Better Than Your Dreams

by Dee Ernst

  “I scraped off the peel-and-stick tile that was in the laundry room, and David did the sanding. I’m also good at scraping paint. But I hate wearing those stupid masks.”

  Of course she did. What was a little poisoning from lead paint compared to looking silly in a mask? But I had to hand it to her—her nails hadn’t seen polish or topcoat in a while, and she had blisters on her palms.

  Miranda had always been a very organized person—anyone with as many clothes as she had needed to be, if for no other reason than to make sure an outfit wasn’t repeated in the same month. She had put together a nice little spreadsheet in her iPad, a schedule of work, and the estimated costs. She had penciled me in for taking up the carpet on the second floor, removing all the furring strips, and pulling out any stray nails or staples. That was Friday. Saturday was painting the downstairs, because David would be sanding the newly revealed floors upstairs. Sunday morning was simple, helping move all the furniture downstairs so the floors could be stained and finished on Monday. I had planned on leaving Sunday afternoon. But now, knowing that Ben would be there all weekend as well, should I stay the extra day? You know, just to help out? Or should I suddenly receive an emergency call from my agent and run like hell back to New Jersey immediately?

  I looked closer at her spreadsheet. Ben was taking apart the kitchen on Friday. With Miranda. Saturday he was painting the downstairs with Miranda and me. Cabinets would arrive Monday morning, and he and Miranda would be installing them, with David taking Monday off from work to help.

  Their other friends, including a few names I recognized from Miranda’s time at Boston U, would be spending the entire weekend emptying out the backyard into a Dumpster that was due to arrive Friday morning.

  “Where are you putting a Dumpster?” I asked. We were sitting at their dining room table after dinner, another bottle of wine half empty.

  “We’ll have to move our cars,” David explained. “We have two spaces at the end of our lot, on the alley, to park. The Dumpster will go there. Not ideal, but good enough.”

  I liked David. I always had. He was a very relaxed and confident young man, and I always thought he’d make a great husband. And I’m sure he was worthy of my Miranda. I just wished they’d known each other three years instead of just three months.

  There was a knock on the door, and I immediately felt butterflies. It had to be Ben. I had not seen him since Thanksgiving, more than two weeks ago, although we had texted and spoken on the phone a few times.

  David opened the door and hugged his father. Ben looked down at the floors.

  “Nice job, David. You went with the dark stain? Good choice. Upstairs too?”

  David nodded as he took Ben’s coat and overnight bag. “Yes, we’re doing that this weekend.”

  “Oh? Has the carpeting been pulled up?”

  I pasted on a bright smile. “That’s my job. Hello, Ben.”

  He looked past David. His face did not change, except for a slight twitch around the mouth. As always, the sight of him hit me in all those private places, resulting in the unlikely combination of heat and shivers at the same time. I immediately reeled that in. True, I might be here partially to score points, but this was my daughter’s first home, and now that I’d seen it, I realized she really needed my help. I was not going to let anything get in the way of that, even my feelings for Ben.

  “Mona, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Yes, well, when I saw the pictures and Miranda said they needed help, I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. So here I am. Ready and willing.”

  Ben sat down across from me. He was smiling, his voice even. “To do what?”

  “Oh, you know—pull up furring strips, paint…whatever.”

  Ben chuckled. “Do you even know what furring strips are?”

  Miranda had gotten him a glass and was pouring wine. “I do! David explained it all to me. They’re the things that the carpet is attached to. You’ll probably need a crowbar, Mom.”

  “Crowbar?” I knew what that was, of course. I just never knew what it was used for.

  David sat down with us. “Yes, and then just use pliers to pull up the stray nails and staples,” he explained patiently.

  “From the floor?” I asked. I was trying to imagine what the whole process looked like without giving away the fact that I had no idea what David was talking about.

  Ben was practically laughing now. I couldn’t read how he felt about my being there other than his obvious amusement at the idea of me on my hands and knees, pliers in hand. “Yep. Did you bring something to cushion your knees? Being down on the floor all day is murder on your joints.”

  “No, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Ben, did you eat? I can heat something up,” Miranda asked.

  Ben waved a hand. “I grabbed something on the road. I’m good, thanks.” He shifted his gaze back to me. “And painting, too?”

  I had calmed the butterflies just enough to relax a bit, but now I was getting a little annoyed. “You know, Ben, I couldn’t always just pick up a phone and call someone to do work around the house. I’ve painted.”

  He held up both hands in quick surrender. “I’m sure you have. I apologize. I just never realized how handy you were. It’s nice to know you can still surprise me, Mona.”

  I met his eyes. “I’m full of surprises.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “So, Dad, you and Mona are sharing the futon,” David said, sensing the tension in the sir. “That’s okay, right?”

  Ben nodded slowly. “Of course it is.”

  His gaze was making me a little short of breath. He narrowed his eyes just enough for the lines around them to crinkle a little and tilted his head. “Right, Mona?”

  I gulped. “Of course. I told Miranda, no problem at all.”

  I saw David and Miranda looking at each other. David raised his eyebrow and moved his head and shoulders in a complicated motion, the universal gesture for WTF? Miranda responded with a gesture of her own—No clue.

  Ben reached over and slapped David on the shoulder. “Listen, guys, Mona and I are in a complicated place right now. But we are adults, and we love each other. More important, we love both of you. Very much. We can work out our own stuff. We’ll be fine.”

  Miranda looked at me with wide eyes. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “Yes, baby.”

  She took a deep breath, then smiled brightly. “Well, then, I know it’s early, but I think David and I will go on up and maybe watch some TV in bed. See you both in the morning.”

  She and David left. I stared into my wineglass. Ben reached over with his foot and nudged my leg. I looked up.

  “Do you want me to stay in a hotel room?”

  “Are you kidding? Have you been up there? It smells like a litter box. If anyone’s staying in a hotel, it’s going to be me.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. It is a little rough up there right now.” He leaned back, his arm stretched out over the top of the chair. “That futon is pretty tight. I’m not too sure I’d be able to resist you.”

  I was staring down at my hands. “Why would you need to?” I asked, very proud that my voice remained steady and did not tremble or hit one of the higher registers.

  “Well, Mona…” He was frowning.

  “Listen,” I said, “sex between us was always great, and it was never something that we used for a reward or a bribe or a Band-Aid because something was wrong. It was always about the fact that we loved each other. And we still do. Do I want you now because I’m also lonely and confused, and I need to feel safe? Yes. But I also still love you, and I miss you. I miss feeling that connected to you.”

  He nodded. “I know how you feel. Not touching you is hard. But you kind of threw a few things at me all at once, and I’m still figuring out what to do with it all. I’m still angry, I guess. And I’m disappointed in you, because I always thought we were so much in sync with the importan
t things in life, you know?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m disappointed too. I was so shocked about their getting married, and I had this long argument all thought out in my head, and I just assumed you’d back me up, and when you didn’t, it, well…it kinda hurt.”

  My wineglass was empty. He reached over and poured what was left in the bottle into my glass. Then he got up and put the empty bottle in the sink. Instead of coming back to the table, he stood, arms folded across his chest.

  “Mona, what are you afraid is going to happen if we get married?”

  The question was so unexpected that my jaw dropped open. I had to take a deep breath to collect my thoughts. “I’m afraid that we’ll change,” I said at last. “We’re so good together, you and I. And that’s why I don’t see why we have to get married. Why change something that’s working so beautifully? Marriage is a…thing. It’s called an institution for a reason.”

  “Oh? So you’re comparing marriage to what, a prison?” His voice was light, but his eyes were dark and serious. “You really think that being my wife will be like being in prison?”

  “Oh course not,” I said quickly. “Ben, no. But I don’t know what it will be like. And right now that scares the hell out of me.”

  His eyes were sad. “And do you think that’s bound to change?”

  “I sure hope so, because right now I want you so badly I feel like I could wrestle you to the floor, you know, do things.”

  The tension broke a little and he laughed. “As far as wanting you goes, that never changed. For me either. At all. But I need to separate plain and simple lust from all these others feelings I’ve got.”

  “Feelings, huh? That’s about right. Every other man on the planet would be, like, ‘Feelings? Who cares; let’s get naked,’ but, no, not Ben Cutler. Not my guy.”

  “Would you really want it any other way?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “So?”

  “So, I promise to keep my hands to myself. I will not run around naked in front of you, talk dirty in my sleep, or do a pole dance with the floor lamp.”

  He laughed. “Thank you. And I will not parade around, flexing. Or sing you romantic love songs.”

  “Ben. You have a lousy voice.”

  “And I bet you can’t pole dance to save your life.”

  We started laughing. He stretched, looked at his watch, and yawned. “It actually is kind of late. We can watch a little television down here, and then go up in an hour or so.”

  So we sat on the couch and watched a documentary about whales, and I sat close to him, head on his shoulder, drinking in the smell of his skin, and it was enough. And later, when we were both lying on the futon and he curled himself away from me, I could still feel the heat of his body warming me, and his gentle snoring lulled me to sleep, and that was also enough.

  As I said before, I’m no princess.

  But tearing up filthy carpeting that smelled like cat pee and had years of dust and grit and possibly dead insect bodies within its avocado-colored strands was not a job for the fainthearted.

  Ben had patiently shown me what to do. First, you dragged the furniture to one side of the room. Starting in a corner, you pulled the carpet up and away from the furring strips. (By the way, a furring strip is a narrow piece of wood with little spiky things that stick up and grab onto the carpet, holding it in place. Those little spiky things also hurt like you would not believe if they come in contact with unprotected skin.) Then you took the utility knife and cut a notch in the carpet, sectioning off a piece about three feet wide. The carpet should tear neatly, leaving a long, narrow strip that can easily be rolled tightly, wrapped with duct tape, and thrown out the back window into the yard, where it could then be thrown into the Dumpster.

  Once the carpet and the rubber pad underneath were gone, you simply had to pry the strips off the floor with a crowbar (Ben showed me how) and had to make sure there were no nails or staples left in the floor. If there were any, you removed with pliers.

  Then you moved the furniture from one side of the room to the other, and did it all over again.

  Repeated in other bedroom, Miranda’s closet, and, finally, the hallway.

  It took Ben about six minutes to show me what to do before he went downstairs to tear out the old kitchen. It took me the better part of an hour to tear up one side of the guest room. And that was without throwing the old stuff out the window, but instead leaving it in a pile in the hall.

  I was coated with filth, my knees were aching, my neck was stiff, and I was starving, despite pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

  I crept down the stairs and peeked around the corner. There was no one in sight on the first floor. All that was left in the kitchen was the fridge and stove, standing on the old linoleum. The walls were bare, but looked moldy. I could hear voices out back.

  The Dumpster had arrived, and Ben was helping get it into position, which involved lots of waving and shouting. Miranda, bless her little heart, was carrying the old cabinets to the back of the yard.

  They were working. Hard. And they had accomplished so much. I found my purse, popped four Advil, then went back upstairs.

  When I finally pulled up all the carpeting and padding from the front bedroom and pried up all the furring strips, I began to haul it all to the back window. I was careful to look down before I threw, in case Ben or Miranda was below me—death by falling wall-to-wall was too absurd a possibility to ignore.

  By one in the afternoon I had finished a single room. I was exhausted. I sat on the edge of the futon and leaned back, closing my eyes. I breathed deeply for a few minutes and tried not to completely zone out.

  “Sleeping on the job?” Ben asked.

  I didn’t move. “This is hard.”

  “Yes, it is. And you’ve done a great job so far. Miranda and I are coming up to help you, but we all need to eat first.”

  My eyes opened. “Thank God.” I held out my hand, and he pulled me up. He must have put a lot behind it, because he pulled me right into his arms. His mouth was so close, all I had to do was lean in just a little, but I didn’t.

  “I thought we weren’t going to do this,” I said.

  “We aren’t. The sight of you engaged in manual labor was almost more than I could resist.”

  “Quick, where’s my hammer?”

  He laughed and let me go, and we went downstairs.

  There were sub sandwiches and chips for lunch. Anything that had been in a cabinet was now in one of several boxes in the middle of the floor. The Sheetrock in the kitchen area had been replaced.

  “When did that happen?” I asked, pointing with my ham and salami with provolone on a hard roll.

  “While you were busy swearing at the crowbar,” Miranda said. “Ben can do anything.”

  “I was not swearing at the crowbar,” I corrected her gently. “I was swearing at all those stupid staples sticking out of the floor. Shouldn’t there be that annoying drywall dust everywhere?”

  Ben nodded. “This evening we’ll sand. That way we’ll be ready for painting first thing tomorrow.”

  “First thing?” I asked, feeling wimpy and old.

  He grinned at me. “Look how much we accomplished today by starting so early. Same thing tomorrow. And Sunday.”

  “Sunday,” I reminded him, “is a designated day of rest.”

  “Not for us.”

  I took more Advil, prayed for my kidneys, and went back upstairs. By the time David came home from work, armed with pizza and beer, the entire upstairs was finished. We proudly showed him our work. The floors really did look to be in great shape, and Ben said none of the wood would have to be replaced.

  I would have been in a very good mood if I hadn’t been so exhausted. I think Miranda was exhausted as well, which may have been why the fight started.

  Miranda had gathered up the few remaining slices of pizza and wrapped them in foil, opened the refrigerator, and sighed. “I can’t wait,” she said wistfully, “until we get
rid of this thing. Besides being old, there’s never any room.”

  David got up and stood beside her. “There’s plenty of room,” he said. “See, just do a bit of juggling…” He reached over and moved a few things around, took the pizza from her hands, found a spot, and closed the door. “See? We don’t need a new fridge. You just have to learn how to make room.”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, we do need a fridge. Of course we do. I thought we were getting a new kitchen?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, new cabinets,” David said patiently. “But not new appliances. We can’t afford those yet.”

  Miranda frowned. “But we’re not getting carpeting like I wanted; we’re keeping the wooden floors. I thought we’d use that money.”

  “Don’t you think we should save that in case something unexpected comes up?”

  “Like what?” she asked, her voice getting sharp. “We know exactly what has to be done. You and your dad have been over this place a hundred times. There are no surprises here. But there is a gross and dirty refrigerator, and an equally gross and dirty stove, both of which need to be replaced.”

  I glanced at Ben. He was carefully scrolling through his iPhone, his brow wrinkled in fierce concentration on whatever was on the screen.

  Or not.

  “Randi,” David said, his voice getting a bit louder, “we really can’t spend that kind of money just because you want shiny new appliances. They’re going to have to wait.”

  “It’s not a question of me wanting shiny new anything. It’s a question of you thinking you can call all the shots about how we spend the money, with me sitting here like a good little girl and saying yes to everything.”

  David’s face flushed deeply. “That’s a shitty thing to say,” he said hotly.

  “And it’s a shitty way to feel,” Miranda yelled, her voice shaking. “And I’ve been feeling that way for weeks now. I know we don’t have lots of cash, I know that, but this is our house, and I need to make the decisions too. About everything, not just paint colors and where to put the stupid wall sconces.”