-shirt. Given his own bare feet and his flawless floor, I didn’t want to risk inflicting damage.
“No, that’s all right. You’re not wearing heels.”
I followed him from room to room, listening to his descriptions of what he had planned for each. Most of them were nearly empty, yet each had a single piece of furniture or a rug, or even just a box of stuff that told of what its future would be. The library had stacks of books on the floor. The formal living room had a marble fireplace and a gilt-framed mirror. The dining room had a massive sideboard. And so on, and under all of it there were the beautiful floors.
“And this is the ballroom,” he said, leading me up the stairs to the top floor. “Or, the storage area. I keep all my junk up here, since it’s going to be quite a while before I can get to this part of the house. I’m going to have to replace the roof in the next five years or so, anyway, and for all I know it could make a mess up here.”
“But what a lot of fun this room will be when it’s finished,” I said. The ceiling was low, and sloped on the sides because of the roofline, and looked more like a converted attic than a ballroom. “If I’d been a kid in a house like this, I would have loved roller skating up here.”
He laughed, but I wasn’t sure he was amused. “Skates would be hell on the floors.”
“Probably.”
He led the way back downstairs. It was strange, but for all the empty space in the house, I was beginning to wonder if there was really any space in it for someone else. Tyler had plans for every room, and I wasn’t getting the feeling he’d considered that his future wife might have her own ideas about the home they would share.
On the other hand, there was no reason for him to wait around for Ms. Right to show up, when there was a house to be renovated.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can start dinner.”
“I was kind of hoping we could take a little walk through the neighborhood first. It’s such a pretty evening.”
He grimaced. “I ran eight miles today. I’m kind of sore.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“No, we can go, just let’s not make it a major hike or anything.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
I followed him to a back door off the kitchen, and wondered what the deal was. He was too tired for a walk? The only reason his running had seemed like a good thing to me was because it would mean he was in shape, and would have energy. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might spend all that energy actually running.
What was the point of that?
I wondered if that was what all those gorgeous runners on the Wildwood Trail would be like, in person: too tired to walk around the block. Probably too tired to have sex, too. “Come on, honey, go down on me. I’m too tired to do anything else.” Like that was going to be a lot of fun for the woman, wearing out her jaw while he lay back and—
“Hannah? Is something wrong?”
“Huh? No, just daydreaming.” I smiled at him as he put on his Teva sandals, then squinted at his toes. “Er… Is that nail polish you’re wearing?”
He grinned, then slid his foot next to mine. “It matches your sandals. What a coincidence!”
“Do you always wear toenail polish?” I asked carefully. What a coincidence, indeed. If this was synchronicity, I wanted nothing of it.
“Only in the summer, and only gold.”
“Why?” I asked, trying to not sound appalled.
“I like how it looks, so why not?”
Because you look like a Bohemian-wannabe fruitcake, that’s why, I wanted to say. Toenail polish, good Lord. “Fair enough,” I said instead.
“I’m not gay or anything. I’m just not going to be limited by other people’s opinions. Does it bother you?”
“Hey, they’re your toes. You can wear whatever you want on them.”
Things improved during the walk. We talked about Portland, hiking in the gorge, movies we both liked or hated, and as we came back to the house we talked about work.
“You made that dress, really?” he asked, motioning me to a seat in the 1950’s style, unrenovated kitchen.
“This? Piece of cake.”
“Lemonade okay?”
“Great,” I said, and he poured me a glass.
“How long did it take you to make it?”
“Two hours, give or take.”
He stopped, pitcher of lemonade in hand. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” I smiled uncertainly. “And it’s my own pattern. Or, rather, I started with something from Butterick, then changed it to suit me.”
“That’s amazing. Really, Hannah, that’s great. We are so far from being able to do the most basic things for ourselves anymore—and here you can make your own clothes.”
“I can make anything that’s made of fabric,” I said, enjoying the rare praise. Not many people truly appreciated the skills of a seamstress.
“But you make most of your money hemming pants for people?”
“It’s easy. Takes me maybe ten minutes, start to finish, and I charge them eight dollars for it.”
He started taking out the stuff for dinner. He’d said in his e-mail invitation that he wanted to cook for me, and that if upon meeting I thought he was a freak and didn’t want to stay, I could leave at any point. He’d followed the statement with a smiley-face emoticon.
I wondered what a comp
uter engineer with gold-painted toes would cook for dinner.
“You should be making your own line of clothes, that’s what you should be doing.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” I said.
“Start small. Make some dresses like you’re wearing, for those frou-frou shops down in the Pearl District, or some of the funky ones on Broadway.”
“I’m sure they have their own lines they like to buy.”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
“Maybe.” And maybe I could like someone who saw a seamstress as a talented person with a lot of potential. Maybe I could get used to the toenails. At least they weren’t pink.
Sassy came into the kitchen, followed closely by a gray and white cat, whose name I couldn’t remember. “Here, kitty, kitties,” Tyler said, bending to pet his cats. “Whatcha been up to? Kitty kitties,” he cooed, as they arched under his hands, enjoying the attention. Little bits of cat fur and dander floated in the air.
“You had them long?” I asked.
“Since they were kittens. They’re my buddies. You like cats?”
“They’re all right. I’m more of a dog person, I think. Growing up, we always had both.”
He brought cheap plates and silverware over to the chrome-and-fiberglass table. “Sorry about the lack of china. The kitchen is way down on my list.”
“That’s all right.” Maybe I could be the one to choose how to redo it, traditional female task though it sounded. I arranged the silverware on the table as he went back for the salad and dressing, and a cutting board with a loaf of bread.
“First course,” he said, sitting.
I looked in the salad bowl for tongs or oversize forks, and there were none. “Uh…” I said, making salad-grasping gestures with my hands.
“Damn, that’s right.” He reached into the bowl and took a double handful of the salad, then paused, lettuce and greens mid-flight. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Uh…no,” I said, thinking of those two cats that he’d just been petting.
“Inelegant, I know. Sorry about that.” He dumped the salad on my plate.
“Thanks.” I peered at it for cat hair, trying to not wrinkle my nose and wondering if I could put a single leaf in my mouth without retching. “Is that kale?” I asked, spotting the leathery green.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know anyone actually ate kale. I thought it was just used as decoration on salad bars.” Oh, bad Hannah.
“It’s got lots of beta-carotene.”
I smiled and doused my salad with the oil and vinegar dressing. Maybe it would neutralize the cat dander. The bread looked as if it had about forty different grains and seeds. The main course was in a Crock-Pot: some sort of Spanish-style ratatouille.
“You aren’t a vegetarian, right?” I asked. He’d claimed not to be, via e-mail.
“No, I’ll eat any animal I could kill myself.”
“Like what?”
“Fish, eggs,” he said. “And of course I eat dairy. You’ve got to have ice cream.” He smiled winningly.
“That’s it?”
“If I was really hungry, maybe a chicken,” he conceded.
“Have you ever killed a fish or a chicken, personally?”
“When I was a kid, I went fishing and caught a few things. Never a chicken, though.”
“When I was little I went fishing with my dad,” I said. “We caught a trout, but Dad had misplaced the club, so he beat it to death with a coffee mug.”
“God, that’s awful.”
“It left a certain impression on my mind. Still, if I were really hungry, I don’t think I’d have trouble taking down a cow.”
He grimaced. “But you couldn’t eat all that.”
“Sure I could. Eventually. Or I’d chop it up and feed it to my friends and family.”
He shook his head. “Beef consumption is destroying the earth.”
“All the more reason to kill one.”
He laughed, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not I was joking. I myself wasn’t sure why I was suddenly making an effort to be unpleasant. Yes, the man wore toenail polish, and yes he had served me dander-infested kale, but that hardly seemed reason enough to send out those “don’t get close to me” signals.
There was nothing that was truly wrong with the guy, no major red flags, so what was my problem? No one was going to be exactly like me, and any guy was going to have quirks that were annoying. Tyler seemed basically nice, and like a responsible man.
I really should try harder to like him.
“Do you ever nude sunbathe?” he asked.
“What? No!”
“Never? You should try it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“At Sauvie’s Island, sure.”
“No, I just couldn’t see myself doing that,” I said.
“Too shy? There’s nothing sexual about it. Whole families go out there.”
“Too shy, but also it’s just not me. That’s…” I waved my hand around, trying to find the words, “that’s just not a Hannah O’Dowd activity.” It’s a fake-o-Bohemian-kale-eater activity, is what it was. “I think I like to stay a little further within the social norms, much as I hate to admit it.”
“Hey, that’s cool. It’s good to step out of the comfort zone once in a while, but I can understand a need for boundaries.”
“Where’d you get the bread?” I asked, picking up a heavy slice and smearing it with butter. It looked like bird food.
“A bakery on Broadway.”
I bit into the bread, and two chews later bit down on something hard, something that jarred my jaw and shot pain into a tooth on my right side.
I whimpered, and worked the mushed bread around my mouth with my tongue, looking for the offending item, but there were so many seeds and grains I couldn’t tell which it had been. And then I found something ragged, and spit it into my palm.
It looked like a piece of metal. I spit the rest of the bread into my hand and dumped it on my salad plate, and that’s when my tongue found it.
The hole. In my tooth. It had been part of a filling I’d spit out.
I whimpered again.
“Hannah?”
A flush of panicked heat washed over me, and I felt sweat break out. Fear and horror ran in waves over my body, as my tongue retreated, then touched lightly again upon the gaping maw at the top and side of one of my lower molars. It wasn’t even the cold-sensitive tooth, or the one that felt weird after I clenched my jaw for too long. It was a different tooth entirely.
Oh, God. My tooth. I had a huge hole in my tooth. I felt sick.
“Hannah, what is it?”
“My filling,” I said. “My filling fell out. Oh, God. What am I going to do?”
“It’s Saturday. I wonder if any dentists are open?”
I whined.
“Does it hurt? Can you wait until Monday, do you think?”
“You don’t understand! My tooth!” I shoved back from the table and ran to the bathroom, and then was afraid to look in the mirror. I started to open my mouth, but I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to know how bad it was. It didn’t hurt, but the hole, the ragged hole, oh, God!
I was trembling and sweating, the heat of panic still washing over me in waves.
“Hannah, get a grip,” Tyler said, standing in the bathroom doorway. “People lose fillings all the time. It’s not that big a deal.”
“You aren’t the one with the crater in your mouth!” I said.
“You can’t do anything about it now, so just chill.”
“Your stupid fifty-grain bread did this. Who eats food like that? And kale?” If he weren’t a vegetarian rodent in nail polish, this wouldn’t have happened. My tooth would still be whole. I hated him, and his stupid vegetarian food.
“Hey, that’s good bread. It’s six bucks a loaf.”
“Well excuse me for wasting twenty-five cents’ worth, breaking my tooth,” I said, on the verge of tears. I pushed past him and lurched bac
k to the kitchen, where I’d left my purse. I dug out my cell phone.
“What are you doing?” he asked, following me. “You can use my phone if you need to make a call. I have an emergency number for the dental clinic I go to. Do you want it?”
I ignored him, and dialed. Be there, be there. Please be there.
“Hello?” Scott answered.
“Scott! My tooth, I broke my tooth, this big chunk of metal fell out and now half my tooth is gone.”
“Hannah?”
“My tooth!”
“Hannah, it’s okay. It’s okay, whatever it is, I can fix it.”
“It’s going to hurt,” I said. “Are you going to have to pull what’s left? Do a root canal?”
“Hannah, it probably feels a lot worse to your tongue than it actually is. I deal with this all the time. You’re going to be fine. And nothing is going to hurt, I promise you.”
“When?” I asked.
“There’s probably no hurry. I can look at it right now, if you want, and then we can take care of it on Monday.”
“I can’t go all night like this,” I said, turning toward the kitchen wall for privacy, my voice almost a whisper.
He was silent a moment, and then, “Okay. Meet me in front of my office building.”
“Fifteen minutes, I’ll be there,” I said.
“Don’t get in a wreck on the way. Or do you want me to pick you up?”
“No, I’ll meet you. It’s faster.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, Scott. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll owe me dinner.”
We said goodbye and I hung up. I turned to Tyler. “I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry you broke your filling and all.”
I couldn’t concentrate on him. Tyler, who was Tyler? Nothing mattered but my tooth, my gaping-holed tooth. I got my purse and took out my car keys, heading for the door. “Sorry, I have to go,” I said in his general direction.
“Was that a dentist you were talking to?”
I nodded, still walking.
“That’s good luck, having a friend like that,” he said.
“Yes.”
He got ahead of me and opened the door, then walked me to my car. “So, you know, before the bread thing I thought things were going pretty well. Can I call you, you know, after you get your tooth fixed?”