"What's first?"
The truth is, there's so much to do inside the house, it probably doesn't matter where we start. No matter what we choose as the first thing to tackle, we have a long road ahead of us, and there's plenty more to do after that. Finally, I gesture for her to follow me, take a resolute breath, and start toward the door leading to the basement. Fiona falls into step behind me, then stops beside me when we come to the narrow door at the back of the kitchen. By the way the latch had resisted me when I pried it open my first day here, this door probably hasn't been opened in years. That makes sense. Grammie doesn't really have much reason to go down into the basement. It's mostly storage, along with the hot water heater.
"Should we start here?" I ask.
My eyes slide sideways to look at Fiona. She's staring down the door like she's doing her best to intimidate it. I know she's never been fond of the basement. When we were younger, she always talked about it in hushed, frightened tones like it was worse than the origin story of every horror movie in existence. I'll admit, it used to give me the creeps, too, but as an adult, it's just a room to me now. Fiona doesn't seem to share my sentiment, however.
"You want to start down in the basement?" she asks.
I nod.
"Why not?"
"I guess you're right," she says. "At least if we start down there, the only place to go will be up."
I laugh.
"That's the spirit. I promise it won't be so bad once you get down there."
She draws in a breath and nods as she lets it out slowly.
"OK. I'm as ready as I’ll ever be."
Even the air conditioning has not been enough to combat the moisture in the air over the years, and the old, warped wood again resists being opened through a few hard tugs. Finally, I convince it to open and a rush of musty smelling, damp air greets us from below.
"Well," she says, holding her nose, "That's delightful. I think I’ll go and make us some sandwiches instead."
"That sounds good," I say. "Call me when they're ready. I'm going to go down there and go through everything and figure out what we're going to do with it all, and what needs to be repaired or replaced."
"I wonder what’s down there. Do you think Grammie even remembers?"
"I doubt it. But we can call her and see what she wants us to do with it."
I close the door to the basement and pull out my phone before Fiona has a chance to. The last thing we need is for Grammie to answer the phone in the middle of a steel drum concert and have to explain that she's now in music therapy for an ankle injury.
"Cade!" Grammie exclaims breathlessly as she answers the phone.
"Hi, Grammie. How are you feeling?"
"Am I on speaker phone?"
"No."
"I'm fabulous! Arthur and I went on a shore excursion today. Swimming with pigs! Can you even? I can't even…. What does that mean? I hear that a lot these days."
"Who's Arthur?"
"How goes the repairs in the house?"
Masterful skirting around of that question. Grammie really is a pro.
"Going fine. Fiona and I just have a quick question for you. We're cleaning out the basement, and I’m assuming there's quite a bit down there. Do you have any thoughts about what we should do with it?"
"Let me talk to her," Fiona says.
I look over at her as she holds a package of lunchmeat in one hand, reaching for the phone with the other. I hand it to her, taking the turkey she offers me in exchange. She's already laid out a row of bread across the cutting board on the counter, and I begin doling out the turkey.
"Grammie?" she shouts into the phone. "How is your ankle? Who's Arthur? Arthur, Grammie? Turkey... Yes, it is enough... Yes, it is… Pickles... I don't have any potato salad… I'm not going to make potato salad... Who is Arthur?"
Fiona wanders out of the kitchen, and I stare down at the half-made sandwiches on the board. I had planned on emptying the basement, but I managed to get stuck with preparing lunch. Shrugging, I head to the refrigerator and pull out some condiments, Swiss cheese, tomatoes, and half a head of lettuce. By the time Fiona comes back in, the sandwiches are towering, and each plate is piled high with potato chips.
"How many people are you planning on feeding?" she asks.
"Us," I tell her.
"Have you decided we're going to stay in the basement for a few days?"
I hold out one of the plates to her, and she takes it, staring at the food like she's trying to make a plan of attack for it.
"What did Grammie say about the stuff in the basement?"
"Huh?" She looks up from her apparent fascination with the sandwich to me. "Oh. She said we can go through it and do whatever we think is best."
"Great," I say. "If we find anything you don't think we should keep around, I'm sure we can bring it to the antique shop in town."
When we finish eating, we head back to the basement to start picking through the nearly overwhelming assortment of belongings scattered in the dimly lit, musty room.
"I don't know how many people are going to be interested in some of this stuff, honestly," I say. "What is this?"
I pick up what looks like a large metal owl.
"A lamp," she says. "I vaguely remember it being in the living room when I was really little. Scared the hell out of me when Gramps plugged it in. The only light it gives is its eyes glowing."
"What's the point of that?"
"To give me a lifelong terror of birds, I'm assuming."
I reach into another box and pull out a strange metal object, that looks like it may have partially disintegrated from years of neglect.
"And on this afternoon's episode of What the Hell Is This?" I show it to her. "This thing."
Fiona looks at the strange, misshapen object, then takes it from me. She turns it around in her hands a few times, opens her mouth, then closes it again. She turns it one more time.
"I have no idea. Maybe it melted?"
I laugh and toss the object aside.
"This might be more work than I thought."
"That's alright. We'll intersperse it with other projects, so it's not so mind-numbing."
"I don't know," I say, reaching for a truly horrific velvet painting. "This is pretty amazing."
* * *
Fiona
The next morning…
By the time I'm done with breakfast, I can already hear hammering ringing out from the living room. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and settle the mug in the sink beside Cade's. Turning on the faucet, I rinse away the remaining sticky residue of the donuts that were waiting for me when I got up. I planned on waking up before him so I could make breakfast, but even though I dragged myself out of bed before the sun, Cade was already standing in the kitchen, ready for the day, and drinking coffee. I'm fairly certain much of the motivation behind that is the sheer pleasure of using the new coffeemaker he bought. Rather than throwing away the old one, he's left it unplugged in the back corner of the counter. I think he might be trying to torture it.
The sound of hammering guides me into the living room, where I find Cade on his knees beside the hole in the floor. I remind myself to ask Grammie what the heck happened here the next time I talk to her. Somehow, I feel like there's a story attached to this particular mishap. I watch as Cade pauses and uses a measuring tape to check the hole, and then pieces of plank beside him.
"Good morning," I say as I walk toward him.
"Morning," he says, looking back over his shoulder at me. "Want to help?"
"That depends,” I tease. “What are you doing?”
"Trying to get this subflooring supported so I can repair the hole."
"You're taking away the exotic basement skylight."
"Sometimes we have to make hard choices.”
"When you finish fixing it, won't that area of the floor be a different color than the rest?"
Cade sits back on his heels and stares down at the work he's already done.
"I've thought ab
out that. Eventually, the whole floor is going to have to be stripped and refinished."
"Is there anything we're going to do that isn't going to just result in adding something else to the list?"
"It tends to happen when you're doing projects at this scale."
I sigh.
"Alright. Well, what can I do to help you with this?"
"Do you remember anything Gramps taught you about flooring?"
"I remember exactly nothing about anything Gramps taught me about flooring."
Cade smiles at me, and my body involuntarily trembles. The space between us has gradually lessened, and the resistance I've felt toward him is slowly falling away. I feel like we've fallen back into the pattern we've always had. The years have started to blur, and we're moving closer to the way we used to be. I can't deny that my heart flutters when he smiles at me, or that my insides melt when his hand accidentally brushes mine. I want Cade closer to me. I crave the private, hidden space we used to share with one another. There are still so many lingering, unanswered questions hanging over us. I honestly don't know if I’ll ever be brave enough to say the words that have been on my mind for the last ten years. And I really don’t know if I’m strong enough to hear his response.
* * *
Cade
That afternoon…
Fiona wipes the back of her hand across her forehead and lets out a long breath, planting her hands on her hips as I toss another armful of debris into the back of my truck. She looks at me, her eyes sagging with exhaustion. I have to admit I'm impressed by all the hard work she's put in so far. It's like something has abruptly shifted in her, leaving her compelled to take part in the various projects I have going throughout the house. When we were younger, she would have run as far as she possibly could to escape having to do anything like hauling soggy, musty boxes or trying to piece together a floor broken under circumstances I'm not sure I want to know. After the visual of Grammie attempting to roller disco, I think knowing what happened to the floor might be too much for me.
After what I witnessed today, it's obvious Fiona's willingness to push herself through challenges has changed. The extent of her skill is roughly the same, but she's adorable when trying, so I'll go along with it. My eyes scan down her body and rest on the full swells of her breasts spilling over the neckline of her fitted olive tank top.
"Maybe we should go ahead and stop for the day," I say. "We've gotten a lot done, and it's hot as hell out here. Heat exhaustion can creep up on you before you expect it. Let's bring this to the dump and then take it easy."
"That sounds good to me," she replies.
We both climb into the truck, and her eyes flutter closed as she tilts her head back onto the headrest.
"It'll be good when we can get a trash bin out here," I say.
She nods, closing her eyes as I pull out of the driveway and start down the winding road toward the landfill. The nice blue and white sign at the entrance now calls it the Hoot Owl Convenience Center, but that does little to beautify the mounds of trash and piles of recycling located nearly half an hour from the house. Following little signs along the way, we keep on a path that brings us to a relatively new-looking section of the landfill. A lone bulldozer, its yellow paint faded and chipped, drives in lazy rows back and forth along one of the mounds in front of us. Occasionally it picks up a scoopful of trash, brings it over to another section of the mound, and dumps it out. I'm sure at the root of this there is a purpose, but at the moment it doesn't seem the operator has fully grasped it.
Fiona wakes up when I shut off the engine, blearily rubbing her eyes. We climb out of the truck and make our way to the back, where we start unloading years of unwanted junk from Grammie's basement. Fiona had added in a few items from her bedroom, and their bright colors stand in stark contrast to the shade of soggy brown shared by the rest of the load. For the next several minutes we gather armfuls of boxes and toss them onto nearby piles of trash. Finally, we each make our final trek and pause to take a brief break. I notice Fiona's eyes drift up and I follow her gaze.
Above us, the sky is starting to look angry again. Another storm is rolling in, and within seconds, the sun is blotted out. Fiona looks at me nervously.
"That doesn't look good," she says.
I shrug.
"It's only summer," I say, trying to reassure her. "You know that’s thunderstorm season out here."
"I like how you say that like I've never been here before. Like moving out to the city has erased my memory of what it was like to grow up in Hoot Owl."
We climb back into the truck, and I turn the engine over.
"I remember curling up with you under a blanket in the living room when the power went out," I say. "You'd grab that huge old flashlight Gramps had, and we'd wrap up in the middle of the floor to wait it out."
She laughs, securing her seatbelt as we start toward the exit.
"I don't know what was always so comforting about the floor," she says. "I'm not sure what it was about a thunderstorm that made me feel like I could no longer use furniture for its normal function. That was always my go-to solution when the power went out, though."
"I think you just wanted to be tucked under a blanket with me," I say. "That was my motivation, anyway."
Her eyes slide over to me as a smile forms on her lips.
"That might have been part of it."
A sudden loud crack of thunder causes to her jump as a tiny yelp bursts from her lips. Her eyes are wide and scared, the way they always used to look when we were kids.
"You're fine," I say. "Don't worry. I didn't even see this storm on the forecast. It probably isn't going to be very bad. Just watch, it will be a few minutes of thunder and some clouds, and by the time we get back to the house, it will all be over, and we'll be grilling supper."
* * *
Half an hour later…
"There's a tree on my fucking house!"
"It's going to be fine, Fiona. You have to calm down."
Fiona looks at me, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. She flails one hand at the large oak that once stood at the edge of the backyard. The fact that it is now lying across the roof of the back porch is likely the reason behind the incredulous expression on her face. Yeah, I don’t think she believes me.
"A tree, Cade. It's a tree. There's a tree on my house!"
Just like I had said it would, the storm had been intense, but very brief, and by the time we got back to the house, the sky was completely clear – clear enough for us to immediately notice the enormous root ball sticking out from behind the house. That oak had been massive and old decades ago, so I always knew it was only a matter of time before it would need to come down. I wish it had waited for a tree service to come and do it, but the high winds had done an effective job on their own. Fiona's head suddenly drops, and she covers it with her hand. I see her shoulders shaking so I wrap my arm around her, pulling her against me to comfort her. The warmth of her body seeps through my clothes, and I’m suddenly very aware of our closeness.
"Listen to me," I say, "It's going to be fine. It doesn't look like it caused too much damage."
"Tree... on... my... fucking... house, Cade."
"It's not on the house, though. It's on the porch. It definitely smashed that far corner and broke some glass, but the house itself is fine. I can arrange for a tree service to be out here tomorrow to get it off the roof, and then I can see to fixing the damage. The rest of the house is fine. Come on. Let's go inside. It's not going to do you any good to just stand here and look at it."
As I tighten my grip around her shoulders and start to guide her around and make our way inside, Fiona's phone rings. She steps away from me and fishes it out of her pocket. Glancing at the screen, she rolls her eyes.
"Grammie," she mutters. "Great. What am I supposed to tell her? Oh, I'm sorry, Grandmother. You left me alone with your house, and I smashed it with a tree?"
"Just the porch," I point out again, "and it's not your fault. It's not like you
kicked the tree out of spite and it fell over, Fi. Just answer the phone and don't tell her about the tree."
"I feel bad keeping it from her."
"It's for the best. The last thing she needs is the stress of finding out something went wrong. She'd think about what would have happened if you and I had been sitting out on the porch when the tree fell, and it would only stress her out."
And that might distract her from the next limbo competition.
The phone stops ringing.
"It stopped."
"That tends to happen when you let it ring four thousand times without answering it."
Almost immediately, the phone begins ringing again. Fiona snaps it to her ear, and I see her eyes close as she lets out a breath and starts toward the house.
"No, I'm not dead, Grammie... Yes, Grammie, I'm sure... If I was dead I wouldn't be answering... Because ghosts can't pick up the phone...then why can they walk through walls? OK, Grammie, I'm not dead, what do you need?"
Fiona lets out an exasperated sigh and stops in her tracks, turning to me sharply. She shoves the phone toward me.
"What?" I ask.
"Tell her I'm not dead."
Taking the phone, I try to suppress my laugh. I can see Fiona is nearing her capacity for all she can take, and I don't want to push her any further.
"She's not dead."
"Oh, good," Grammie says.
She sounds genuinely relieved, and I wonder what she had experienced lurking around in the old house during her time here alone that brought about the accusation. Knowing Grammie, she forgot she had hung a nightgown on the line, saw it through the window, and has decided she lives among the ghosts of residents from generations ago.
I hand the phone back to Fiona, and we continue toward the front door.
"Hi," she says as we walk around the side of the house. "Things are fine. There was a storm," she hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder at me, "but everything's alright. How are you feeling?... That's good. I'm glad the therapy is working for you." She climbs onto the front porch, and I see her eyes flicker up toward the light fixtures on either side of the door. "Did you turn those off?" she asks, looking at me again.
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