The Dwelling: A Novel (21 page)

Her feet on the stairs muffled the sound of the door to the Murphy bedroom slowly sliding shut. She didn’t hear it over the sound of her steps, or under the thought in her head: that it was really quite a nice house. If she didn’t sell it by the first of the fall, she would eat her hat.

Upstairs, something in the attic shifted, as though having held still a very long time. By the time Glenn was locking the deadbolt on the front door, there was a soft sound, like a breath or a giggle that no one acknowledged from somewhere in the walls. The tap in the tub dripped into unseen water. Glenn stood beside the car for a moment, very aware of the house in sunlight, so bright and empty.
Within the month,
she thought.
Even at this point in the season.

Lazily, sleepily, the house stretched in the August heat.

On the Saturday of the Edwardses’ party, Glenn showed the Belisle house to a couple who praised it effusively, but did not stay long. While in the kitchen, showing off the appliances, Glenn noted a tidy little pile of cards in the corner of the counter. The house had already been shown three times, all by other agents. She knew it, of course, but busy as she had been hadn’t given the fact much thought. The sight of the cards on the counter bothered her some. The couple gave the house only a cursory walk-through
(It’s beautiful! Do you have something smaller and on one level?),
and left after just twenty minutes or so.

There had been lots of time to go home and change before showing up at the Edwardses’.

Glenn believed she was looking forward to the party. The roses she had hoped the garden would produce in time for the occasion did not appear so she bought a dozen short-stemmed roses and a large watermelon, which was the most summery thing she could come up with that didn’t involve cooking. Helen met her at the gate with a great deal of enthusiasm, some of which Glenn suspected had come from the glass in her hand.

“Glenn!” she squealed, and opened both arms for a hug. “I’m
sooo
glad you came! Come on in! Did you bring your suit! I hope you brought your suit! Everyone is in the pool.” When Helen let go, she looped her free arm through Glenn’s rather trapped arm and all but dragged her into the fray.

Once she had discarded her watermelon
(“Ohmigawd! It’s enormous!”),
and the flowers
(“They’re just the prettiest things I ever saw!”)
disappeared into the house with one of three hired helpers—one of whom was Helen and Gavin’s granddaughter Eliza, so Glenn assumed the other two were chums—she was given a Manhattan and left to her own devices.

The party was very large, something she had not given much thought to. She supposed she had thought it was going to be just “us,” us being the folks from the office, and maybe Helen’s constant companion Reba and husband Mark, who they frequently got together with on “occasions.” But many of the faces at the party were unfamiliar—meaning for Glenn, at least, not “us,” not of the small world of real estate, although real estate appeared to be just as well represented, not just Shelter realtors, either, but other agencies appeared to be out in force. The Edwards threw a well-documented good time. She was introduced to several people by Helen as she glided by on her way to or from someone or something, and every other person seemed to be someone from “the club.” She realized that would be Gavin’s golf club; they appeared to be a very social bunch.

It was just a moment or two before Gavin spotted her. He was in the pool and swam up to the edge in one smooth motion, that would have been quite impressive if it had not been for what looked to be a small, soggy mink on his head. “Glenny!” he called.

She covered her mouth to hide a small, inevitable smile. He was really so earnest about himself, it wouldn’t do to laugh. “Shore to water: hullo, Gavin,” she said, allowing the smile then.

He waved, disappearing under the water for a moment, then bobbing back up to the surface.

He pointed disapprovingly at her. “Get your suit on, Miz Darnley, or else!” to which Glenn laughed coyly.

Helen had been right, it seemed everyone
was
in the pool. She waved to Cindy Graham and Elsie
(Elsie in a bathing suit!),
where they clung to the side and talked soberly amid the chaos and noise behind them, oblivious. They each waved back; Elsie offered a broad and cheerful smile. The men were tossing an enormous sponge ball of some sort around in the pool and periodically it landed somewhere, shoreside, sending water splashing two feet in circumference, causing squeals of surprised delight. A long table had been overlaid with food (among it all, her mutant watermelon) and set up against the fence. The food was covered with plastic wrap, and from somewhere in the distance came the tantalizing smell of barbecue.

“Glenn!” called a familiar voice, and Glenn spun around until she noticed Miriam West of Shannon Realty, whom she had worked with briefly in the late eighties, waving her over from the other side of the pool.

She worked her way through the utterly and oddly mixed crowd of well-dressed, overgroomed realtors and the bathing-suited, wet (or at least damp) members of Gavin’s club.

“Miriam,” Glenn said warmly. “How are you?” The two women shook hands and Miriam said that she had shown one of Glenn’s listings just the other day. It was a standard realtor greeting, much like
and what do you do
was in the real world. If Miriam had last shown one of Glenn’s listings four years earlier, she would have opened with
that.

“Oh?” said Glenn. “And which one was it?”

Miriam winked at her. “Braggart. I know you’re having a good year. It was the two-story on Belisle Street.”

Glenn smiled broadly. “Oh, yes. That’s a lovely house. How did it go?” So Miriam’s would have been one of the cards on the counter. Her smile began to feel pasted and stiff.

Miriam shrugged and then guffawed loudly. Glenn had forgotten how loud she could be. “Well, I got me a Miriam story to have lunch on next week!” she said, with a loud, mildly offensive, Deep South accent. People turned and looked. Once they saw who was talking, they smiled in recognition and went back to their own conversations. Everything was a Miriam story.

“What happened?” Glenn asked, with just a touch of curiosity, thinking that it must have been something with the newly varnished floors, a Miriam-landing-on-her-ass in front of (what would be by next week) clients who were, respectively, a priest, a rabbi and a nun.

“We lost a whole goddamn kid in that place!” she hollered.

Glenn cringed, but kept smiling, raising her eyebrows in an almost defensive motion. The smile was real, however. Miriam was one of those people, in spite of herself. “Oh? A whole child. Not a large one, I hope,” Glenn said, getting into the spirit of the thing.

Miriam laughed. “That’s funny, girl! Not a big one, no. It was a little one,” she said, inflecting every few words and reminding Glenn (occasionally pleasantly) of Jo Anne Worley, ha-
HAA!
“We were upstairs, looking in the master bedroom, talking about that layout—very unusual, the L-shape—and the little kid is squirming in Mommy’s arms. She’s about three, I guess. Squirming, bored, you know. Mommy puts her down. I was telling them a story about another house I had listed, and it couldn’t have been more than—and I’m not kidding for once—maybe five minutes.
Bang!
Kid’s gone.”

Glenn clutched her throat primly. “Oh, my,” she said. “That doesn’t sound very funny. What happened to her?”

Miriam gestured, largely, spilling some of her drink and not noticing. “We couldn’t find her. We called and looked. We checked the cupboards and the yard, the bathtub—that’s quite a creature in there—the little room under the stairs, the fireplace, for Chrissakes—” She screamed with laughter then, drawing sets of eyes from the crowd again.

“We looked every damn place in the house. The mother was in tears. We searched the place, calling her,
shouting,
for god’s sake, ‘Cindy! Cinnndeeee!’ Nowhere. The father by then has started going up and down the street, the parents are absolutely frantic—”

“I should say,” Glenn said.

“I’ve got my cell phone out and we’re going to call the police, the father comes into the house, saying the same damn thing, ‘Call the police,’ and just as I’m starting to dial—and I gotta tell you that is one helluva situation to be in, I was just shaking crazy. I’ve got kids of my own. You know what it’s like—” Glenn, of course, didn’t, but she did not correct her. Somewhere the story had lost its loud, guffawing Miriam-story edge and had become a touch more serious. Instead of gesturing wildly, Miriam had begun leaning into Glenn and her voice had—for Miriam—dropped considerably.

“Just as I’m dialing, the kid shows up at the top of the stairs!” Now Miriam clutched her throat. “She says, ‘Hi, Mommy.’ Just like that. Like a ghost, she’s standing at the top of the stairs. We’re all about to die. Her mother tears up the stairs to her. Grabs her and between hugging her to death, screams at her about where she was.” She shook her head, remembering.

“Where was she?”

Miriam shrugged effusively. “She said she was in the closet. Upstairs. She says, ‘It’s nice in there.’”

Glenn frowned. “The closet in the blue room?”

Miriam nodded. “Except we looked in there. We looked everywhere. She just says, ‘It’s nice in there.’” Miriam leaned in a little closer to Glenn and said, conspiratorially, “No offense, but it’s not ‘nice in there.’ It’s
pitch black.
She wasn’t in there. We looked in there. It was empty. At least, as far as you could see,” she said. Then, as though recovering, or remembering that it was a Miriam story, she ended with a huge guffaw. “Needless to say, they’re not buying it!”

Glenn smiled politely. Miriam took a deep drink out of her glass, nearly draining it.

As if to make up for what hadn’t been a particularly funny story, Miriam launched into another, this one about the rather tiny man who got his foot caught in the mail slot at another house she was showing. It was funny. Glenn laughed out loud at the part about the fire department arriving and the man yelling at his wife for panicking and calling them.

Barbecue was steak (to order) and chicken, burnt and dry. Glenn had the steak, her first in months. There were three kinds of potato salad, many green salads, fresh fruit, cheeses, dips, pies,
watermelon,
sherbet, cheesecake, and Glenn ate to busting.

“Helen, this is all just too much,” Glenn said, when Helen passed by with a tray of canapés during the meal. Glenn helped herself to two. “I’m going to be as fat as a peahen next week.”

Helen nodded her approval. “You could use a little,” she said. Glenn hadn’t gained back much of the weight that she’d lost in the last eight months, it was true. In fact, sometimes in her bathroom when she caught a glimpse of herself getting into the shower, she wondered if she hadn’t lost just a little more. She’d certainly had what Howard used to call “wiggle room.” Wiggle room was losing just a couple of pounds more than you intended, and then allowing yourself a whole chocolate cake on a Sunday night.

The two Manhattans Glenn had consumed before dinner were sitting nicely between her and stark reality in spite of the huge meal, and she said to Helen, “It’s my
wiggle
room,” and then chuckled to herself.

Helen patted her on the head and told her to have another drink. “It’s nice to see you loosening up, Glenn. We’ve been thinking about you,” she said solemnly.

Glenn stared. Helen’s face was so serious. She sighed internally.
Oh my.

“I think I might just go for a little walk around your yard. I’ve yet to see your garden,” she said, and stood, heavily, the meal she’d eaten pressing hard against her diaphragm. “A walk is definitely in order,” she said.

The Edwardses’ house was on an acre and a half of fully landscaped yard. Gavin had done very well, all his career, and Helen had been a nurse before retiring last year. She did most of the gardening herself, with Gavin’s help when he could in the summer—always real estate’s busy time—but she could see that they had really put the effort in this year. Likely, golf and gardening were what Gavin did now.

Glenn treated herself to a walk through their large yard, with its profusion of blooming color, far from the mix and chaos of the party and let the silence sink in and go through her. It was all very soothing.

Gavin caught sight of her and waved. When he walked toward her, it was with a slight list to the left. A little in his cups. The sight of Gavin, friend that he was, rarely failed to make her smile and she did then. The mink on his head had been tamed over the last couple of hours (likely at Helen’s insistence) and he looked more or less his usual self. As he got closer she could see two bright spots on his cheeks: he looked flushed and happy.

“Gavin,” she said, with real warmth. He surprised her then by scooping her into a warm, friendly hug that he held a touch too long for her British sensibility.

“Why, Gavin,” she said jokingly. “I’m overwhelmed.”

“Glenny, hon, you are one of my favorite people in the world,” he said, mock gravely. “I want you to live a little.”

“Gavin, now I’m utterly moved.”

He turned serious. “I mean it, Glenn,” he said. “You seem like you’re…” he continued, searching for the right word or phrase, his arms still pressed around her waist. His breath was warm and ginny. “Like you’re fading,” he said finally. She raised her eyebrows.

“Fading?” she said, offended.

He nodded broadly. “Working, working, working. You know, this is the first time you’ve been out with us since—” and they both realized it at the same time and the sentence hung there, unfinished. She attempted to wiggle discreetly from his embrace. Before she could get an explanation from him, Helen came upon them.

“My god!” she yelled. “I’ve caught you both!’ They all laughed and Gavin finally released Glenn. As he did, he stuck a defiant finger in her face and shook it. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, and Glenn noticed that the sun, finally, had started to sink and the sky behind his head was a brilliant pink that faded into orange at the horizon.

Fade. Fading. Faded.

“All right,” she said, and they wandered companionably back toward the thick of the party.

*  *  *

Glenn was introduced to a man from Gavin’s club.

“This is Calvin Doon,” Gavin said. She looked questioningly at him, waiting for the rest of the introduction,
This is my cousin from France, this is the man who built our house, this is Helen’s childhood sweetheart/dentist/podiatrist.
None came. Instead she caught Helen and Gavin exchanging glances, and something like recognition began as a cold ball in her stomach.

“Cal, this is the lovely, the talented, the
hysterically
funny Glenn Darnley,” Gavin finished effusing.

Glenn blushed, “My goodness, Gavin, you are smashed. I assure you I am no more than clever at the best of times,” she said. “How do you do?” She put out her hand and the two of them shook lightly. His was warm and soft.