The House
Hindsight, Chapter 2, Part 2.
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February 2024.
Bill closed the door to the garage behind him, and kicked off his dress shoes.
“Hey Computer: kitchen lights on.”
Slush and mud from the graveyard slipped from them.
“You got it. Turning on two lights.”
He put water in the kettle, and clicked it on. He went to the bedroom.
“Hey Computer: main bedroom lights on.”
“Sure. Turning on one light.”
He walked over to the closet, and hung the black suit jacket. He hung the pants, and the tie, and put the shirt in the laundry basket in the corner.
PeeJays and a tee were more comfortable. More normal.
He went back to the kitchen, and watched the kettle boil.
He remembered something.
“Hey Computer: main bedroom light off.”
“Okay. Turning off one light.”
He put a tea bag in the cup. The kettle completed its boil, and he poured water into the cup.
He stirred it.
He waited.
He stirred it some more.
He put in some sugar.
He stirred it.
Milk.
He got milk. Put it back in the fridge.
Dredged out the tea bag. Put it in the compost tub.
Stirred, and stirred, and stirred.
He walked through into the dark living room. Enough light came through from the kitchen to let him see the chair by the window. Juss’ morning spot. He sat there, looking out into the evening darkness.
Lights flickered through the bare-limbed trees. They glided along the main road in the valley, and were then obscured by Eugene’s house. It was the middle of a local lockdown. No one should be going anywhere. Maybe they were going to the clinic. Or the funeral home.
“Hey Computer: what time is it?”
“Seven sixteen P M.”
Both would be open until 10. It was the only way to fit in everyone who needed to be fitted in.
“Hey Computer: play some classical music. Something soothing.”
“You got it. Playing Harp Classics.”
Heavenly harps? No. Not today.
“Hey Computer: plays some classical piano.”
“Sure. Playing Beethoven’s Piano Faves.”
But that wasn’t right either.
“Hey Computer: stop.”
The music stopped.
The lights of another car appeared from behind Eugene’s house, followed the road, and receded into the distance.
*
The phone rang.
“Hey Computer: caller ID.”
“Maxwell Klaver.”
Bill didn’t need to think about it. “Decline, once.”
“Call declined, this time only.”
After a minute of silence, a chime sounded. He’d left a message.
Bill’s tea was cold. He chugged the remainder of it. Set the empty cup on the table.
Another car went by in the distance.
*
Will pulls into the unshovelled driveway. There is only an inch of accumulation. Juss gets out of the passenger side, and reaches into the backseat. She takes the bags, and drops them at the front door, being careful on a patch of ice that has not been salted.
She comes back for the casserole dish, nestled in a cardboard box surrounded by scrunched newspaper so it doesn’t move as she carries it. It’s hot from the oven. And they can just leave the box.
Will has the phone ready. When Juss puts the casserole box on the ground, Will makes the call.
By the time Juss is back at the car, it rings through. “Hello?”
“Hey, bud. Bring oven gloves with you to the front door.”
“Huh?” says Maxwell.
“We’re in your driveway. Brought a few things. Including a hot casserole.”
“You—thanks.”
“Merry Christmas, bud. I know—I know it’s not easy, but maybe these little things will help?”
There is a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. Maybe they do.”
“I think we’re all glad to see the back side of 2020.” It’s the understatement of the year.
Maxwell almost chuckles. “Yeah.”
“Remember: oven gloves. Merry Christmas. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Before long, the door opens, and the young man stands there with his floral oven mitts, overcome by the pile of things on his doorstep. He looks up, tears in his eyes.
Will waves.
Juss waves from beside the car, and blows a kiss to Maxwell. Her breath makes a cloud of vapour in the frigid air.
She is the one who did this, who planned this, who made it happen.
Will aches with his love for her, and his pride.
*
He took his cold, empty cup to the kitchen sink. Left it in there without washing it.
He leaned on the counter with both arms, head hanging down.
Flecks of black, and pink, and white, and cream. Intended to look like stone. Cheap. Fake.
He turned around, leaning his bum against the counter. The set of three matching tubs, against the wall. Sugar, salt, coffee. Little glass windows in each tub. So you could see what was inside.
*
The days are filled with paint rollers, electric fans, and the heating on high. The windows are open much of the time, to get rid of the fumes. Three massive tubs of beige, steadily used up, room after room. A preliminary effort, a base for later. Just to get rid of the navy blue in the art room, and the forest green of the guest bedroom. A fresh coat of paint for the whole house. A fresh start.
No one comes to the door. No one asks anything of them. No one accuses them of anything. It’s astonishing, every day. The roller coaster has stopped, and they’ve gotten off the ride.
He doesn’t feel empty: he feels full. Recharged.
He’s on a chair in the kitchen, doing edging along the top of the wall.
Juss comes in behind and below him. “I’m done in my art room.” She sounds happy. Excited.
“Good. Another one down.”
“Cuppa?”
“Please.”
He finishes the last bit of edging, and gets down from the chair. He scrapes the remaining paint from the brush, and puts the brush in a bag, to keep it from drying up while they have a break.
They drink their tea sitting on the kitchen floor, cushioned only by a drop cloth. They don’t want to have to scrape paint off the floor tiles.
He notices the smudge of paint on her cheek. He smiles.
She smiles back.
It feels like their honeymoon.
“Don’t you just love it?” she says.
“The new seating arrangement?” Playing dumb.
“The privacy.” She has a certain look in her eye.
He raises his eyebrows when he realizes. “The paint ….”
“Can wait a minute.”
“Or two!” he says, in indignation.
She laughs. “What I love the most about you is that you can’t hide anything from me. I see right through you. I see what you are like on the inside.”
“Transparent, am I?” He glances down, and she looks at the same place.
She smiles. “Sometimes you are.”
*
He whirled away from that memory.
He reached into the cupboard below, and took out a tall bottle of amber liquid. Medicinal.
Just some local cheap crap. He grabbed a clean mug. He didn’t bother reaching for a glass.
The first mouthful burned. The second mouthful screamed. The third mouthful soothed. The fourth mouthful made him feel giddy.
He returned to the living room, and sat on the couch. Pushed his blanket away, onto his pillow.
He lost count of the mouthfuls.
He couldn’t see well enough to pour a refill.
“Hey Computer: lights on!”
“You got it. Turning on all lights.”
He filled his cup, and almost spilled it leaning forward to put the bottle on the table.
He sat back, his head leaning back onto the couch so that he was looking up at the ceiling.
On the wall behind him, and above his head, was a painting. One of Juss’ paintings. “A masterpiece,” he’d called it when he first saw it. A slightly impressionistic style, great use of colour.
He staggered to his feet, and turned to look at the painting. A path in the woods, a fence post, light coming through the trees, and a hint of magic.
Over to his right, in the distance, he could see the door to the guest bedroom. And beside it, the door to the art room.
The lights were on. All the lights were on. The art room beckoned to him.
In the doorway, he saw the easel. The last canvas barely worked on, started only a few days before ….
*
As soon as they stop the car on the hill, they fall in love with the place. The view! Oh, the view! They get out, and the lush green surrounds them, suffused with only the gentlest of sounds. The wind rustling the leaves in the trees. The call of some bird.
The pretty red bungalow sits on the hill, the garden a wide expanse of grass. A blank canvas.
The realtor is in the driveway, an older, portly man with no hair.
“The door is unlocked,” he says, almost apologetically. “The owner just left for an hour. Says no one will come in who isn’t supposed to.”
“Very trusting,” says Juss.
They go inside, and the view from the living room window draws them through to the glass. Trees, hills, the lake in the distance.
“It has internet?” Will asks, for the second time.
“DSL,” says the realtor, with a sniff.
They see past the colours of the walls, the unimpressive furniture. They love the space. They love the view.
It’s a three bedroom. They’ll have the main bedroom, with the half-bath en suite. One of the others can be a guest bedroom.
“Look at the light in here! This is my art room, Will!” She beams. “It’s just perfect!”
“You’ll be able to put your easel up,” he says. The one he got her ten years ago that she has never used. Never had a chance to use.
She whirls around to him, and smiles a smile that would melt any man’s heart.
*
Bill leaned back against the door frame. His knees slowly gave out beneath him, and he slid to the floor. He put the cup down, to one side, and fell forward. His palms slapped the hardwood. His vision swam. The pit inside was ready to swallow him.
He screamed his rage at the universe and sagged into a sobbing heap.
*
The phone rang.
His eyes popped open.
His back throbbed.
He was still on the art room floor. The lights were still on. But it was morning.
“Hey Computer: caller ID.”
“Theodore Sackhoff from Sackhoff & Doroshenko.”
“Ugh.” Not now. Not now. He couldn’t deal with this now. “Decline, once.”
“Call declined, this time only.”
His head pounded. He pulled himself to his feet. The cup was on its side, and he put his hand in a sticky mess. He staggered to his feet, and leaned against the wall for a while, until he was steady enough to move.
A chime sounded. The lawyer had left a message. Of course he had.
Bill found his way to the kitchen, and turned on the cold tap, dousing his head in cold water.
He towelled his face on the tea towel, and put the kettle on.
When he had a good, strong, black coffee in front of him, and some of it inside him, he said, “Hey Computer: play message.”
Thanks for reading!
Continue reading with the next part on Sunday!
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