by Sasha Martin
These stunning properties were remnants of the early 1900s, when Tulsa was known as the Oil Capital of the World. Many were now abandoned, ghosts of another time. Though these pouting beauties might one day be converted to trendy lofts, they were most certainly not for sale to the general public. To the north and south of downtown were solid craftsman houses, many built before statehood. These architectural gems were too expensive or too run-down for me to renovate on my own.
Then there was the trendy Brookside neighborhood near my new office, filled with a mishmash of homes from different eras. Some sold for more than a half million, whereas others cost $140,000. There was a shabby chic vibe to many of these more affordable homes, their puckered yards filled with lawn art, sprawling vines, and puffing, potbellied chiminea (those stubby, onion–shaped, front-loading fireplaces).
One day on a whim, I rode through the southernmost edge of Brookside behind my office. Just a mile south of the restaurants, the houses were even more affordable: Most were less than $100,000, and many only went for $75,000. Just across from a sun-beaten triangle knotted with weeds, a flimsy red-and-white sign caught my eye: “For sale by owner.”
The mid-century ranch wasn’t beautiful from the outside: a squat two-window facade with a cinder-block stoop. Except for the cherry-red shutters, it looked exactly like all the other houses around the triangle, some shade of drab beige. But it was surrounded by an eight-foot privacy fence, and the sign promised a hot tub and walk-in closet. I called my real estate agent from the street.
Inside, the living room walls were also cherry red. The two front bedrooms were bubblegum pink and sky blue. As if in rebellion, the windowless galley kitchen slumbered in a perpetual state of darkness; walnut cabinets and black appliances blotted out any glimmer of light, even during the daytime. The kitchen’s only saving grace was the faux Tuscan wall. The brickwork and plastering was a clear DIY job, but if I squinted just right, I could imagine myself in Italy. I loved it.
And then I walked into the master bedroom addition. The ceiling there was higher, at least nine feet, and built out with three long, lean windows that funneled the sunlight onto the shag carpet. I stood in the rays, eyes shut, and felt the warmth soak into my skin. I must have stood there a long while.
When the owner finally plodded into the bedroom, he pointed to the dark wood trim. The crown molding rippled along the ceiling, ornate and complex, different from the rest of the house—clearly the work of a craftsman.
“Looks British, doesn’t it? My wife wanted to paint that there trim white. I told her it’d be a crime.” He squared his jaw and arched his back as though contemplating fine art at the Louvre. Tilting his head sideways, he crinkled his eyes as if to say, “You better not paint it, either.”
Right after the New Year, I closed on the house. At the time, buying it felt exciting and important and adult, the way I felt sliding into my mother’s heels as a kid. I suppose I needed something to be all mine, as most unattached people do.
I was blind to the house’s faults, the way new lovers are: the roof that needed a thousand dollars worth of repairs to pass structural inspections, the mold-infested leak in the bay window, and the sloping dining room (a sure sign that it had been the back porch in a former life). I signed the contract without setting foot in the backyard. It just didn’t seem important. A quick scan through the window was enough.
Oh, but I was young.
My first night in the house, I finally stood in the backyard, keys in hand. An unseasonably warm wind blew through, carrying the scent of mud and melting snow. I craned my neck to stare at the stars, pinholes in the darkness. I’m not sure what happens after we die, but if ever there was a time to believe my brother’s spirit was with me, this was it.
I thought about what had led me to this spot; all of it had started with Michael’s money. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I love you. I wish you were here.”
As I looked up at the vinyl siding, the simple stone foundation, I recognized that this house was just the shell of a home. I couldn’t help but wonder if, as in Babette’s Feast, there was more to come, if Michael’s money would build something much greater than the sum of these parts.
My new job bled into my evenings and weekends until most days, I only had time for the house. The first order of business was covering up the red paint in the living room. I slapped on avocado green, then a yeasty sort of yellow before settling on beige. I added a couple of thrift store couches, also beige. I picked up a scallop-edged dining table from the dent-and-scratch room at the furniture store. And I slept on the beige shag carpet until I could afford a bed. When I stitched sheer curtains from fabric scraps, Mom reminded me she’d hung sheets and towels over the windows during our first weeks in Jamaica Plain.
When the first bills showed up, I realized I was going to need a roommate.
Vanessa, a friend from the motorcycle club, moved into the front bedroom the next month. Ten years my senior, she was more like a big sister than a friend. With cheekbones like Marilyn Monroe’s, acrylic nails, and straight-ironed hair halfway down her back, she made my perpetual pigtails and dirty fingernails look as ramshackle as they were.
After she moved in, finances eased up. I got a cat. I did laundry. I mowed my lawn. Once in a while Vanessa would ask me to teach her a recipe from the CIA, but I could never find the time. The days droned by, one more ordinary than the last, until winter backflipped into summer. I’d been in Tulsa for one year. Work was only getting harder, as we were trying to roll out a new series of ads for the fall, a big season in the auto body industry.
“You need a break,” Vanessa said one day after a motorcycle turned both our heads. “Let’s enjoy the summer before it’s over.” Over the last several months, Vanessa and I had done very little riding. We crammed it in the space between work and sleep. So we decided to go check out a track day.
We hung our arms over the fences all morning. Even though we could only see a sliver of the knotted course, the bikes floated, sighed, dove, groaned, and screamed, each one marking its unseen place on the track.
“I want to do this,” I said to her, eyes wide.
“Me, too!” she said.
“Hey there, stranger,” a voice said behind me, “I still need to pay you.”
Keith was standing a few feet away. I hadn’t seen him much since I’d bought the house months earlier. Every time we did meet, he offered to pay me. And every time, I skirted the subject because whenever our eyes locked, I had the sensation of seeing an old friend. And we couldn’t be friends. Not with those eyes. Today though, he looked different. He was leaner, his race leathers hanging off his hips, his goatee gone.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you mean? Five hours—that’s a hundred bucks!”
“I suppose …” I looked at Vanessa, then back to Keith, “I could get a back protector with the money.”
I fished a scrap of paper from my pocket and scratched down my address. “Send me a check and you just might see me out there next time.” I pointed to the faded asphalt.
“Well, you’re going to need to learn a few things, then,” he laughed.
Early the next evening, the doorbell rang. Vanessa was still at work. I peeked out the front window. Keith was at the door looking trim in black work boots, a pair of jeans, and a Superman T-shirt. I leaned forward to get a better look, but bumped the window with my forehead. His head turned in my direction. I jumped behind the sheer curtain: Had he seen me peek out at him? Good job, Sasha.
I took a deep breath, then gripped the door handle and pulled it open. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I tried not to look overly pleased.
He smiled. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by like this.”
“Of course not. It’s great to see you again!”
“Can you come outside for a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
He motioned me toward his white pickup, swung open the door, pulled a large shopping bag from the cab
and held it out to me. As I peered inside, recognition hit me.
“You got me a back protector?” I gasped. “Wow. Thank you!”
I rushed him with a hug, my arms clasped around his neck. His body was warm and smelled like summer. My tank top moved up just enough for his arm to graze the skin of my lower back above my shorts. Something about that moment, our two bodies pressed together, made me want to lean on him a little more. I fought the urge, pulling back, but the hug had lasted too long. I looked up at him, swallowing hard.
“What’s that look?” he asked.
“N-nothing. Listen, I’ll see you later.” I forced a quick smile. “Probably at the track!”
I turned and headed toward the house. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
He strolled along behind me, hands in his pockets.
“Your grass is looking a bit long. You gonna mow it?” he teased. I looked back at him. His smile was half hung, like a little boy’s.
I paused a moment, surveying the crabgrass shooting up past the still trim Bermuda. “If I had to choose between mowing the lawn and making memories, I’d choose memories, every time.”
By now I’d reached my front door. He caught up with me. “Hey, back there, I saw—” he stammered, “something in your eyes. What was that all about?”
I opened the door and stepped into the cool shadows. I paused a moment, hand on the doorknob, trying to think of something to say. He had one foot on the middle step and one foot on the landing.
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
His eyes searched mine. “Are you sure?”
Despite myself, the words came rushing out: “It’s just that I … I like you.”
What am I, in middle school? I could have died right then and there.
He stepped into the house, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood in the cool shadows with me. A minute ticked by, then two. I tried to think of an excuse to leave, but this was my house.
“I like you too,” he finally said. The corners of his mouth flitted up, and then pressed in a straight line. “I’ve always felt a connection to you.”
He opened his arms. When I didn’t move, he stepped forward and pulled me toward him. I thought of his son, his girlfriend/ex-wife: Self-loathing washed over me.
“This is not who I am. I won’t destroy a family.” I pulled away from him, leaning against the back of the couch.
“I understand. It’s just that—”
“I’ve spent my whole life being second choice. I need to be someone’s first choice. I can’t …”
He took my face in his hands.
“Will you just listen? You Yankees talk so fast!” He cleared his throat. “Sasha …”
He took his hands off my face and held up his left hand. The ring was gone. “I moved out. It’s been a long time coming. I left last month.”
“Oh my goodness! How’s Ryan taking it?”
“We sat down with him and explained that it isn’t his fault. We’ve barely been more than roommates for a long time. He’s decided to live at his mother’s.”
“Well,” I shook my head, “I had no idea—”
Before I could finish, he pulled me toward him into another full-body hug. This time our bodies pressed closer. He slid his cheek across mine and then, there it was—his lips on mine.
CHAPTER 18
Mr. Picky
THREE WEEKS LATER, Keith and I lay in my bed watching the afternoon sun flicker through the trees and ricochet off the ceiling. He kept an apartment across town, halfway between my Brookside home and his son, but he often ended up at my place on Saturday afternoons. Since Vanessa had moved in with her boyfriend, we had the place to ourselves. This was our space. Our time.
Things were good—really good. When we weren’t together, we text-messaged several hundred times a day. When we were together, we were worse than a couple of teenagers. I spent my days giddy, smiling. On this particular golden day, I felt the stirrings of love flit around my heart, as delicate as they were unnerving.
“I know it hasn’t been very long—you and I, I mean—but I … I don’t want to waste my time,” I began.
I took his hands in mine, rubbing my thumb along his tough palm. His life line was deep and creased, like an old letter. This was the only part of him that really felt nine years older than me.
“It’s just that … this is going to sound really silly … but I’m almost 27 … I’m going to want a family—a baby—the whole thing. I really like you and … well … I don’t want to go down this road if you’re—”
“Done?” he finished for me.
I pulled my breath in quickly and nodded. I stared at my hands cradling his. My fingers draped soft and olive against his fair skin. I would have never dreamed of talking babies with Greg or John, certainly not after three weeks.
“I just don’t think my heart could take it if …”
He propped himself up on a couple of pillows. “Not that long ago, I thought I was done. My heart’s tired, too. High blood pressure and atrial fibrillation—it runs in the family. But it’s more than that. I’m about to turn 36, I have a mostly grown son. I even got … a vasectomy.” He looked at me earnestly. “But that can be reversed. This is going to sound weird, but I can see it. I can see it all with you.”
Something somersaulted inside me. The stirrings of love became stirrings of more. I tracked the ceiling fan as it beat slow circles through the light.
“Then you’re going to have to meet my mother next month when she comes to visit.” I closed my eyes. “Just so you know, she’s kind of tough on the guys I date.”
Almost exactly a year after I’d last seen her, Mom arrived. She was positively beaming, all aglow, gushing about the house. She tore through the rooms like an opera singer, tossing her arms about, admiring their size, the colors, the flow. She adored the kitchen and inspected every leaf, blade, and bud in the backyard. She peeped at the neighbors through the knotholes and turned on every faucet. When she was done, she collapsed on the couch.
“I still have the voice mail you left me when you bought this house,” she said, pulling her cell phone from out of her purse.
Over the scratchy speakerphone came a squeaky voice that sounded something like mine. “I did it, Mom! I just signed the papers. I have a home!”
Mom laughed. “You were so happy—I had to save it.”
“I didn’t even know you could save voice mails for eight months.”
She looked out the window and gasped. “There’s a house for sale? Next door? I wonder what it costs!”
I didn’t want my mother nearby, and couldn’t quite figure out why. “Trust me, you don’t want to buy a house next door to me. There’s a lot more to it than I expected.”
Mom waved her hand. “Reality? That part always works itself out.”
“The thing is, Mom, I need a little … personal space.”
She frowned and tossed her cell phone in her bag.
Keith and Ryan came over two nights later. I’d told Mom that Keith was a guy I liked and left it at that. Since I hadn’t cooked much lately, I decided to keep things simple: a roast chicken, green bean salad, and homemade rolls.
My chicken recipe was a blend of Mom’s and Patricia’s: a sprig of rosemary and two of thyme crushed into the skin with butter, a nose flare of orange zest and enough paprika to tingle. I pressed half an orange into my hand—just enough to crack open the pulp and spill some juices out—and then slipped it inside the cavity.
Along the bottom of the roaster, I scattered quartered potatoes, petals of onion, and an overabundance of garlic nubs. Halfway through cooking, the bird crackled and hissed, potent rosemary greening the air like an exclamation mark even as the oven’s heat tightened the skin into a deep crust. No need to fuss with the bird—my house smelled like a home.
The guys were right on time. I threw open the door and waved them through with a grin. Ryan hadn’t been over yet. He stepped forward a few feet, tracked around the living room with his eyes, and then turned
to me.
“Are you going to … decorate?” The words were blunt, but not accusatory.
Still, I flushed.
Keith fired him a look.
“It’s OK,” I said, nodding as I scanned the mishmash of thrift store finds, the stacks of papers and books where shelving should have been, the dust. Nothing matched, or even seemed to go together. There were no end tables. No coffee table. No TV. The two front bedrooms were as empty as the day I’d moved in.
I didn’t even have a guest bed for Mom; she was sharing my king bed in the master bedroom. This was not a home to a 17-year-old—more like a glorified bachelor pad.
“I guess I’m going to need to work on that …” I smiled sheepishly.
Mom didn’t look up when I led them into the kitchen. She was perched on a bar stool at the counter, trimming green beans and tossing the ends into the trash can at her side. Plink. Plink. Plink.
Keith stepped right up to her, bent a little at the waist, dipped his chin to his chest, and offered her his hand. I smiled involuntarily.
When Mom looked up, the green bean she’d been handling fell into the bowl, forgotten. She reached toward Keith’s hand, and narrowed her eyes slowly. Was she frowning? Or just processing?
“Nice to meet you, Ma’am,” he said as he clasped her small hand in his. His smooth southern drawl draped the words through the air. “How was your flight?” He locked his eyes on hers, taking her in as though she were the only person in the room.
She let out a small, girlish laugh, furrowed her brow, and shook her head. “Oh, good, yes.” She almost sounded embarrassed. She glanced from him to me, and then started trimming the beans again.
After Keith sat beside her and reached into the bag of green beans to pluck browning stems with her, I made myself busy setting the table. I had exactly four plates to my name. When I placed a pair of stamped silverware by each setting, the cheap metal plinked against the oak veneer. Indigo picnic cups finished off the look.