The Dwelling

by Susie Moloney

The room smelled heavily, and pleasantly, of pine forests as replicated by Johnson & Johnson. Under the pine scent was the fainter scent of oil soap; she’d used the oil soap on the floor, but had decided the baseboards required something stronger. She thought of bare feet rubbing up against them for years and years, the flesh leaving its traces, never washed off, just sitting and breeding its germs and filth; no one ever thought to wash a baseboard.

  She could feel the water cooling through the thickness of her rubber gloves. Her hands were sweating under them, and would likely be puckered, but at least they would not be dry and flaky and itchy at work on Monday. It was important to keep up appearances. Under the gloves each fingernail had been carefully wrapped in cotton batting and taped with surgical tape to protect it. She’d had a manicure on Wednesday, and although she was trying very hard not to think inthose terms, she could not afford another this month.

  Intermittently, she could hear the whir of Dan’s drill from the room under the stairs, the one with the bed that folded out of the wall. The Murphy bedroom, the realtor had called it. Dan called itthe studio, as though it were some loft in New York, instead of a room hardly bigger than a closet, hidden under the stairwell.

  The drill sounded for a couple of seconds and then stopped. Becca worked her way across the last baseboard, on the east wall.

  Sun poured in from the west window, making a shadow on the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her own head bob and rise with each swipe of the cloth. It was probably after four already. She looked up from her work, and arched her back, stretching out from her diaphragm. She rolled her head on her neck.

  They were having friends of Dan’s over for coffee.

  You must be very good at what you do.

  Conversations around her were of portfolios and state dinners, private schools and Senate races.

  Yes.Her dress was custom-made. In it, her breasts were high and perfect. Her stockings blended subtly from her discreet black pumps to her modest hemline, just two inches above her smooth knees.

  Downstairs the drill sounded again, twice in rapid succession, as though the first attempt hadn’t quite been right and he was forcing the issue. Which was probably true. Dan wasn’t handy. The drill was his only real tool, although they had a motley collection of screwdrivers and hammers. The rest of the items in their “toolbox” were odd things that were rarely used: a large heavy file that had pried open a little crate of Christmas oranges sent to them by her mother from Florida one year; an awl that had been used to punch airholes in a jar when Dan’s nephew caught a butterfly at their old house a year earlier. Nothing matched. Nothing was particularly useful. They kept it all. Just in case.

  And what does your husband do?

  Sometimes in her fantasy (and more lately) she danced. Her partner would be older and urbane rather than handsome, with a mustache and a smile that seemed to know more than he gave away. She would relax in his arms, neither leaning nor leading, and yet he would almost carry her with every stride. There was an assumption of what he did for a living; it was never entirely defined in her fantasy, drifting over a multitude of occupations that were titular rather than hands-on: publisher, CEO, president, director, politico.

  What does your husband do?

  Becca reached the corner where she had started and gave it a last wipe. The water was murky, but not dirty. Dust floated serenely on top in little patterns. She sighed and stood up slowly so as not to bump the bucket, which was resting on a square of newspaper. She gave the room a once-over. It was remarkably yellow. The sun brightened it considerably, and there was a moment of adjustment for your eyes when the sun was at its fullest in the room. There were two windows, one south-facing that overlooked the street, and a west one, which mostly overlooked the windowless side of the neighbors’ house and the hedge that wrapped around their place. Their new house. The house that they might not be able to pay for in a couple of months, unless she made director.

  She would make director.

  Her heart pounded when she thought about money. To make it stop she leaned over and picked up the bucket with her rubber-gloved hands. Her fingers felt moist under the cotton batting and she would be happy to get it off. She made herself think only of these things. Becca was a very focused person. When she had a will, she could do anything.

  From downstairs, Dan hollered, “Becca! Come hold the shelf!” At the sound of his voice, Becca closed her eyes. It was just for a moment, but in that moment she could feel her body turning inward on itself, away from the voice downstairs.

  Becca was going to talk Dan into ordering Chinese. To do that, she needed to be sweet and accommodating.Please, not too accommodating. Max and Kate were coming for coffee after supper. Friends of Dan’s. Max was Dan’s new partner. Which sounded much better than the truth.

  And what does your husband do?

  He has a partner.

  That sounds impressive.

  Yes.

  What do they do, these partners?

  They’re making a comic book. It’s about a superhero.

  Becca carried the bucket into the bathroom. Inside her head, the cocktail party changed dramatically. Gales of laughter overtook genteel conversation and elegant chuckles. She dumped the bucket into the tub and watched as the grayish liquid rolled slowly down the drain and then rinsed it efficiently before pulling off her rubber gloves. Without them her fingers looked like oversized Q-tips. She smiled at that. She peeled the tape off one nail and was pleased when no glue was left behind.

  He used to be in advertising.

  He won an award.

  “Becca!” Dan called up again.

  “I’m coming!” she called down, and took her time, unwrapping each finger slowly, lovingly, and wondering if she should have sex with him before Max and Kate came and that way get it over with for the night, or if putting it off for the evening until she had at least had a glass of wine would make it easier.

  The studio, as he was calling it, was filling up fast. There was a serious lack of room, but as the boxes emptied and were put out into the hallway, it was beginning to take on a cozy feeling, as opposed to the crowded one he had briefly been afraid of at the beginning of the week. There was not much left to go inside. Once the books were unpacked and on the shelves, it would free up some floor space and he could unpack the rest of his stuff, put up the drafting table, his floor lamp (the overhead was just a bulb that cast a horrible glare over everything; it would be a disaster at night, when he was tired), and his supplies table. Then he was set. There would be just room for the bed to be pulled down (although he didn’t anticipate using it too often) and room for a bedside table. Cozy.

  Next year he would put in a window on the outside wall. It would be useless for light for most of the day, being an east window, but it would be very nice in the morning. He did his best work at night anyway.

  That was habit. He had always worked at night because he’d had a day job, or he’d been in classes during the day. He could work any time he wanted now, and that was both frightening and exhilarating.

  For the first time in his twenty-eight years, Dan Mason was gainfully unemployed. Unless you counted college. Even then, he’d worked part-time, framing prints for people whose conception of art rarely went further than making sure it matched their sofa.

  He realized too late that instead of putting the upper shelves on first he had anchored the frame to the wall and attached the lower two shelves to it, using his eye as a level (he had a great eye). The bottom three shelves were in place, and only the top one remained. But he couldn’t quite get under it. He would need Becca to hold it while he stood on a chair with the drill.

  Dan shrugged and took a break, slipping out of the house into the backyard for a smoke. Becca didn’t like smoking in the house. During the day he often broke that rule, taking a few drags in his studio as he pondered or unpacked, and so far she hadn’t said much. He kept it contained in the small space and usually stopped long before she got home from work, so the
re was time to air the place out. When he put his window in, he was going to smoke all he wanted in there.Secondhand smoke kills, Dan.

  Not reliably.He smiled, thinking of some line from a movie. He’d used it on her a few times, but she never got the reference. She never remembered things like movie lines, or bits of poetry or famous quotes. If you told her the reference (which spoiled using it at all), she would smile falsely and sometimes laugh, if they were in a group, but it wouldn’t reach her eyes and he would know that she didn’t get it. It was part of her charm. At least, he used to think so.

  The backyard was a tangle of untended garden. He was still mildly high from a joint smoked early in the afternoon and so he imagined himself getting in there and untangling and replanting, propagating and creating something of unearthly beauty, a little Garden of Eden. He had time, after all. One afternoon when he wasn’t working, he would get out there and dig around in the dirt. It would be great. Dirt smelled great. Earthy and green. It was creation. He felt a surge of creativity that made him flick his lit cigarette to the side and wander over to the garden. He bent over, hands on knees, and stared into the tangle trying to recognize something in there. He thought he saw some columbine, some impatiens. He was no plant expert, but they were plants his mom had grown.

  He stretched into the sun, squinting against it, and looked at the back of the new house. Big place. Nice big yard. Lots of atmosphere. A good place to be creative. He wished for his cigarette back and patted the pocket of his denim shirt for the pack, but he’d left it on the table by the back door. He liked a smoke while he thought.

  Could use a coat of paint; roof might need work. Wouldn’t take anything at all to do and Bec wouldn’t scream about the money if he did it himself.In his mildly stoned state he felt both capable of anything (creative) and sort of tired, like he needed a shower. It was midafternoon. Max and Kate would be there in a few hours. In a perfect world, he would have liked to have the studio all finished for when Max showed up.

  And it was a perfect world. Dan was finally doing what he had been made to do. He was doing his art. At home. No more bullshit job; no more nine-to-five kissing ass.

  Perfect world.

  He went inside and called for Becca to come and help with the last shelf.

  Becca fixed her hair before going downstairs. She would have a shower before Dan’s guests came, but for now she pulled out the elastic gently and brushed the tangles from her long hair. All gently. She took very good care of her hair, and in return it was thick and glossy, poker straight. With her fair complexion she liked to think it gave her an exotic look. Her features were thin and even, broken only by a high, round forehead. Her shirt—actually an old shirt of Dan’s that she used to clean in—was dusty at the front and she brushed at it carefully with the palms of her hands, holding her fingertips outward so as not to catch a nail on a button or pocket. That was how accidents happened. If you were aware and alert, accidents were avoided and so was the disappointment. It was focus. She was a very focused person.

  “I’m coming!” she yelled. She would have sex with him now, and get it done with, then she could shower and be clean for the rest of the night. It wasn’t good for the skin to shower too often, and she felt dirty and dusty, as though a film was encasing her.

  The cup in the bathroom had a white-gray film in a circle on the bottom from toothpaste. She took it with her.

  She walked erectly down the stairs. Chinese would be a forty-dollar order, but she was in the mood for it and then wouldn’t have to cook or clean up before Max and Kate arrived. It was logical.

  And (for god’s sake) it was her money, wasn’t it?

  The front door was closed against the sun, making the hallway dark after the brightness of the upstairs and Becca paused, slowing down on the stairs, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the light. Through the wide doorway into the living room, she could see that light flooded the room. The front window spanned almost the whole wall, and was at least six feet tall; she’d added a rider to their house insurance to cover it against breakage. That had been another twenty-five dollars. Of course, Dan had still had his job then.

  She took the cup into the kitchen to put it in the sink, only half registering the open door to Dan’s studio. As she passed it she called back, “Will I need gloves for this?” noting that the leather gloves were in the toolbox, which was open on the kitchen floor.

  Dan answered something back, but Becca hadn’t heard him. Deciding she did (wood splinters, hard edges), she picked up the pair and walked back through the kitchen, to the studio. She could see Dan, bent over in front of the shelves with the tape measure.

  She heard the snake of the measuring tape running back into the metal casing (a sound like nails on a blackboard) as she approached the small door to the studio. It was wide open.

  A cold breeze hit her from the front, swirling around her, cooling the sweat on her back and freezing her. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She crossed them over her breasts, feeling her nipples harden. She opened her mouth—it’s so cold in—taking a single step into the room.

  BANG!The door slammed shut just as her foot crossed the threshold, smashing hard on her big toe.

  “Oh!”She took a reactive jump backward, staggering, cursing inwardly. She bent over and grabbed her foot, rubbing her toe.(Shit.)

  Dan said something on the other side, alarmed, but it was too muffled to make out.

  “The goddamndoor slammed in my face!” she called out angrily, at least as much at the door as to Dan inside.

  Becca straightened up, face screwed up in a pout—felt like the nail cracked…that’s going to hurt in heels on Monday—and grabbed the knob, turning it and pushing, stumbling again when her weight did not open the door. She turned and pushed again.

  It did not open. She rattled it gently, coaxing, turned it and pushed again, but it was stuck. “Dan,” she called, leaning over to feel around her toe again, checking for the cracked nail, “let me in. The door’s stuck.”

  From inside he called, “What?” She pictured him looking up, not even having noticed or heard the slamming door,he can just ignore everything completely oblivious to the world must be nice, color rose in her cheeks, annoyance made her voice rise shrilly, hating the sound of it when it came out of her mouth. She hated yelling. Dan yelled from wherever he was, regularly. Like a fishwife. It was unattractive.

  “The door is stuck! Let mein.” She said the last part through gritted teeth and then banged hard on the wood twice, not knocking, butsmacking it, angry; she tried turning it again, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Then it swung open easily, the knob tugged gently out of her hand. Dan stood behind it. “You have to be gentle with it, Bec. It’s an old knob,” he said, pushing it open, all the way to the wall.

  “It wasstuck.”

  “You have to go easy,” he said firmly.

  “Well, it wouldn’t open. You should change the knobs.”

  “I don’t want to. They’re funky. They’recool.” The knobs were white porcelain and they were attractive; it was a look, as they say, that matched the interior of the room. It was a part of the house untouched by time or renovators. For whatever reason.

  “It’s probably not safe,” she said, not willing to let it go, feeling the tension rise in her, the wanting to pick a fight. Lately she felt that way whenever they were in close quarters. Picking a fight seemed better than the alternative. It just seemed like he was always crawling on her. Always wanting to.

  It will pass. This is a phase.That was what Donna at work said.We went through it; now we’re fine again. Moving’s hell. She hadn’t told Donna, of course, that they weren’t having sex. Not much anyway. Not like they used to. She hadn’t mentioned to Donna and she wouldn’t, god knows she wouldn’t. Especially not the part about how she just didn’t want to anymore, about how the sight of his hands, his too-long fingers and wrists sticking out of the ends of his sleeves like pale, sickly little tree branches, made her shudder. She and Dan didn’t eve
n talk about it. Not directly. Just the odd shot.Nice to know someone’s getting it around here.

  “I need you to hold up this shelf,” he said briskly. She gave the room a good look, her arms crossed over her chest again. He watched her. “Pretty good, huh?”

  She shrugged, “It’ll look better when you get the books unpacked.”

  “Then hold this while I fix it to the wall,” he said, pointing at the board leaning against the rest of the shelving. She slipped the gloves, large, over her slender hands. She felt her nails push against the ends of the fingers. It felt confining.

  He marked a spot on the wall that she could barely see and had her hold the board from the center over the line. It was awkward. She was at an odd angle, her arms up over her head, her buttocks sticking out, her body bent in a V from the middle, her weight on the board to hold it steady.

  From behind her, Dan said, “Keep it steady.” She heard the click of a bit into the drill, but nothing else happened.

  “Mmmm,” he said. “Nice view from here.” In her mind’s eye she could see the leer spreading across his soft, almost girlishly pretty features. She closed her eyes. Waited. As if on cue, she felt his hand, hot, small, on her thigh. It rose and curved smoothly over her buttocks.

  “Nice,” he repeated. She did nothing, least of all react. In a moment she heard him sigh. Then it passed. He got up under her and anchored the board to the wall and to the frame; she kept her eyes shut against the flying sawdust. The little space between them smelled of Dan’s sweat and burning wood. It took only a few seconds and the unit was complete.

  She let go and the two of them stood back to look.

  “Pretty good. That wood goes very well in here. I wasn’t sure it was going to,” he said, almost formally to his wife, the mood shift firmly in place.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said agreeably.I want to be agreeable, I really do. This will pass.

  “I was thinking we should order Chinese,” she added once he ducked to unplug the drill and started wrapping the cord around the base of it.