Through the large tree in the neighbors’ yard, she caught a glimpse of 362.
Peek-a-boo.
The street was full of parked cars, on both sides. Everyone home from work by then. She took note of the SUVs, Volvos and Japanese cars, most of them clean and shiny as though they, too, had been recently painted. There were few signs of children in the yards. It was a starter neighborhood. The people behind the SUVs and foreign cars would climb their ladders and in two or three years buy a place with a severely groomed yard, backing onto a golf course or the river with a house with no asbestos or history, on McGillvray or Somerset or something in the east end of the city, tripling their taxes, and then their yards would bloom with play equipment of the sort that blended in with nature.
She slowed the car to a crawl.
I won’t go in.There really wasn’t time. Not really.
Then, there it was. She tilted her head slightly to the left to get a better view from under the windshield. The windows were curtained and shut, giving the impression that it couldn’t see her. She considered it.
It looked the same.
She rubbernecked all the way past and then picked up speed.
Not the same, exactly. In her brief, concentrated glance, it had looked cleaner, taller, brighter, and she wondered if someone had washed the front of the house in anticipation of its listing. That seemed too much to hope for. She glanced up at the last moment before she was in front of the neighbor’s house and caught a glimpse of the upstairs window.The little blue room. The children’s room. Pretty.
Pretty stone walk. Lovely back garden.(English-style garden! Three bedrooms +! Close to schools! Newly renovated!) She wondered hopefully if the Masons had at least tended to the garden before he died, and then promptly chastised herself for it.
At the stop she checked her watch and her beeper went off. Juggling traffic, she checked the beeper number. At the next red light she called on her cell, a realtor she had been trying to reach all afternoon about a showing of their listing. They made a tentative arrangement for between eight that evening and not after ten the next morning. After that she would have to rebook.
“I’m showing a bungalow in fifteen minutes,” Glenn said precisely, into the tiny phone. “I will attempt to reach my client at the next stop. Shall I call you back to confirm?” The light changed and Glenn expertly swung the car into a left turn. The realtor said it wasn’t necessary and gave her the location of the lockbox at the house. She hung up politely and curtly and dialed a client’s number by heart, with her thumb, driving the car carefully with her left hand, watching the road and mentally organizing her time.
Twelve and a half minutes later, she was parked outside the bungalow waiting for a Mr. and Mrs. Winkler—driving a blue-green Honda Civic—to appear; she had booked her other client into a nine-thirty showing, which would give her (depending upon the promptness of the Winklers) half an hour to grab something to eat. It would be fine.
The Winklers were two minutes past their appointment time. In the waiting period, Glenn had updated her book, made her list for the morning, adding to the already lengthy list a note to write the pitch for Belisle and to have the sign placed out front, and a reminder to send a condolence card(so young) to Rebecca Mason. Discreetly, of course, signing just her name, not mentioning who she was. With any luck it would be received in the spirit intended.
The Honda Civic pulled up behind her and Glenn shut her briefcase and was out of the car door. She pasted a smile on her face and stuck out her hand in greeting.
“Hello, thank you for arriving on time. The house is lovely. I’ve just been in it. Shall we take a look?” she said, and before the Winklers had an opportunity to do much more than nod their greetings, Glenn was maneuvering Mrs. Winkler by the elbow in the direction of the house, with the same deft touch she used in the car.
“You were looking for a place with appliances, isn’t that right? I think you’ll find this home ready to move in! There’s brand-new wall-to-wall carpeting throughout, just imagine the expense!” and the three of them went up the walk, Glenn by then in the lead.
By nine they were still in the house. Glenn checked her watch covertly once or twice, but didn’t concern herself. The next showing was not more than five minutes from the bungalow. And she smelled a sale. While the two of them spoke in low whispers in the kitchen, Glenn busied herself in the living room.
At nine-ten they wanted to think about it. Mr. Winkler asked about any others who might have looked.
“It’s the busy season,” Glenn said. “A seller’s market, this year, I’m afraid. There haven’t been any offers thus far, but it’s a newer listing. Why don’t you sleep on it and we can talk about it tomorrow?”
On the sidewalk Mr. Winkler said, “If someone was going to make an offer on this house, say, what would be a good one?” In the seconds it took to size them up, their glassy-eyed, half-terrified look, and the dubious nature of the next showing (third showing for that couple, didn’t need something until October), Glenn decided. She explained that she had another showing in twenty minutes, but if they were serious about discussing it, she could meet them (and there she looked interestedly at her watch) at ten-fifteen at the coffee shop halfway between this house and the next.
“Okay,” he said, looking nervously and happily at his wife. For the first time, Glenn noted that she was pregnant. How had she missed such a thing?
“Won’t that be too late for you?” Mrs. Winkler asked.
Glenn flashed her brightest, most motherly smile at them. “Oh, no, not this time of year. I’ll see you then.”
In the car before the corner she checked her watch again. Nine-eighteen. There wasn’t time to stop for a bite, not even at a drive-through. Her stomach rumbled. Eating was sometimes (lately) difficult for her, and there was no need to stuff something dreadful down at this hour. They had a saying at Shelter.Eat in January. It was the busy season.
Glenn crawled into bed at twelve-thirty after a half-dozen crackers and a glass of water. She certainly wasn’t gaining back any of the weight she’d lost after—
After Howard died.She said the phrase in her mind with trepidation, the way she still did, as though testing herself. It settled there, inside her, and she waited just a moment or two before the next thought, to take stock.
She had showed the second house and sold the first. Tomorrow she had three showings only, a sure sign that things were slowing down. In June, just three weeks ago, she’d shown on average five houses a day, with seven being her record.(My husband is dead. Howard died. He’s never coming back. Never.) In another two weeks, she would be trickling down to two—three a day and hold steady there, probably until a couple of weeks after school started. In January she would eat. And she would eat out. A lot.
Lists rambled over and under the other random thoughts. The bungalow on Washington should be reduced. It wasn’t moving. Neighborhood was just not in that range anymore. She would talk to the wife. The Dalls would probably make an offer tomorrow on the condo in Billingsford Estates. The Winklers’ offer had to be dropped off in the morning. First thing. First. Then the Garfield house showing.
Dunston. Crane Street. Ledbetter Road. Columbus. Belisle.
Belisle.Glenn opened her eyes for a moment into her dark bedroom. Moonlight filtered in through pretty lacy curtains, dappling the silver light across her duvet and the two small mounds that were her feet underneath. The Belisle house had been her first listing; the first listing when she went back to work after—
Howard died.
I’m getting used to it.
Her last thought before succumbing was of the Belisle house. The smell of varnish almost tingled in her nostrils with it and then—
Sleep.
Two
Two days had passed and Glenn hadn’t done a thing about the Belisle property, except drive past it twice on her way to other properties. Her book was full. By Thursday, with the weekend approaching, she had a decent nibble on the Ledbetter Road
place, a nice couple from Ohio who were looking for something small to start. One of them had family in the area and they were relocating. That usually meant one of them (Him? Her? It was hard to tell these days) had lost a job and they’d run out of money and were relocating to save a little. Thursday morning she had gone directly from her little house to the Ledbetter place to meet them and was at her desk by eleven, ready to do some paperwork. Not much.
One bit of paperwork was the ad for the Belisle house, which really should have gone in directly on Tuesday. First thing upon sitting, she quickly jotted something down, a standard first-run ad. Appliances were a big coup, especially for first-time home buyers.
TWO-STORY HOME IN QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD, UPDATES THROUGHOUT, REFINISHED HARDWOOD FLOORS, NEWLY DECORATED, ALL APPLIANCES. $96,500. SHELTER REALTY.
(She couldn’t believe Mrs. Mason was asking $96,500. The Masons had bought it on their first offer, a low-ball at $89,000. Even Glenn had been surprised at the acceptance. Now the widow was wanting to make a profit. It was somehow unseemly. And entirely none of her business.)
Glenn read it over. It didn’t say much. She frowned and fiddled with her glasses. Took them off her nose and polished them with a tissue. Bad form. Howard always claimed that tissues scratched glass. Seemed impossible. She put them back on her face. Read the ad once more.
It was a nicer house than could be conveyed in the ad.
LOVELY THREE BED+, NEWLY REFINISHED HARDWOOD FLOORS ON LOWER LEVEL. QUAINT CHARACTER THROUGHOUT, ARCHED DOORWAY TO MASTER BED, ANTIQUE TUB IN UPPER BATH, LARGE, OPEN, INSULATED ATTIC SPACE FOR YOUR HOME OFFICE, COZY ROOM UNDER STAIRS, WORKING FIREPLACE!
That was just too long. She tapped a fingernail on her desk and stared blankly at the computer. Appliances and working fireplace—those were the big sellers.
APPLIANCES INCLUDED IN LOVELY 3-BED WITH WORKING FIREPLACE. CLOSE TO SCHOOL, SHOPPING IN QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD.
She decided simply to rerun the original ad. Glenn opened her file drawer and while thumbing through in search of herSold folder she ran across the still-unopened package addressed belatedly to the Masons. It was fat and inviting. She pulled it out.
With her letter opener she scored through the gummed flap, frowning over the wasted postage—out of pocket—and emptied the contents out on her desk, beside the computer. Tiny bits of paper scattered out along with letters and forms, the accoutrement of a house’s paper trail.
In barely legible handwriting, on what looked like the corner torn from a child’s school tablet, was the receipt for one grille sold as is, twenty-five dollars; a name was scribbled underneath that might have been Roy Leg or Ray Ley, but no buyer was listed. Another receipt was for PVC tubing from a large hardware chain. Receipts, for the most part computer-or cash-register generated, were for everything from screws to cans of varnish for the floor. Stain, paint, brushes, clothes, tarps, all came from the same local paint and wallpaper wholesale company. There was a large, detailed receipt from Stanley Mann Wood Finishers—another local company. In the bottom corner, before the subtotal of an outrageous amount, was the notion “Expenses,” with the bracketed reminder, “receipts attached.” It appeared that the Previous Owners paid a great deal of money to refinish the floors on the lower level. Glenn nearly blanched at the figure, even though they had been perfectly refinished. There were many little handwritten receipts, including one for the tub. She smiled, reading, “One tub. As is Scratched and Chipped. Antique. $1,000.” It was signed, but again there was no mention of who did the buying. She pawed through the papers, suddenly very curious about the installation of the beast, but couldn’t find a receipt among the little receipts for the crane that brought the tub to the second floor.Maybe they just wanted to forget about that particular day, she thought wryly.I would have.
There were more receipts for the little things, screws and nails and sealants and wire and pipes. Taps, the sink. The floor tiles in the kitchen had come from Fleur de Lisle Flooring, a very high-end manufacturer, with no store mentioned, so Glenn wondered if they had had Stanley Mann or someone get it for them on a regular trip.
On lined paper, folded in the midst of the larger documents, was a letter that Glenn didn’t think she’d seen before. She unfolded it. It was a few pages thick, and written prose style. Unlike the little note that had accompanied the letter from the insurance company, which listed the renovation in point form, this appeared to be a detailed description of the renovation itself, from bow to stern. She unfolded it.
Simply, at the top of the legal-sized white, blue-lined paper, it said, “362 Belisle.” It was handwritten in what was probably a woman’s handwriting. She flipped through it quickly. It was unsigned.
Obviously, it was written by the elusive Previous Owner.
She began to read. It started as though in the middle of an as-yet uncompleted thought, but there were no other sheets, and the address at the top appeared to be the title of the piece.
We renovated most of the house. The rooms more or less left were the master bedroom upstairs, the bedroom at the end of the hall, both were painted, though, and the small room under the stairs. I understood that at one point in the house’s background the owner had rented the rooms out to boarders. The room under the stairs was exactly as it had been then—it was originally a servant’s quarters, and was also used as a guest room—so we just left it. It was fine the way it was.
The plumbing in the bathroom was entirely replaced—a process that consumed the upper floor and the east and north walls for more than three weeks. The toilet went in next and then the sink. The tub was a different story.
The claw-footed tub, more than a hundred years old, was part of an estate sale, purchased from Jack Reimer at auction for $1000. The house it had been in (his brother’s) was razed after his death and the pieces sold bit by bit. The tub, due to its size and weight, had proven difficult for Mr. Reimer to unload (in retrospect, I wonder if he “saw me coming”). A beautiful piece of work even in its neglected state, it was refinished by Lorimar’s before it was installed. This proved to be somewhat of a nightmare. The window in the bathroom was not large enough to accommodate the width of the tub. It was taken out, the hole enlarged. Scaffolding was built along the side of the house and the tub brought in by a rented crane. The whole proposition took weeks of planning and booking and then had to be coordinated to be done in a half-day in order to save the money on the crane. It took the whole day. The rough opening for the new window was damaged by the tub on its way through and the wall had to be redrywalled before the new window could go in.
In spite of new plumbing, there have been problems off and on with the tap.
Glenn scanned ahead in the letter, but nowhere was there a mention of how much the whole process cost. It must have been horribly, prohibitively expensive. She shook her head.
“The kitchen was tiled in stone—”The letter detailed the kitchen floor, the process of the wiring, insulation throughout, the cupboard on the west wall in the kitchen, gutted and the built-in dishwasher installed, the gingerbread screen door added to the back of the house. The banister and stairs were refinished by another company—which explained why they seemed to have less luster; Glenn suspected that Stanley Mann Wood Finishers proved to be a little too expensive, either that or they had gotten in too deep by then financially and were cutting corners. There was no date at the top of the letter and no indication of year or real time frame of the renovation. The descriptions seemed to jump around as though the author had sat down and just written what she remembered.
The barn board in the baby’s room[Glenn assumed she meant the little blue room at the top of the stairs, across from the bathroom]was also bought in the country. Driving by one day, we happened to see a crowd of people, trucks and cars parked up and down both sides of the highway, watching a barn being pulled down. We watched too, and I asked the fellow what he would like for some of the wood. I told him about the house and how I would like to do the baby’s room like a farmyard—with the clouds a
nd sky and a little fence rail around the room, with hooks and such to hang things from. He said I could take what I could haul. Got the whole barn door intact. I asked him how old it was and he said he wasn’t sure, but that it had been there since he was a little kid and the place had been abandoned for years. It was the county, he said, that was pulling down the barn because it was a hazard. We got a truck and piled enough wood on it to do the whole room. While I was there I grabbed some big rocks for the corner, thinking maybe I could do some kind of diorama or something. That renovation is incomplete. The fence posts never made it up. And I didn’t get the clouds painted. By the time I would have done that, this had mostly all started happening.
The foreclosure? Their marriage breaking up? For surely that must have happened, with this loose wire running all over the state shopping with impunity, only to have to pay later when they were unsuitable. She wondered where the rest of the barn board was, but she supposed it was sitting in someone’s backyard, still. And the baby?
The attic is also an incomplete renovation. It has been fully insulated and vented, sealed and the drywall installed. It has been completely taped, but the plastering is only at the first coat. We are leaving the three decorative beams (bought at Carlisle’s Restored Hardware) along the wall in the attic, for future renovation, since they have been cut to order. The beams are solid maple and apparently cut from trees on a fellow’s land just outside of Brockville. That’s what the Restored Hardware people said. The intention had been to install the beams abutting the east and west walls and then to center the last beam and hang “pool hall” type lights along its length, because of the original plan of having a family room up there, and with the low ceiling, it seemed a good idea. The renovation in the attic is incomplete.
The Dwelling Page 17