If These Walls Could Talk

by Bettye Griffin

  Eric disconnected the call and looked up at them apologetically. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had someone who wanted us to hold one of the best lots we’ve got for him while he tries to get someone to finance his loan. He must be crazy.”

  “How much is a lot on the lake?” Milo asked, adding, “Just out of curiosity. I’m sure it’s more than we can afford.”

  “Oh, they begin at about six thousand dollars.”

  Norman and Veronica looked at each other, both shaking their heads, before Norman replied, “Like I thought, that’s more than we’re willing to spend.”

  “I’d be happy to show one of them to you,” Eric offered. “The one I was holding for the buyer who just called is seventy-five hundred, but it’s one of the absolute best.”

  “No, thank you,” Veronica echoed. She looked at Norman again, a frown on her face. Hadn’t Eric heard them the first time?

  “We do have models of all of these within walking distance,” Eric said. “We find that buyers prefer to look on their own without feeling pressure from a salesperson. But I want to make sure you understand that we’re rapidly running out of home sites in Phase I, and construction on Phase II won’t begin until the spring. Putting down a deposit today will guarantee you’ll get in Phase I.”

  “Kind of pushy, wasn’t he?” Veronica remarked as they set out to look at the models.

  Norman shrugged. “He’s in sales. They have to be aggressive to a certain degree. But I did find it ironic that in one sentence he talks about no pressure, and in the next suggests we consider putting down a deposit . . . today.”

  “Do you think that was a real phone call about the lot on the lake?”

  “Hell, no. It was really his mother calling. It might have even been her the first time. Telling people that he’ll get back to them might be code for them to call back in a few minutes and let him rant about how he can’t hold their lot any longer, like he’s talking to a real client.”

  Veronica nodded. With a smile, she said, “He certainly wasted no time trying to sell it to us, did he?”

  “Well, I did nibble a bit. But that’s what he was banking on. If he thought we’d be an easy sell, he was wrong.”

  The smaller furnished models they viewed paled in comparison to the larger one by the sales office, but nevertheless were bright and appealing, decorated with equally stylish furnishings. Still, put off by Eric’s tactics, overly aggressive at best and devious at the worst, they decided to look at other developments in the area as well, the ones that hadn’t been advertised on New York television. The homes there were just as nice, but the salespeople demonstrated the same buy-fast-or-lose techniques as Eric Nylund that had made them uncomfortable.

  “You know, Veronica, the key here is affordability,” Norman remarked. “No one says we have to get a brand-new house.”

  “I guess you’re right, but there’s something so fresh about a new house where you can still smell the paint on the walls. It’s like that smell of a new car.” Not that she’d ever had one of those, either—she and Norman always bought used—but she’d ridden in vehicles of friends and relatives shortly after they left the showroom.

  “We might be able to find an existing house with an asking price a lot less than what we’d pay for something new. I’ve got to tell you, I’m not impressed by any of those salespeople at the new developments. I’m glad they treated us well and made us feel welcome, but I don’t like all the high-pressure techniques.”

  “I know what you mean.” She mimicked one of the salespeople. “‘A price increase is scheduled to go into effect in just two weeks. You can beat it if you sign a contract today, lock in the current price.’” She rolled her eyes. “Why don’t we check a newspaper?”

  “Better than that. Let’s go to a real estate office. Maybe they can set us up to view a few prospects tomorrow. If we don’t see anything we like at least they’ll be able to watch the market for us and set up appointments to view good prospects.”

  “We might have to come out here a few times, huh?”

  “Yes, but I think that’s a good thing. We’ll get to know the area better, get a feel for the people. Just don’t let the long ride discourage you. We shouldn’t have to do it very long.”

  “This is nice, Norman.” Veronica looked approvingly at the bright little house. Just two bedrooms, but it was all brick, and the asking price was just eighty-five thousand dollars—forty thousand less than the smallest new homes they’d seen. She could hardly believe the price—this same house in New York would probably be over two hundred thousand. They could manage just fine with a two-bedroom house. Lorinda and Simone could continue to share a bedroom, especially since the bedroom in this house had considerably larger dimensions than the room they shared in their Manhattan apartment. The house, built in 1928, had three working fireplaces, one in the living room and in each of the bedrooms. A sly smile formed on Veronica’s lips as she entertained the possibilities of having a fireplace in her bedroom. She’d buy one of those bearskin rugs and lay it down a couple of feet away from the fire, and she and Norman would make love on it on a cold night, heat from the flames and from within keeping them warm.... Mmm.

  A pull on her hand from Simone, eager to show her something, jolted her out of that pleasant thought. The house had plenty of other appealing features. An abundance of windows kept the house light, yet it felt well insulated from the brisk early-November weather. The kitchen and bathrooms had been modernized, and the wall-to-wall carpeting still looked new. The house had just one full bath upstairs, but it was accessible from the master bedroom through a pocket door, as well as from a regular door to the hall. The current owners had added a powder room under the stairs. And it had a full, finished basement. Veronica pictured a family room down there, with one of those rectangular flatscreen TVs and big, comfy chairs.

  “I like it,” Norman said.

  “But it does seem to be missing something. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “I know what it is. It’s not furnished, like the models at the new developments, filled with expensive furniture and fixings we can’t afford. But it’s immaculate, and it’s large enough, and it’s affordable.” He turned to Lorinda and Simone. “What do you think, girls?”

  “I like it,” Lorinda said.

  “Our room is real big,” Simone added.

  “Only one thing concerns me,” Norman said. “I didn’t see any black families on this street. It makes me worry a little about how the neighbors will react.”

  “We know there are black people in town, so if there aren’t any on this block I’m sure there’s some on the next block,” Veronica said.

  “I’m going to ask the agent.”

  She sighed. “Oh, Norman. I think you’re making too much of this race thing.”

  “It’s important, Veronica. We know nothing about this community or its people, and I don’t want any fanatics burning a cross on our front lawn or throwing bombs through our windows. This isn’t Washington Heights.”

  The Realtor, a middle-aged white woman, knocked discreetly as she entered the house, having given them time to walk through it and discuss it among themselves. “It’s a great house, isn’t it?” she asked proudly, like it was her own home being offered for sale.

  “We like it very much, but we were wondering,” Norman began, “what’s the racial mix of this neighborhood?”

  “About the same as the general population. Mostly white, with a small percentage of blacks and Latinos. A lot of families are moving here from the city because they’re priced out of the market there. Plus, we have better schools, cleaner air. . . .”

  “And this probably isn’t a preferred terrorist target,” Veronica said flatly.

  “I’d have to agree.” The Realtor looked at them curiously. “Were either of you affected directly by the attacks?”

  “No, we were lucky,” Norman said. “The medical center where we both work is within walking distance of our apartment. It made for a long walk, a
bout twenty blocks, but at least it was doable. A lot of folks who lived in the Bronx or Queens played hell trying to get off Manhattan Island.”

  Veronica nodded. “A lot of folks slept right there in the hospital.”

  “We can still see the dust cloud over lower Manhattan,” Norman added, “although I predict they’ll be finished with the cleanup by spring. They’re working really fast.”

  “Our children didn’t sleep well for weeks afterward,” Veronica stated, saddened by the memory. “They were afraid someone would crash a plane into our apartment building, even though it’s just a walk-up. Their fears are just starting to recede a little.” She sighed. “No, I don’t think any of us will miss the city at all.”

  “But yet it’s not so far where we can’t drive in for dinner and a concert on a Saturday night, or to visit our families,” Norman said.

  Veronica smiled. “I’ve got a feeling they’ll be wanting to come out to see us.”

  Chapter 7

  The Youngs

  November 2001

  Dawn couldn’t believe it. All this, for a price just twenty dollars more than the rent they paid every month? She knew that the source of wealth for many people was the home they lived in. Real estate appreciated ; everyone knew that. Mortgage payments, unlike rent, stayed the same year after year provided you had a fixed-rate loan, while your income rose. And look how comfy they’d be in a brand-new house while their net worth soared.

  Much as she loved New York, after seeing this lovely suburban neighborhood she couldn’t help feeling a little cheated. Living in the world’s most exciting city shouldn’t mean having to give up on green grass and blue skies unless you were wealthy enough to live in a building with a rooftop garden. Here she was thinking that she and Milo had it so good just because they lived in a spacious apartment, took annual vacations, and traded in their old car for a new one every four years.

  Now she imagined Zachary running free on their own property with the pet dog he’d always wanted, or riding his bike with the dog trailing behind him. Her next thought was of how impressed all their family and friends would be when they learned she and Milo were buying a house. Not just buying, but building a brand-new house from the ground up, with new appliances, new carpeting . . . She and Milo would throw a big housewarming party after they moved in.

  How fortunate that they’d happened to see that TV commercial last weekend. Living here would be like stepping into one of those TV shows or books that showed black people living on lovely, tree-lined streets, where everyone over eighteen had their own car, the kind of settings that prompted so many people to say scornfully, “Black people don’t live like that.”

  “You guys are in luck,” the salesman, a handsome young man in his twenties named Eric, told them. “We’re offering an incentive. Anyone making a deposit today gets a free deck and fireplace.”

  “Really?” Milo exchanged glances with Dawn. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  “But which house do we want?” Dawn hadn’t even been this excited the last time they bought a car, three years ago.

  “We don’t need anything too big,” Milo said, “since we only have one child. We probably don’t even need three bedrooms.”

  “Even our smallest model has three bedrooms,” Eric answered. “It’s the most popular size for a house. You want to think of resale value. Many of our residents telecommute and use the third bedroom as a home office.”

  “I wish I could do that,” Dawn said wistfully. “But my job requires me to be on-site, and so does Milo’s. It would be great if we didn’t have to make that long trip to New York every day. It’s nearly a hundred miles one way.”

  “One of the politicians has proposed a passenger train to go into New York for our growing population of commuters,” Eric said. “It would be only ninety minutes from here to Penn Station.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful,” Dawn said. “A lot quicker than the bus. You’re not at the mercy of traffic patterns.”

  “Well, why don’t I give you two some time alone to look at the models,” Eric suggested, handing them a map. “They’re all unlocked, and they’re all within walking distance, so feel free to go back and forth. And then the available lots we have are on the map of the property in the sales center.”

  With eyes shining in excitement, Dawn clutched Milo’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 8

  The Currys

  November 2001

  “It’s beautiful here, Reuben,” Camille said as they passed a man riding what resembled a small tractor that she quickly realized was actually a riding lawn mower. “I never got to see any residential areas when I came to camp out here. Not that this would have been built up like this back then, anyway.”

  “All the New Yorkers coming in is making this a fast-growing area. Hey, look at that.”

  Her gaze followed his pointing finger. A jacket-clad black man puttered around inside the open garage of an attractive, part-brick, part-siding two-story house. The open garage door revealed garden utensils neatly hanging from a wall-mounted holder, a large chest freezer, and various supplies neatly arranged on metal shelving. He even had a small TV on the highest shelf.

  Camille breathed softly through her open mouth. To think she and Reuben thought they had it good because their apartment had a few upgrades. Compared to this they had nothing. How many times had she watched a TV sitcom or a movie featuring black people residing in lovely homes in the suburbs and said to herself, Black people don’t live like that. At least they didn’t in New York City and the surrounding areas.

  The hundred-mile distance suddenly seemed like less when she considered the change in lifestyle. Here they would have all the wonderful comforts suburban life offered: a lake, tennis courts, a pool.... She could picture Mitchell riding the bicycle he wanted so badly along these smoothly paved sidewalks. Mitchell and Shayla would get much better educations here than they would in the city. They would go on to college and begin successful careers. They’d be able to afford to buy homes on their own, not because someone died and left them money.

  That’s how it was supposed to be. Children were supposed to do better than their parents had. Mitchell and Shayla would do her and Reuben proud, but she and Reuben would make their bright futures possible by moving them out here.

  Reuben took a few minutes to drive around the well-kept streets of the development, getting a better look at the grounds and the people. The adults they saw all appeared to be in their thirties and forties, and there was no shortage of children of all ages in the neighborhood. Eventually he parked in front of the model home that also housed the sales office.

  Camille tugged on his arm. “Reuben, I already know that I want to live here. I want our children to know that hard work does pay off, that we’re getting somewhere instead of living where nothing ever changes, and having life stop for twenty seconds every time the El goes by.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, the El. I could definitely get used to living away from the El.”

  They went inside, where they were greeted by a receptionist, offered bottled water and coffee, and given a brief form to fill out.

  Within two minutes of returning the completed form, a toothy young blond man joined them, introducing himself as Eric Nylund. He shook their hands, then invited them to his office. “Ah, you’re from the city. Did you have a nice ride out?”

  “Nice, but a little long,” Reuben answered. “It’s about a hundred miles. I’m a little concerned about the commute. That’s a long way to travel every day.”

  “I’m told it’s not too bad. Many of our residents have come to us from the city because our homes are affordable. There’s a commuter bus that begins running at 3:45 AM, and an express train service is being considered, which would cut your commute to a more manageable ninety minutes each way.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Camille said.

  Reuben nodded. “I guess I can live with that.”

  “Did you get to look at the floor plans
?” Eric asked, gesturing toward the framed drawings with dimensions plus outdoor views.

  “Yes,” Camille said. “We liked The Ellsworth.”

  Eric nodded. “Three bedrooms, two and a half baths.”

  “Let me ask you this first, Eric,” Reuben said. “Your ad on TV said payments of $740 a month, yet you’ve got different-sized houses with different costs. How does that work?”

  “Actually, the figure of $740 is based on the smallest model. But it’s all a matter of financing,” he added quickly at their crestfallen expressions. “We work with the bank that provides most of our buyers’ financing to get them the best deals possible.”

  He named a major bank, and Camille noticed that Reuben’s tense look immediately dissipated. The whole idea of owing six figures to anyone made her nervous, too, but she felt better knowing they would be in the hands of such a prominent lender.

  “But of course that’s just an average figure,” Eric concluded. “I can take you to the model. It’s right around the corner.”

  They got in a golf cart and drove down the street a ways. Camille gasped as she entered the house. The living room actually had a fireplace, a real wood-burning fireplace. Of course, they had to pay extra for that feature, but she felt it would be worth it. They could decorate the mantel with family photos in those expensive ceramic or silver frames....

  The kitchen was a dream, all open and airy, with another room connected to it. From the furnishings, it appeared to be what all those TV shows called a den, a place for the family to gather to watch TV and play games. She especially liked the way the decorator furnished this area, with that six-sided card table, a desk with a computer—well, a cardboard creation of a computer—plus a cardboard big-screen TV and a loveseat. To think this was actually someone’s job, to simply pick out furnishings and artwork for model homes, right down to picking out place settings for the dining room table and toasters and blenders for the kitchen.