Floating Staircase (3 page)

Jodie gripped my hand and squeezed it. “This is great.”

“It needs some work.”

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms—a master and a spare—as well as a third room that would make a perfect office for my writing and Jodie's work on her doctoral dissertation. A second full bathroom was up here as well. With some disdain, I scrutinized the chipped shower tiles and the sink that could have been dripping since Eisenhower was in office.

“Travis,” Jodie called from down the hall. “Come look. You won't believe this.”

She was in the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The movers had propped our mattress at an angle against one wall and left our dresser in the middle of the room. Boxes of clothes crept up another wall.

“Look,” Jodie said. She was gazing out of the wall of windows that faced the backyard.

I came up behind her and peered over her shoulder. Beyond the white smoothness of the lawn and seen through a network of barren tree limbs, a frozen lake glittered in the midday sun. On the far side of the lake, tremendous lodgepole pines studded the landscape, their needles powdered in a dusting of white. It was a breathtaking, picturesque view, marred only by the curious item toward the center of the lake—a large, dark, indescribable structure rising straight up from the ice.

“Did you know there was a lake back here?”

“No,” I said. “Adam never said anything.”

“Jesus, this is gorgeous. I can't believe it's ours.”

“It's ours.” I kissed her neck and wrapped my arms around her. “What do you suppose that thing is out there? Sitting on the ice?”

“I have no idea,” Jodie said, “but I don't think it's sitting on the ice.”

“No?”

“Look at the base. The ice is chipped away, and you can see the water.”

“Strange,” I said.

Suddenly, we were both startled by a high-pitched wail, followed by the quick patter of small feet on the hardwood floor. It wasn't the type of frustrated cry typical of agitated young children; there was fear in this shriek, possibly pain.

I rushed out onto the upstairs landing and glanced down in time to see Madison running into her mother's arms in the foyer. Beth scooped up the little girl and hugged her tight.

“What happened?” I said, coming partway down the stairs.

Beth shook her head: she didn't know. She smoothed back Madison's hair while the girl clung to her like a monkey.

Adam appeared beside them and asked Madison what was wrong, but she did not answer. Her crying quickly subsiding, she seemed content to bury her face in Beth's shoulder.

Adam looked at me. “What happened?” The amount of accusation in his tone rendered me speechless. “What'd you do?”

It wasn't until Jacob came up behind me on the stairs that I realized to whom Adam had been directing his questions.

“What happened?” Adam repeated.

Jacob shrugged. The kid looked miserable. “Maddy got scared.”

“Scared of what?”

Again: the slight roll of tiny shoulders. “Something scared her. Wasn't me. I promise.”

Adam sighed and ran his fingers through his tight, curly hair. “Get down here, Jacob.”

Expressionlessly, the boy bounded down the stairs.

I followed, stuffing my hands into my pockets. I paused beside Beth and rubbed Madison's head.

She squirmed and swung her legs, causing Beth to grunt when she struck her in the belly. “Cut it out now,” Beth muttered into her daughter's hair.

“You never said anything about a lake out back,” I said to Adam.

“Didn't I?”

“And the basement? Where is it?”

“In the attic. Where else?”

“Ha. Don't quit your day job.” I strolled past him down the hallway toward the one door I hadn't yet opened.

Adam called after me: “The movers put all your boxes marked
storage
down there.”

“Thanks.” I opened the door on a set of rickety wooden stairs that sank deep into a concrete cellar. Somewhere down there a light burned, casting a tallow illumination on the exposed cinder block walls. I descended the stairs halfway until I saw an exposed bulb in the center of the low ceiling, hanging from several inches of wire. Its pull cord swayed like a hypnotist's pocket watch.

A number of boxes were stacked at the foot of the stairs. I stepped over them and tugged on the pull cord, which broke off in my hand and sent the bulb swinging, casting alternating shadows around the room.

“Goddamn it.”

Standing on my toes, I reached up and steadied the light but couldn't slip the cord back into place to shut it off. In the end, I padded my fingers on my tongue, then gave the bulb a half turn. The light went out.

We spent the rest of the daylight hours moving boxes from room to room, putting pieces of furniture together, scrubbing the bathrooms and the kitchen, and overall warming up to our new surroundings.

By the time night had fallen, we were all hungry and exhausted. The kids began to fuss, and Beth herded them home, insisting that we join them for dinner.

Their house had a closed-in porch, heated in the winter, where we charged through a meal of roast pork, some string bean and bread crumb concoction, mashed potatoes, and corn bread. For dessert, Beth set out an apple pie and ice cream, eliciting cheers from the children, and Jodie poured the coffee while Adam hunted around his basement for a bottle of port that was bent on remaining elusive. My brother finally returned from the basement empty-handed and defeated, then cut himself a giant slice of pie to make up for his efforts.

Beth talked about my last novel,
Water View,
and how she'd introduced my work to the neighborhood book club. “You'll meet most of them next week. We're having some people from the community over for a little Christmas party. It'll be a great opportunity for you two to meet your new neighbors.”

“Please, Beth,” I said. “Don't go wearing yourself out on our account.”

“My book club was going to meet anyway. I'll just invite a few more people over, have them bring some desserts. It'll be fun.”

“It's a nice town,” Adam said. “Quiet, friendly.”

“Did you know the people who used to live in our house?” Jodie asked.

“The Dentmans,” Adam said. “We knew them a little, I guess.”

“We didn't know them at all,” Beth corrected. “They were weird. Kept to themselves.”

Adam shrugged. “Desiring privacy doesn't make you weird, hon.”

Beth flapped a hand at her husband, then turned to Jodie. “Don't listen to him. They were
weird
.”

“Well, the house was a steal,” I said.

“Property isn't very expensive out here,” Adam said, his mouth full of pie. “It's like a well-kept secret from the rest of the state. Those mooks in Baltimore don't know what they're missing.”

“Mooks,” Madison parroted, giggling.

“And,” he went on, “it's the perfect place to raise a family.”

“Yes, Adam,” Jodie piped up. “Please explain that to my husband. He seems to be ignorant of the whole biological clock phenomenon.”

I groaned and leaned back in my chair. “A week ago we were stuffed in a two-room flat with no central heating. We had to chase homeless people off our front steps every morning. You wanted to introduce kids to that?”

“Look around. We're not there anymore.”

“Hey,” Beth said, lifting her glass of wine. “I want to make a toast. I'm so happy you guys moved out here.” She glanced at me, too obvious not to notice. Anyway, I think she wanted me to notice. “To new beginnings.”

“New beginnings,” Adam repeated.

We drank.

I
t was closing on ten thirty when Jodie and I walked down the snow-covered dirt road that led to our new home. The air smelled of winter and of grist from the distant mill on the outskirts of town. Immense and overarching, the dark trees leaned down toward us like living things hungry to pick us off the Earth. Our commingled breath puffed out in clouds.

I gave Jodie a squeeze. “You happy?”

“Of course.” She'd been quiet and introspective for the rest of the evening following dessert.

“What is it?” I said.

“I wish you'd be more open to discussing things.”

This was about the comment Adam had made at the table—this was about getting pregnant and having babies.

“We just moved in the house today. Can't we do one thing at a time?”

“We're adults. We're capable of doing more than one thing at a time. We're capable of making adult decisions.” We paused at the foot of the porch. The house, dark and brooding and contemplative, looked down on us. “Don't you want kids?”

“Eventually.”

“Well,” Jodie said, “my eventually will eventually run out.”

“Can we not have this discussion now? Can we at least enjoy our first night in our new home?” I reached for her hands, but she quickly tucked them inside her coat.

“It's cold out here,” she said. “I'm going in.”

Jodie went immediately upstairs. A minute later, I heard the water pipes clank and start to hum and the sound of water filling the bathtub.

Standing in the darkness of our new living room, an assortment of cardboard boxes crowded around me like tourists gazing at a street performer, I exhaled a deep, pent-up breath. From nowhere, a defeating weight clung to my shoulders, pulling me down, down, down. I was still picturing Jodie from moments ago, standing like a ghost outside in the snow, her face hollowed by futility.

Fuck it,
I thought and went outside, a cigarette already between my lips.

The front porch creaked and grew restless under my weight. I sucked down a lungful of smoke and felt my eyes grow wet in the bitter cold. Across the front yard, the naked trees seemed to undulate almost imperceptibly like living things. Beyond the trees, the moon was a luminescent skull behind black wisps of clouds.

I heard the snapping of twigs and the crunch of frost and dead leaves before I saw a figure emerge from the woods several yards down the winding dirt path that emptied out onto Waterview Court. The figure was carrying something as he—for the figure was undeniably male—made his way in my direction.

It was Adam.

“Freeze,” I called out.

He stopped and peered through the darkness before spotting me mixed in with the late night shadows on the porch. A cloud of vapor trailed up from his silhouette. “Jesus. The hell are you doing out here?”

“Hiding.”

“Want company?” He held up what must have been the bottle of port he'd been hunting for earlier.

“Depends. Who you got in mind?”

Adam took a swig from the bottle and wedged his free hand into the hip pocket of his dungarees. He leaned against the porch railing. It groaned but held him. “I hope you guys like the place.”

“What's not to like?”

“I hope I didn't start anything with that talk of raising a family,” he said.

“It's fine.”

“Is it a sore subject?”

“It is what it is.”

Adam took another swig of wine. He refused to join me on the porch and did not look at me as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“What's on your mind? I know you didn't just come over here to make sure I got home safe.”

He lowered and shook his head. He was smiling but there was nothing humorous about it.

Again, I was temporarily taken aback by Adam's resemblance to our father. This ignited a memory of our old man's Chrysler pulling into the driveway of our tiny duplex in Eastport, a Christmas tree strapped to the car's roof. This had been when Kyle was still alive and we still decorated a real tree. The memory was sudden and fierce and nearly brought tears to my eyes.

“I guess I'm just hoping this was a good idea,” Adam said, calling me out of my reverie. “You guys moving out here and everything. You and me living across the street from each other, I mean.” He tapped his wedding ring against the wine bottle. “Do we need to talk about things? You and me?”

“I don't think so.”

“Because last time we saw each other, things didn't end well.”

I looked out over the yard. Beneath the moonlight the snow radiated like something not of this world. “Forget about it. We were both drunk.”

“It bothered me for a long time.”

“It's in the past.”

“You really feel that way? Don't shut me down if you don't really feel that way.”

For an instant I searched deep within myself only to discover I didn't know
how
to feel. Yet fearing that my silence would condemn me, I quickly said, “Of course.”

“We've already missed out on too much time. And for no good reason.”

“Now we can make up for it,” I told him.

He nodded once perfunctorily. “Good. I'd like that. I really would.”

“So it's settled. No hard feelings. The past is history. Water under the bridge. Whatever other cliché I can't think of at the moment.”

Adam chuckled and took another drink from the bottle. “I should probably get back. Unless you want to get shitfaced on the rest of this port with me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Wanna get shitfaced by yourself, then? I'll leave you the bottle.”

I smiled. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Adam heaved himself off the railing. “Fair enough.” He raked a set of long fingers down the side of his unshaven neck. The sound was like sandpaper. It occurred to me that some of his courage to speak his mind was in that bottle. “You know where I live. Don't be a stranger.”

“It's good to see you again,” I said, watching him plod through the snow toward the trees.

Without looking back at me, he raised a hand in response.

I watched him go for as long as the dark allowed it.

S
tartled, I awoke.