He follows the spray-painted lines he and Noah made. Every so often he kills the throttle, climbs down from his seat, and consults a small black notebook where he’s organized his notes, schematics, and calculations. He keeps his earplugs in. He steps inside the hole to check his work with a tape measure. He feels the grooves made by the bucket under his boots; he smells exhaust, wet earth, and crushed leaves. The far wall of the hole stands nearly as tall as he is. By the time Noah gets home, it will be as wide and deep as it needs to be.
* * *
—
Ginny wakes late in the day to a horrible racket, a deafening crunching coming from outside. She squeezes her eyes shut. In her mind Edith’s face looms over her own in a wallpapered bedroom. Damp sheets the color of cantaloupe cling to her skin. She rolls over and presses her burning cheeks into the pillow. She’s ashamed of herself; she’s thrilled with herself. Her stomach turns with the thought of what she’s done.
A high, whistling screech joins the crunching. She pulls herself out of bed and shuffles to the window. Her head throbs. She opens the blinds and blinks—her husband’s out there, operating some kind of machinery. A yellow metal arm scrapes dirt from the top of the yard and makes a square hole in the ground. She can’t see Mark’s face, but dirt streaks his arms. He maneuvers the machine this way and that. Its bucket jerks up and down, and then sideways.
Two days ago he told her he was going to build a potting shed in the backyard. “As long as it isn’t ugly,” she told him. She didn’t ask why he wanted to build a shed, instead of just buying a prefabricated one from Home Depot. He was going to build it into the hill, he assured her. She wouldn’t even know it was there. It would be camouflaged by the trees. Why did her husband want to build a camouflaged potting shed? She should have asked him why. But she hadn’t.
Edith’s pink, freckled body surfaces, again, in her mind, but she shakes it away.
She pulls on her robe and grabs her pager. The window in the hallway has a better view of the yard. The machine has left wide, muddy tracks across the lawn. One of the expensive boxwoods they planted in the spring, that Mark took such care to water and fertilize, is half-flattened. And the hole—it’s bigger than it first appeared, like a giant has taken a bite out of their lovely wooded hill.
Downstairs everything in the house feels off. Noah’s soggy boots have soaked the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. Her feet kick up little puffs of cat hair when she crosses the hardwood floors. She opens the back door, leans out, and yells at Mark, but his face is turned toward the trees. The backhoe’s engine drowns out every sound.
She searches for a pair of shoes, and as she pushes her feet into some flip-flops, the crunching and screeching suddenly cease. She goes outside and finds Mark standing at the lip of the dark, wet hole. Black work gloves cover his hands and a smudge of rust-colored mud marks one of his cheeks.
The air is thick with exhaust and she coughs. “Mark, what on earth—” She pulls her robe tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the yard. Her feet squish in the muddy grass.
He shakes his head—he can’t hear her. He takes off his gloves and pulls orange earplugs from his ears.
“What is this?”
“I told you. I’m doing a little project.” Sweat darkens his shirt at the armpits. She can smell him from where she stands.
“You said you were building a potting shed. Not digging a huge hole in the backyard.”
“You look exhausted. Go back to bed.”
She feels a flash of annoyance. How can she sleep with all this noise?
Mark walks the perimeter of the trench. “I’ve only got the backhoe for another hour. When I’m done I’ll come in and make you some food.”
She climbs after him and her feet slip around in her flip-flops. A tumble of dark earth, crushed grass, and upturned roots stand in her way. Inside are the snapped stems of a western bleeding heart they planted a few summers ago to attract hummingbirds to the yard. “I don’t need food—”
But Mark isn’t listening. He’s already reached the other side of the trench. He stands with his legs spread wide and writes something in a small black notebook. In the puddle of muddy water inside the hole is her own reflection. Her hair sticks up at odd angles. Her robe bunches around her waist and its tie drags on the ground.
She straightens it. “I don’t like it Mark,” she calls. “I don’t understand—”
“I’ll clean it up. Replant. Don’t worry.” He puts the notebook into his pocket and starts toward the backhoe.
It begins to drizzle. She steps away from the pile of dirt and branches and her heels slip out of her flip-flops into cold earth. She starts to fall, but then Mark is there, reaching out to steady her.
She rights herself.
“What time did you get in?” He holds his gloved hands over her head to block the rain.
She forces herself to meet his eye. “Late.”
“I was expecting you.”
Her face warms. “My case ran long.” She changes the subject. “Where’s Noah?”
“At a friend’s.”
“Okay.” She hugs her robe tighter.
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got no socks on.” He points to her feet. “Go inside. Have some coffee.” He puts his earplugs in.
She gestures at the dark hole—she wants to know how much bigger it’s going to get. But he’s already climbed inside the backhoe. He flips a switch and it roars to life.
* * *
—
When Mark gets down from the backhoe to check his measurements, his wife is gone. She’s upset with him now, but she’ll change her mind. She looked small standing next to the excavation site, in her fluffy robe and plastic flip-flops. Sometimes he forgets how tiny she is. Small enough to pick up, if he needed to.
He’s standing in the hole with his tape measure when he hears the rumble of a flatbed truck behind him. It inches its way, backward, into their cul-de-sac. When it comes to a stop, a man climbs down from its cab. Mark hurries toward him.
The man reads from an oversized clipboard. “I’ve got a Hard Top Structures underground shelter kit, Series 100. Plus a…what’s that say? A ‘riser blast hatch,’ part number 366.”
Mark grins. “It wasn’t supposed to be here till Monday.” He feels like jumping up and down.
“Tried calling you this morning, no answer.”
A massive black tarp covers the bunker kit, held down by cables that look like huge rubber bands. Mark tugs on them to see how they’re attached.
“I’ve got to go through this whole list,” the man says. “Get your signature at the bottom.”
“Okay, sure.” Mark takes off his gloves, tucks them under his arm, and wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans.
“A ventilation pipe add-on kit, and a blast protected NBC air filtration system.” He pauses. “What the heck is an NBC air filtration system?”
“A nuclear, biological, and chemical overpressure air filtration system,” Mark says solemnly.
The man’s eyes widen. “Okay then. Just need your John Hancock right there.” He presses the bottom of the page with his finger.
“What about the backup hand-crank pump for the air filtration system? It was an add-on item.”
The man takes the clipboard back and flips through the paperwork. “Says here it’s on back order. Won’t be shipped till December first.”
Mark folds his arms over his chest. “Shit, I need that crank.”
* * *
—
As Ginny pulls on a pair of jeans and an OHSU sweatshirt, a loud sound erupts from the front yard, different from the noise of the backhoe engine, a diesel-powered rumbling. She stands on tiptoe to look out the bathroom window. A flatbed truck inches backward into the cul-de-sac. A black tarp, shiny with rain, covers i
ts cargo. Someone’s having something big delivered; the neighbors are going to love that. As if the sound of the backhoe wasn’t enough.
Her husband appears beside the truck. He gestures with his arms.
What the hell? She stomps down the stairs, pulls on a raincoat and boots. Outside Mark stands at the back of the truck, his arms full of rebar. “Mark—” She moves toward him through the wet, overgrown grass. “You need to tell me what on earth is going on. Now.”
“The delivery was supposed to be Monday. I planned to tell you about it this weekend.”
“Tell me about what?”
“I’m not building a potting shed.” He lifts the metal rebar over his shoulder. “I lied.”
“Then what’s all this for?”
The rebar clatters in his arms. “I’m building an emergency shelter for our family. It cost $9,500. That’s a lot of money, I know, but I’m saving a lot by building it myself.”
She stares at him.
“This stuff’s heavy,” he says. “Let me set it down.”
“Wait.” She holds her hand in front of his chest. “What do you mean an emergency shelter?” She shakes her head. “Like a…what? A doomsday bunker?” It’s too absurd. She laughs.
Mark glares at her. “Go back inside. We’ll talk about this later.” He stalks toward the backyard.
But Ginny doesn’t go inside. She stays on the front porch, her hands on her hips, and watches, with growing exasperation, a bewildering procession of metal beams and trusses. Mark helps the deliveryman carry a curious-looking metal tube, about eight feet long with a tapered end. Its smooth sides glow in the overcast, afternoon light. Next is a tumble of blue plastic hoses and a netted sack full of brackets and bolts.
Every item carried or rolled past adds to her mounting sense of disorientation. Who is this person wheeling a giant saran-wrapped drum? Hefting an armful of four-pronged metal rods? Not her husband. Her Mark would be out grocery shopping right now. Her Mark would be mowing this overgrown grass.
At one point her new neighbor opens her door, frowns at the strange items being unloaded from the truck, and then closes the door again.
Now Mark inspects a gray metal slab on the truck. He and the deliveryman struggle to lower it to the ground. Grunting, Mark manages to tilt it onto the dolly. It’s a metal door, thick as the length of her arm, with a circular handle like the hatch of a submarine. There are red letters painted inside: DANGER. KEEP CLEAR OF BLAST DOOR.
The deliveryman holds the dolly steady as Mark turns the wheel on the door, to the right and the left. He nods to himself and smiles.
“Mark.” Ginny starts toward them.
He leaves the metal door where it is and climbs onto the truck. He pushes another crate closer to the edge.
“Mark, stop.” She’s forced to look up at him because she’s barely taller than the truck’s wheels. “Stop unloading.”
He peers over the side of the truck. Now that she has his attention, she steps back onto the grass. “No more metal piled in our backyard. Not until you tell me why.”
“I told you.”
“I know what you’re building. Now I want to know why you’re building it.”
“I’ll explain everything, I promise.”
“Great. Explain. Now.”
He gets down from the truck. “We’re almost done. Just a few more—”
“No.” Her voice rises and the deliveryman stares. “Now.”
Mark lowers his voice. “I’m doing this”—he gestures to the truck and the muddy tracks in the grass leading to the backyard—“for you. And for Noah.”
“We’re supposed to be a team, you and I,” Ginny says. “We’re supposed to tell each other the important stuff.” She thinks of Edith and her cheeks turn hot, but she presses on. She points at the metal door. “That there. Whatever the hell that is. It looks like something pretty fucking important.”
He puts a protective hand on the top of the door. “It is fucking important.” His chin juts out in a ridiculous way.
“You’re acting like you’ve lost your mind.”
He steps closer. “Why can’t you trust me?” He grabs her shoulders. “Why is that?” A wild look flashes across his face. And then it’s gone, and his eyes dart away to something behind her. She turns, and Noah stands a few feet away. He wears his blue rain jacket with the hood up. There’s a girl with him. Her skinny legs are clad in neon-green jeans. She stares at the thick metal door with the submarine handle.
Noah won’t look at Ginny. Standing a head taller than the girl, he’s sturdy, all muscle and no bone. He looks older than he actually is. Or maybe she hasn’t been paying attention to how grown up he’s become. He’ll be twelve in January after all. But his face, framed by his blue hood, is still soft. In it she sees the toddler who cried out for her from his crib, and the little boy that gripped her legs when she dropped him off at preschool.
Noah, her sweet boy. They’ve embarrassed him, her and Mark, yelling at each other in the front yard. And that’s just the start if she keeps…keeps doing what she wants to do with Edith.
“It came early,” Mark says to his son. He’s excited again. “It’s all here.” He counts out items on his fingers: “The riser hatch and ladder, the air filtration system, ventilation pipes—”
“Noah,” Ginny interrupts, “why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” Her pager buzzes in her pocket as she steers Noah toward the house.
“I’m Livi.” The girl holds out her hand and Ginny shakes it.
Mark climbs back up onto the flatbed of the truck, and calls to Noah: “Once I’m done unloading, we’ll go to the hardware store to pick up the cement mix.”
Ginny’s pager flashes with a 911 call from the fifth floor. “I don’t think Noah’s friend is interested in that, Mark,” she says quickly. She motions for Livi to follow her and Noah. “Why don’t you two have a snack?”
She dials the surgical floor, but no one picks up. It rings and rings.
“I have to go into work,” she says to Noah. “Do me a favor and stay in the house. You can play PlayStation if you want.”
“What games do you have?” Livi asks.
“It’s not the weekend,” Noah says to Ginny.
“I know it’s not the weekend.” The phone still rings in her ear. “But I’m making an exception.”
Noah’s face is dubious. “Why?”
“I have to go.” Out the window her husband is pulling the black tarp off a white metal box with grooved sides. “Promise me you’ll stay in the house.” She grabs her car keys. “Okay?”
TWENTY
SAMARA HAS NEVER been to Shawn’s house, but she knows where it is, a narrow two-story with a shady yard, about ten blocks from her parents’ house. It’s late when she arrives. His street is dark and deserted; the neighbors’ porch lights are out. Overhead the pine trees sway in the wind. She’s still not sure how she feels about Shawn. He wants something from her, and she’s not certain she’s ready to give it. But she feels bad about the last time they saw each other at the Kells house. He was trying to help, and she didn’t want to listen.
She rings the doorbell and a chorus of muffled barks erupts from inside. Then, the sound of many legs running. When Shawn opens the door two big dogs crowd around him, wagging their tails and nosing Samara’s knees. One has copper-colored hair and a white patch near her nose; the other’s coat is gray and black and bushy. They smell like mud and wet leaves.
“Wow.” She holds out her hands, and the dogs lick them. “They’re huge! And muddy.”
“Sorry. I took them out to Split Ridge earlier.”
Samara wipes her hands on her jeans. “No worries.”
He herds the dogs back inside.
“What are you doing here?” His face is guarded.
“Can I come in?” She cranes her neck to
see inside. The floors are nice, hardwoods the color of honey.
“It’s late. I was about to give the dogs a bath—”
“I’ll help you.”
His face is skeptical. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get your clothes all dirty.”
She steps through the door. “I don’t care.”
Shawn’s house is warm and smells like lemon-scented wood polish. It’s tidy, too, except for a stack of mail on a side table, and some muddy dog prints in the hall. The kitchen has open shelving and concrete countertops. In the living room a dark leather couch sits in front of a large stone fireplace; a woven rug covers the floor. The dining room has a half-built bookcase in it, instead of a table.
Shawn gets a paper towel from the kitchen and wipes the dog prints away.
She points at the hearth. “Did you build that?”
“Yeah.” He gets hold of the dogs’ collars. “Got the stones out of a creek on Broken Mountain.”
“I like it. And the kitchen?”
“My dad helped.”
“What’s this?” She walks over to the bookcase.
“I’m building it out of wood leftover from work.”
She runs her hand along one of the shiny cherrywood shelves. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”
“I’ve invited you. A bunch of times—”
“I know.” She’s not sure what else to say.
He waves her up to the second floor, and the dogs’ tails hit her on the knees as they climb the stairs. One of the bedrooms has a treadmill in it, and nothing else. The other has a wide bed with wooden posts, and three large dog beds.
“How many dogs do you have?”
“Two.” The copper-colored dog leans against him and he rubs behind her ears. “This is Maple.” He points at the fuzzy one. “And Ruff.”
“You have a dog named Ruff?”
He shrugs. “My niece named him.” He opens the door to the bathroom and pulls the dogs inside. “I had three. But Ladybird was really old. Had to put her to sleep last year.” He turns on the water in the tub and the dogs try to escape the room.
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