If These Walls Could Talk

by Bettye Griffin

  She accepted the compliments of their guests as, one by one, they fixed plates and descended the stairs with them. She and Norman were fortunate to have met such nice people here in Pennsylvania. They had so much to look forward to. She’d always loved entertaining. She felt more than a little sad when Norman put his foot down after their last party, at which the strangers nearly outnumbered familiar faces. “To hell with people we invited showing up with three and four of their friends, passing them off as neighbors or people they’ve known for years. What do I care how well they know them? They’re complete strangers to us. Can’t anybody go anywhere by themselves nowadays? We had so many people in here we’ve never seen before that poor Duane didn’t even want to take off his coat.”

  She agreed. The house party had become a rarity in New York—many a host had been turned off by drugabusing guests—but now that they had a house of their own she intended to do a lot of entertaining. She daydreamed about how she’d furnish their basement, which now just held some folding chairs and secondhand accent tables. Part of it was dedicated to laundry, but even with that they still had plenty of room down there. She couldn’t wait to buy furniture and make it a true rec room.

  All she could do for now was entertain the possibilities. Norman insisted they pay for the furniture in the guest room before buying anything else. Eventually she’d be able to shop. All they needed was enough money. Hell, all anybody needed was enough money.

  For now, she had this weekend all planned. Tomorrow morning they’d have a nice leisurely breakfast here at home with Duane, his girlfriend, Lucy, and Valerie. She’d do the pancakes, bacon, sausage, and home fried potatoes first and keep them warm in the oven while she cooked eggs to order for everyone. She had chilled pineapple juice, as well as orange, and would use those new glass pitchers she’d bought at Target. Finally, she’d grab those frozen biscuits she’d bought at BJ’s Wholesale Club and pop them in the microwave just before they all sat down. Everyone would have a nice chat about the party and relax until it was time for them to drive back to the city.

  Then, on Monday morning, she and Norman would begin work at their new employer, just thirty minutes away from home. They’d secured the same schedules they had last year at Presbyterian before changing to their shortened workweeks in preparation for the move. She would go in at 7:00 AM and Norman at 9:00, so he could bring Lorinda and Simone to school in the morning and she’d get home in the afternoon around the same time they did. She’d be working an extra ten hours from the thirty she’d been putting in, which would make for a bigger check. Best of all, all four of them would be able to sit down to dinner as a family every night, something they hadn’t done since the days immediately following their move, during the period of unpacking before returning to work. They’d even be able to join a church, where they’d meet more people.

  The fact that their house desperately needed updating seemed a lot less important now. From the conversation she had just had with Dawn and Camille, Veronica got the impression that neither the Youngs nor the Currys had done much homework before plunging into home ownership. Whoever heard of buying a house an hour after you arrived in town, or to come to town with the expectation of making such a substantial purchase in one day? Hadn’t Eric’s buy-fast-or-lose-out techniques made them wary? She doubted that either couple had even looked at the other subdivisions in the area, much less considered a house already standing. Dawn had even sounded a little concerned about the costs of owning in Arlington Acres, if the questions she asked were any indication.

  Veronica couldn’t help thinking that Dawn wouldn’t mind changing houses with her, even if it meant having a pink bathroom.

  Chapter 18

  The Youngs

  November 2002

  Dawn folded her arms in front of her in annoyance. This shit happened every Wednesday. Retired folks from the area joined them for a ride home after seeing Broadway matinees. Apparently their taste leaned toward musicals, and on the way home they often sang the more catchy parts of the scores of the shows they’d just seen. Loudly.

  She’d been taking the bus to work for three months now. The return trip home to Pennsylvania usually included talk and laughter, but these damn sing-alongs really got on her nerves. All they needed was a screen with the words and a bouncing ball, like she’d seen in film shorts on the classic movie station. This group of eight possessed particular verve; they began performing songs from other shows they seen, dating back nearly sixty years. She’d already suffered through “There Is Nothing Like a Dame” from South Pacific and “Put On a Happy Face” from Bye, Bye Birdie. Now a white-haired man with a big baritone voice led the group in a lusty performance of “They Call The Wind Mariah.”

  “Hey, that fellow’s got a good voice,” Milo remarked. “I wonder if he ever sang professionally.”

  “Look closely. Maybe it’s Robert Goulet, taking the bus into the city a couple of times a year from his home in the Poconos to catch the latest Broadway musicals.”

  He looked at her curiously. “You’re in a lovely mood this afternoon.”

  “Milo, you’ll always find more vocal talent in any church across America than you would at the top of the music charts. Lots of everyday people can sing well. But doesn’t it get on your nerves, these sing-alongs every week?”

  “No, I rather enjoy it.” He lowered his voice. “It’s better than all the complaints we usually have to listen to.”

  The theatergoers, perhaps having developed throat soreness from all that tonsillar strain, finally quieted down as the bus approached the southern half of New Jersey. As Milo predicted, someone began a conversation about the usual commuter woes. At least this was easier to ignore. She only half-listened, having heard it many times before.

  “So has anybody heard when the train is coming?”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

  “I wish they’d get those tracks laid. This commute is killing me. I spent all this money for a house and I don’t have time to enjoy it, except on the weekends.”

  All right, so it’s a long commute, Dawn thought crankily. Tell me something I don’t know. She wondered if anyone else had found that living in the country was more expensive than they had bargained for.

  She and Milo never had an electric bill when they lived in Brooklyn, only a surcharge during the summer months for air conditioners. Not only did they have an electric bill here, they had to pay for their water and their sewer service, plus trash collection. She wanted to ask, but didn’t want it to look like she and Milo were in financial trouble. You had to be careful about things like that. People were always so quick to misinterpret the meaning behind a complaint . . . and equally quick to spread rumors about how so-and-so were in dire straits. That could be why no one wanted to bring it up.

  She mentioned it to Milo on Friday night at dinner, after Zach had been granted permission to leave the table. “Do you notice that all anyone complains about is how long it takes to get to the city? But no one complains about all the stuff you have to pay for out here.”

  “That’s because they don’t want people to think they’re having trouble paying their bills. Or maybe,” he added, “we’re the only ones who went out and spent almost four thousand dollars on new furniture we couldn’t afford.” He yawned. “Damn, I’m glad it’s Friday. I’m going to sleep all weekend.”

  Dawn initially felt she was at fault for at least part of their predicament, for she’d been the one to insist they get the best furniture they could afford . . . even if they really couldn’t afford it. But she forgot about that when he said he planned to sleep all weekend, which she found distressing. “Milo, the grass needs cutting.”

  “I’ll cut the grass, Dawn. That’s just a figure of speech.”

  No, it’s not, she thought. Last weekend, too, he just laid around the house. They’d agreed to clean out the garage together as their weekend project, but she’d ended up getting the job started herself. That was in addition to her regular weekend
chores of washing and ironing. They’d bought one of those new front-loading, water-conserving washers. It had been expensive, but at least it used considerably less water, a convenience that for them no longer came free of charge. After all the money they’d spent on furniture, Milo gave her a choice—either a less-expensive, old-fashioned washer and dryer, or for the same money only a front-loading washer, with a dryer to come when they could afford it. Dawn thought about it, and the desire for the more modern won out, even if it meant that until they could afford to buy the matching dryer she had to line-dry the wash.

  The Arlington Acres Homeowners Association frowned on this practice, but Dawn rose early to do the wash, and all but the heaviest items were usually dry by early afternoon. In addition to the line, they also had two drying racks, because she liked doing all the laundry on Saturday, leaving Sundays free for ironing. The drying racks couldn’t be seen by anyone from the street, but Dawn told Milo that she found it a little embarrassing that all their neighbors knew they didn’t have a dryer.

  He did not back down. “We just charged four thousand dollars’ worth of furniture, plus a lawn mower, and that patio furniture you insisted on getting for the deck,” Milo said. “We have to stop buying on credit unless it’s a real emergency.”

  Dawn knew he was right. Their excessive spending habits caused them not to save sufficiently, and if it hadn’t been for the deal they’d worked out with the builder they’d still be living in Williamsburg. She knew that, but she also wanted a dryer. It was a lot easier to merely pop wet clothes into the dryer and press the START button than it was to pin them to a clothesline or drape them on a rack, which required each item to be handled separately.

  Still, she felt grateful for having her own washer. She continued to marvel every time she filled the cylinder with dirty clothes and started the wash cycle without first having to put six quarters into it. This phenomenon so amazed her that she didn’t even mind having an increase in laundry. When they lived in Brooklyn she used to send Milo’s tailored shirts out for washing and pressing with medium starch. Now she did them herself in a cost-cutting measure. She didn’t particularly care for the ironing part, though. And she couldn’t wait to get a dryer.

  “I’m going to come to bed early myself tonight, so don’t get all spread out,” she said to him now. “I want to get up early and get the laundry done so I can finish the garage.”

  Milo grunted. “You know, that’s the second dig you’ve made on me in the last five minutes. First you tell me to be sure to mow the lawn, and next you point out how you’ve been cleaning out the garage by yourself. I’m telling you now, don’t let there be a third.” He tossed his crumpled napkin on his plate and left the table. Minutes later Dawn heard the door to their bedroom slam shut.

  She sighed. All right, maybe it had been a mild dig. But what worried her was the way he’d changed. The Milo she knew never used to be grumpy like this. His entire personality had changed. The commute had done it to him, she knew. Five hours a day was a heck of a lot of time to spend traveling back and forth to work. But it wore her out, too. She wished he would realize that. Many a weekend she didn’t feel like doing anything, either, but if she indulged herself in being lazy their beautiful new home would look like a trash dump, and it wouldn’t smell so good, either.

  She carried their plates to the sink, rinsed them, and stacked the dishwasher. Dishwashers used more water and certainly more electricity than washing by hand, but, damn it, after making dinner and trying to straighten up she was too tired to wash dishes. She used antibacterial wipes on the countertops where she’d prepared the flour mixture to fry the pork chops and sprayed a degreaser on the stovetop. She frowned as she jiggled the electric coil burner. She hated the way she could never get them to stand straight from the very first time she lifted them to wipe them down. All her pots leaned slightly, which made it difficult to fry evenly. Even her pancakes came out misshapen. If she had to pick one thing she missed from Brooklyn, it would be her gas stove. No way would those heavy cast iron burners lean to one side. She already conceded that she would need to buy an electric griddle to cook pancakes in, and maybe a large electric skillet for other foods, and just use the stovetop for food items that wouldn’t be affected by lopsided burners, like boiling pasta or making gravy.

  By the time she got to their bedroom after sweeping the floor and starting the dishwasher cycle, Milo was already snoring. He’d stripped down to his underwear and in spite of her warning not to hog the bed lay stretched out across their king-sized mattress, which meant she’d have to nudge him to move over. He’d put on weight since their move, probably from falling asleep right after eating dinner every night. Her own clothes had grown a little snug around the waist. Eating before bedtime was the worst thing a person could do in terms of weight gain, but what choice did they have?

  Still, she’d better come up with ways to eat earlier. Even before she’d ever heard of Arlington Acres she’d been trying to take thirty pounds off of her five eight frame. Half the weight she’d picked up over the years had probably gone straight to her butt. She estimated she’d gained at least five pounds in the three months she’d lived here. Her height helped hide the extra weight, but if she didn’t halt this weight gain she’d soon eat herself out of a perfectly good wardrobe, something she definitely couldn’t afford to do.

  But right now she was too tired to worry about that, or anything else.

  Dawn gasped at the amount due on their electric bill. Had they really used that much heat? It wasn’t even winter yet. Milo would have a cow when he found out.

  She took a few minutes to fondly remember their comfortable apartment in Brooklyn, the apartment that they’d paid $720 rent for, including all utilities. They never had to worry about the price to pay for keeping warm, or for taking long, steaming showers.

  Instantly she felt guilty. Had she forgotten so quickly how often they’d been forced to go without heat and hot water because of old boilers in disrepair? What about that exhausting trek up twelve flights of stairs when the elevators conked out simultaneously? And what about poor Hazel, strangled to death right next door to them in a crime still unsolved? She couldn’t let one high electric heat bill make her wish they still lived there.

  But they faced long months of winter weather, and she had to get this bill lowered. Damn it, she’d told Milo not to set the thermostat so high. He was used to being all warm and cozy and not having to pay the bill for it, but he had to stop thinking like a renter and start thinking like an owner. They were responsible for the bill. He’d just have to put on a sweater. Maybe she’d buy a couple of colorful throws and drape them across the couch and chairs so there’d always be something handy to bundle up in.

  But first she’d turn down the heat to sixty-eight degrees, maybe even sixty-five during the days when they were at work and Zach was in school. Their house came equipped with a programmable thermostat. She’d set the timer so that the house would be reasonably warm for Zach when he came home after school. Milo said he’d set it, but clearly he hadn’t.

  She sucked her teeth in annoyance. Damn it, did she have to do everything around here?

  Chapter 19

  The Currys

  November 2002

  “Reuben, how do you feel about inviting Dawn and Milo to join us for Thanksgiving?” Camille asked. She sat at her vanity brushing her hair, while Reuben did opposing knee-to-elbow crunches on the carpeted floor. He’d decided he was getting too pudgy and started a workout regimen of push-ups and crunches, which he followed religiously every evening. She wished she had the discipline to exercise like he did. All that walking she did between Port Authority and her office left her exhausted and had minimal effect on her waistline. In six months she’d lost maybe five pounds. Reuben had dabbled in a little tennis with Bob Tillman and Jeff Willis last summer . . . maybe next summer she would take it up herself. Running after a flying tennis ball seemed like fabulous exercise.

  “Do you really think they’d co
me? I would think that if they didn’t go to the city they’d have company come out, like us.”

  “No, Dawn said it would just be the three of them.” Camille wished their families would stay in the city, and in the end her relatives decided to do that, but her in-laws were coming en masse. Not only would they be dinner guests, but they expected her and Reuben to put them up for the night. They’d had to go out and buy an air mattress to provide room for all of them. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of having wall-to-wall Negroes sleeping all over the place and having both Mitchell giving up his room to his grandmother and Shayla sharing her double bed with both of her teenage cousins, Tiffany and Kierra. The thought of three people sleeping in a double bed brought to mind images of the poorest of the poor, and she wanted none of it.

  At least Saul and his girlfriend had sprung for a room at a local hotel, even if they planned to leave her little boy with them. Camille would put him and Mitchell on the air mattress, which she would set up in the family room. Brenda and Arnelle would share the sofa bed.

  Unlike the Lees, whose basement gave them additional living space, their basement was more like a cellar. It had climate control, but the walls were unfinished and it had no carpeting. She could hardly send anyone down there to sleep; it would be like banishing someone to a dungeon.

  Eventually they could probably fix up the basement—Linda and Bob Tillman had done theirs quite nicely—but it wasn’t practical to think about that now, not while she was trying to save for the kids’ Christmas plus host a Thanksgiving dinner for more than a dozen people.