Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “The door?” I rotated back around to look at front door. Did I notice it when I entered? Nope, I came into the house through the garage, not the front door. Hah, I win on that one.

  “The door.” Mom repeated stubbornly and adjusted her bow a fraction to the right.

  I focused on the damn door. It was new. The old door had a vaguely Arts and Crafts feel that didn’t necessarily go with the 1960’s track home, (a1960’s track home in the country club of Marin, remodeled twice over, runs a respectable 1.2 million). And his new door – was no improvement at all.

  The door was big; although it couldn’t have been much bigger than the original door otherwise it wouldn’t fit into the frame. No, the door was thick and heavy. The carvings of exotic plants, birds and a tiger were completely unsuited to the cool mid-century interior of the rest of my mother’s house – my old home I suppose. The scent wafted towards me. I remembered that scent, but at first I couldn’t place it, maybe it was the shock of the door.

  It was one of those awkward situation that inspire responses like, “That is a very large door you have.”

  “That’s a very large door.” I said out loud to my mother.

  “Isn’t it just magnificent?” She crowed. “It’s a Gilberto, arrived yesterday. What do you think?”

  “It’s very unique.” I assured her.

  “I would hope so.” She retorted. “Especially since everyone has one.”

  I was foolish enough to hang around mom’s just a half-hour too long. She managed to berate me, in the language of helpfulness, about my lack of boyfriend, my lack of family and my apparent lack of ambition. She was about to start in on my weight, that was the moment I fled the building, slamming the heavy front doors behind me. I may have been traveling a bit fast, I rounded the corner to Golf Course Drive and barely missed smacking into a landscaping truck heading towards my old neighborhood. I righted the car and eased off the gas. Those deep breaths helped, a little.

  I hit traffic, stop and go, but mostly stop, through the Novato Narrows, and had little else to do but return Carrie’s three messages waiting for me on my phone.

  “Where have you been that you can’t answer my calls?” She demanded as soon as we connected.

  “At a funeral, where have you been?”

  “Work,” she said morosely.

  “Well there you are, we were both busy.”

  “I’m going out tonight.” She announced, but she didn’t sound terribly pleased at the prospect.

  “What? Enthusiasm waned so soon? Not the man you met? He’s changed?”

  “Oh, it’s not that, but this will be our second date and it’s another big public function.”

  “I imagine that’s what it’s all about for the boy, you want to buy into this lifestyle, remember?”

  “I know, but his sisters will be there.”

  Ah ha.

  “So?” I prompted.

  “So they don’t like me, I think they think I’m dating him for his money.”

  “How astute.” I said dryly.

  “Well,” she continued, intent on her own agenda and purpose. “Well, maybe he’s busy and this is the only way we can see each other. He told me he was really busy, all this events, the foundation, all that stuff. You know he practically runs the dairy now that his dad retired.”

  “Milking the cows?”

  ”He’s not milking the cows.”

  “Maybe he can donate some milk to your Forgotten Felines cause.” I suggested.

  “Oh my God!” She perked right up at the thought. “That could be like, a test or something. Like will he do something for me? Will he contribute to something I believe in?” Carrie enthused. Her mood and tone picked up considerably at the prospect of entrapping an innocent male.

  “There you go.” I finally was able to accelerate to a blazing 30 miles per hour and I enjoyed the speed. I gradually pulled up and passed a makeshift sign for Mark Smith, DA. No picture on this one.

  “You can bring it up at the dinner tonight. It will give you both something to talk about.”

  “He doesn’t talk much,” she admitted.

  “You’ll be fine.” I reassured her, “he’s probably just shy.”

  I clicked off and considered my options for getting that monstrosity called art into my car and down to the City in time for my appointment with, I glanced at the card Hillary claimed she had found in her father’s rolodex, Dr. Samuel Jones, Curator at the De Young.

  I had one option. I didn’t really want to ask him for another favor, but he seemed to know about art and what to do with something as large as the panel. But I haven’t been able to reciprocate any of his favors. This was not a good thing, I like balance in the relationship, and so far the expected give and take with this new business acquaintance was all take on my side and all give on his. Not good at all.

  But, he had a truck. And I don’t have many friends who own trucks. My clients own things like Jaguars and Porches, because those are the clients I like best; big incomes coupled with elaborate housing needs. And my real estate colleagues drive Lexus and Volvos, to add to the appearance of prosperity so their own wealthy clients feel comfortable.

  I dialed his number as I snaked up to River’s Bend. Pink trumpet-shaped Naked Ladies hovered in random clumps around the base of trees; sometimes a long line of them filled the edges of wire fencing. Their bright pink heads nodded in the breeze.

  “Oh good, I was going to call you.”

  My heart constricted, just a bit.

  “I had to leave the funeral for a job, but I wanted to know if the house would be open tomorrow so I can finish up the guest bath.”

  “Oh.” He was calling for business. I was disappointed; I admit it. “Umm, well, yes the house can be open, but,” I paused. “Can you help me with something else before that?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  He waited. I waited, just for a second. But he was going to make me speak first.

  “Hillary has engaged another curator, this one is at the De Young and I have to take the art down to get it appraised. Tomorrow.” I was met by silence at the end of the phone.

  “It doesn’t fit in my car,” I pointed out helpfully.

  More silence. Oh shit, he thinks I’m a moron.

  “Why you?” He finally said.

  “What, you don’t think I can be trusted?” I shot back.

  “No, it just seems that this should be a job for Peter Reilly Klausen the Third at $350 an hour.”

  “I think he’s charging $400 for Hillary and company.”

  “He should.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “High school. He’s,” Ben paused. “Not my favorite person.”

  “Really?” I let it linger, Ben didn’t fill in the silence, which only means he’s as good at negotiation as I am. I let the moment linger for about another mile. He wasn’t giving it up. Another mile. I broke first. I deserve two pints of Ben & Jerry’s after this.

  “If you can help tomorrow, I’ll pay your standard hourly wage.”

  “You don’t have to pay me,” he growled.

  No gentle Ben here.

  “Fine, no money for you. But can you help?”

  To my unreasonably overwhelming relief, he agreed.

  Instead of focusing on what to wear to an odious errand in which none of the participants wish to participate, I called back clients. The activity dropped me into an even worse mood.

  Sellers are all alike. As much as sellers, let’s call them the Vincents, assure me that they would never be uncooperative, after three days, they morph into the stereotypical client, who, after four days on the market, knows more about real estate than I do. As soon as the Vincents sign the listing agreement, they begin regaling me with fantasies of how the rock wall in the front yard should really increase the value of their house, because it’s so much better than the yard next door because the slovenly neighbor rarely mows his lawn. And the red dining room will enhance the selling price by at lea
st $20,000 because their brother-in-law is a professional painter even though he painted this dining room for free, it looks professional, don’t you think? And every buyer will noticed that fabulous paint job and make an offer on the spot.

  And speaking of garish interior colors, I had to call Norton, currently my least favorite client for many of the above reasons and some that belong to Norton specifically.

  Norton’s wife left him and made it his job to sell the house so they can split the proceeds. Okay, all that is fine and good, happens a lot in my business.

  But when I showed up to list Norton’s deceptively normal three and two, a big home on the east side of town, in the hills, I actually had a moment. One of those, sit down, drink a cold glass of water moments. And I don’t have those. The paint got me. Not the off-gassing from a new paint job, it was the colors in the house, assault quality colors. Norton’s house is painted like the inside of a sherbet factory, after an explosion.

  The unadorned kitchen walls were covered in lemon yellow, the adjacent living room glowed lime and was furnished with one purple couch and a flat panel television. The guest bath was filled with sprays of dried lavender that exactly matched the purple walls, and the master bedroom was painted – and I do not exaggerate – Pepto-Bismo pink. Norton’s ex took the bedroom set, so the only thing in the bedroom was a single mattress placed in the center of the bare wood floor. His wife obviously took custody of the furniture and the cat, leaving nothing in the house to even mitigate the pink, lemon and lavender.

  I almost didn’t want to know why, but he told me anyway.

  Norton claimed he and his wife had hired a feng shui expert to help them harmonize the home and enhance their relationship.

  But after all the paint and mirrors and moving items to the most auspicious areas of the house, it turned out that Norton can’t sleep in a pink room, and lime green gives him gas. So for the last three years he slept in the study (painted beige) and ate out (Taco Bell).

  But has Norton learned his lesson? He has not. He refuses to paint his house white; he is still convinced that the “expert” he hired was right.

  “No,” he told me flat out. “I am not painting over perfectly good paint.”

  Even my description of how humiliating it was to show the house at the brokers tour because everyone gave me pitying looks and worse, those thumbs up gestures that are suppose to be encouraging, but are really a bit on the condensing side if you want to know the truth of it. And every Realtor in town scribbled on the back of their cards – PAINT! Even after showing the suggestions given by disinterested third parties who don’t even necessarily have my client’s best interest at heart, Norton did not budge.

  It’s been three weeks; no one has come by to view the house. No One. And the house is priced right. Because I always price a house right – Priced right means what a buyer is willing to pay, not what a seller thinks the house is worth – those are always two different amounts.

  I had left a message for Norton while I was driving down to the funeral, so now, pre-demoralized by an extremely bad day, I called again.

  “So Norton? How’s the painting coming along?”

  “Do you know how much painting costs?” He shrieked over the phone.

  “Yes I do, I also know how much it will cost you if we lower the price again.”

  “Miranda won’t be happy with that.”

  “She’s not happy with anything.” Except the cabana boy at the Costa Sol in Mexico, but I didn’t say that out loud.

  He sighed. “You’re right, I know you’re right.”

  I could hear it in his voice; he wasn’t going to paint. He was going to save $3,000 and lose $15,000 on a price reduction. Really, and he is not the exception, people employ logic like this all the time.

  “Look,” I was feeling a little desperate. I started to argue again, but then a happy thought came to me. I had a friend who often comes to mind when I’m faced with a desperate situation.

  “How about I send you a new feng shui expert?” I suggested, making up the scenario as I went along. “She specializes in.” I paused, thinking fast, and trying not to slam into the car ahead. The driver was apparently trying to move forward with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake, not a very effective way to get ahead.

  “She specializes in feng shui that enhances the chi for selling a house. How about that?”

  I held my breath and braked again.

  “Well,” he hesitated.

  “I’ll pay for her services myself.” I offered.

  “She’s an expert?”

  “She has helped me sell many homes.” I assured him. Which is actually true, she has.

  He paused and I braked and started, waiting. But he did not hold out like our Mr. Stone.

  “Okay,” Norton capitulated. “Can she come tomorrow?”

  “I’ll check her schedule and get back to you.” I promised.

  Now don’t get me wrong, despite the weird colors in his home, Norton is not a loser. Norton is gorgeous. He’s about fifty years old and his hair is still dark with only a few streaks of silver. He has a slender build with long gangly legs, runner’s legs. I do like the way he towers over me and he has a great ass, particularly when he wears jeans and a tight tee shirt with Queen for Day written on it, a gift from his brother. Norton would not be an undesirable assignment.

  I called the feng shui expert who specializes in selling houses.

  “Hi Joan. I need your help.”

  “Of course you do.” She replied with equanimity.

  “I’ll owe you one, if you can pull this off.”

  “You always owe me Allison, but since I find you vastly entertaining, I’m at your disposal.”

  I told Joan about Norton and she listened with more than a little interest.

  “Wounded?”

  “No, the divorce was a long time coming, but they need to split the proceeds from the house and Norton will buy a condo with his half.”

  “And she?”

  “Is licking her wounds in Mexico, I don’t care what she does with her money.”

  “Should I even ask what she’s doing in Mexico?”

  “Something about the whale migration.”

  “An environmentalist.” Joan purred.

  “At least something having to do with mating habits.”

  Joan is not surprised by anything probably because Joan knows too much. She’s currently working on her third masters and teaching at the local University, this one in Art History, which is why I called her for this particular job.

  Joan is necessary because a real Feng Shui expert would never do what I asked. Because what I ask for is often the antitheist of Feng Shui. I’m a fan of white. Everywhere. Here’s what I know for certain about Feng Shui, the charlatan who did Norton’s house should be tossed out of her office along with her credentials and made to live in a split level ranch at the base of a road with a dead tree in front and northern exposure across the back of the house and a heavy swampy place in the north west corner.

  Yes, I know what should be, and I know what sells a house.

  Not pink.

  Write that down.

  I gave Joan Norton’s phone number and address. Joan was sure she had never met him, which will help.

  What would a real feng shui expert say about those new heavy doors of moms? Mortimer’s doors had been stolen and he had been shot. Was there a connection? Should I warn mom? But no one mentioned doors at the funeral. We talked about art and missing parents. There was probably no connection at all. And since Mom has been raising a family since she was eighteen and a half, she probably can cope.

  Chapter 5

  According to a magazine article Carrie read about couple compatibility, spending the day on errands is a more intimate activity than say, going to the movies. Intimate. I need to subscribe to better magazines.

  I tried to remember that this activity could be productive as I helped Ben (I held open that awful door) load the painting into his truck,
secure it with ropes and a tarp (kind of kinky but I kept my weird opinion to myself) and take off down the freeway to the infamous De Young museum. But we didn’t talk much on the twenty minute trip over the bridge. It was not going well as far as new intimacy was concerned.

  The image of the new museum appeared in all the papers and magazines because it had to be rebuilt after the earthquake. (The earthquake, 1989 – World Series, it was in all the papers –we didn’t feel much of it in River’s Bend – much of the town was built on bedrock, but thanks for your concern). In the case of the De Young, a building on city owned land and funded by private money, the collision of public and private interests created all sorts of interesting reports. For instance, at one point there was an excellent rumor that the City of San Francisco wasn’t really building a museum, they were using $50 million to build a parking garage.

  And as much as a parking garage could function as a massive homage to what is really important in California; clearer heads prevailed and we have a magnificent structure that has been described as either:

  A. An artistic abstraction that resonates with the de Young’s tree-filled park setting.

  Or B. An internationalist building in a beaux-arts concourse that is about as relevant as a screen door on a submarine. (That pithy remark was from the SF Weekly, Oct. 6, 1999)

  Then museum attendance broke all records and everyone stopped complaining and decided the new building was wonderful.

  Money is the great leveler.

  We couldn’t very well wrestle the painting into the front doors. But that was the only entrance we were familiar with.

  “Come on, we’ll leave the engine on – a gesture of impermanence.” Ben parked against the red painted curb and leapt from the truck.

  “Okay.” I didn’t really leap; I sort of slid down the side of the seat until my feet were firmly on the ground.

  Yes, I wore high heels, but with a chunky heel, Gucci. They were the latest thing a couple years back, now they’re just comfortable and practical to wear with slacks.

  I slammed the door on the humming truck and we both hustled through the main entrance. The main entrance to the museum is decorated with large, immovable rocks and a deep split in the cement. Not an accident, but done on purpose - art. I think it represents something about earthquakes, which makes sense, that’s why the building was here in the first place.