Migrators (26 page)

The bright spots in his eyes were down to small pinpricks in his vision. His eyes were getting better with each passing hour.

“Ready?” Alan asked.

“Yes,” Bob said. “Okay.”

At the top of the ladder, Bob let Alan lead the way. They turned the sheet and then angled it to fit through the window. When Alan let go, Bob pulled it inside. Alan went back down for the last sheet. About halfway up the ladder, a breeze kicked up and rocked the panel in Alan’s grip. His foot slipped on the rung and his knee banged into the ladder. He made it up three more rungs before another breeze gusted even harder.

The panel began to overbalance. He let go and let it hit his torso as he gripped the ladder with both hands. He was ready to let the panel drop to the ground—it would be damaged, but self-preservation trumped his frugality. It was pinched against his wrists and the weight of the wind kept it pressed into his chest. Alan felt his grip slipping.

Suddenly, the weight was gone.

Alan looked up and saw Bob. He was leaning out the window and holding the panel in one hand.
 

“Damn, Bob, be careful,” Alan said. He found his balance again and took the weight of the panel.

“You looked like you needed help,” Bob said.
 

They wrangled the last piece through the window.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen—I need something to drink,” Alan said.

“Sounds good.”

Alan scuffed the flattened grass with his foot on his way through the yard on his way inside. In the kitchen he turned towards the sink and was about to fill a glass when he heard Bob’s voice from down the hall.

“Hey, Alan?” Bob called.

“Yeah?”

“Come here, would you?”

“Okay,” Alan said. He filled his glass and took a sip as he walked.

Bob was standing on the stairs. He pointed down at one of the treads. The colonel had covered the old wooden steps with a carpet runner, secured at each interior corner and just under the lip of each tread with metal rods. The carpet was ugly, but still had years of wear left in it. It was low on Alan’s list to replace.

The staircase had fourteen steps. On the seventh, there were two footprints.

Not footprints,
Alan thought.
The opposite of footprints. I’ve seen something like that before.

Alan knelt down to touch the carpet runner. In the center of the step he saw the charcoal grey outline of two feet scorched into the fibers. He touched his middle finger to one. He rubbed the ash between this finger and thumb. Alan scraped at one of the outlines with his fingernail. He found clean carpet underneath.

“I think this will come up with some carpet cleaner,” Alan said.

“Wait, Alan, this is physical evidence of what you said you saw on the stairs. It was no electrical flash—no static discharge. Right? You can’t ignore this.”

“I was probably standing there when the flash happened,” Alan said.

“You weren’t. I saw you. You were several steps down from there,” Bob said. “Besides, these marks aren’t even the same size as your shoes. They’re much smaller. Come here, try to put your foot in one.”

“I’m just going to get the carpet cleaner,” Alan said. “I want to get this cleaned up before it gets tracked up and down the stairs.” He descended and headed down the hall for the closet. “You know,” he called over his shoulder, “those probably aren’t footprints at all. It could just be some weird ash from the flash. I’m lucky the whole house didn’t burn down.”

When Alan returned with his spray bottle, Bob was taking pictures with his phone. Alan waited for Bob to finish and then sprayed the carpet. The ash came up with some blotting.

“There,” Alan said. “Problem solved. Thanks again for your help today.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Bob said. “I should get back. I’ve got to finish some rework.”

“When does the inspector come back?”

“He said Friday or Monday.”

“That’s convenient,” Alan said.

“Yeah, isn’t it? I think they’re used to dealing with shut-ins. They expect that they can roll in any time and you’ll be there,” Bob said.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Alan said. “I want to see how it’s coming.”

Bob nodded. He gave a wave as he headed out.

Alan dabbed at the carpet with some fresh paper towels and then backed away to inspect his work. The carpet was still wet. It was an old carpet anyway, and the sun only hit it at certain times of day. Chances were, nobody would notice a slight stain. He put away the cleaning supplies and then climbed back to the attic.

The room felt crisp and clean. The breeze still swept through the space from the gaping hole where the window used to be, and it brought the dry October air. Alan and Liz had lived in Virginia for long enough that Alan had forgotten that air could feel like this. Northern Virginia was a swamp, and it was always sticky with heavy air. Up here, you could take a deep breath and fill your lungs with cool luxury. Alan walked to the open hole and looked down at the driveway. There was still a matted spot on the lawn where the panels had been stacked. At least he was done with the ladder—he could put that away.
 

Alan turned and regarded his project.
 

He had a pile of strapping to install—those boards would give him a nailing substrate perfectly aligned with the panels. The panels were standing on edge, leaning against the rafters. Bob had sighted the undersides of the rafters and declared that no shimming would be required, which would save a lot of time.

“Okay,” Alan said. “I guess everything’s ready.”

He was excited to finish this step. Once he was done with the panels, he would start working on his photographs. No more procrastination. A fresh gust came through the window. Alan turned.

I suppose I really should button up this window again. There’s no sense in letting in birds or bats or whatever. Should I toss that chair down on the lawn before reinstall the window? No—I’ll want some place to sit while I deliberate over photos.

Alan glanced back at the chair. It was uncomfortable, but you didn’t want a comfy place to sit while you deliberated.
 

Comfort makes the mind wander,
he thought.
I guess I have to unscrew the chair from the floor eventually.

Alan smiled. He picked up the upper sash and fed the ropes over the pulleys. He tapped in a nail inside the sash-weight cavity. He tied the rope to the nail. Once he filled in the cavity with insulation, the window would be fixed in its position. He wanted a tight seal more than he wanted a working window—at least for the winter. Maybe next summer he would figure out a better arrangement. Alan worked quickly. He locked the sashes in place, stuffed the cavity until the wind stopped whistling through the gaps, and then began replacing the molding. He zoned out while he worked, barely noticing the wrenching sounds of screws pulling from wood. Alan reused the same nails—ancient spikes of metal with square heads. He wondered who had taken the time to make each nail by hand. When he aligned everything the way it had been, the nails drove easily into their old holes.

Each nail required only one solid hit to push it back into place.

BANG.

BANG.

Alan picked up a few of his finish nails to tighten up the boards.
 

BANG.

BANG.

He reassembled the window in reverse of the order in which he’d taken it apart.

BANG.

BANG.

Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.

Alan set his hammer down. He turned away from the window slowly.

Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.

He didn’t see anything. The chair was gone. He walked forward slowly. His head stayed pointed forward, but his eyes darted around, expecting a surprise. He still heard the noise.

Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.

The sound was coming from the other side of the attic—the far window. Alan angled to the side to see around the standing sheets of paneling.
 

Creak. Bump thump. Creak. Bump thump.

The chair was back at its spot near the window. It still had Alan’s screws poking out from the bottom of the rockers. Those screws made the bumping sounds, and made the chair rock unevenly. Alan watched as it bump-thumped its way through two more full rocks. It came to a stop. He looked back at the center of the room, where the chair should be, and then down at it again. The chair remained still. In his head, the sound it made reverberated.
 

Alan picked up the chair by the arms and lifted it over the panels. He set it back down in the center of the attic. The screws bit into the floor. Alan lifted the chair again and slammed it down again and again until the screws aligned with the holes where it had once been fastened. One of the arms creaked as the wood accepted the abuse. Alan glared down at the window he had just reinstalled. He looked at the chair. Anger boiled up from his guts. He felt it making a fiery trail up his spine and into the back of his head. Alan made no effort to stop his rage. It filled his head with white heat.

Alan raised his foot, held it in the air for a second, and then thundered it down on the front edge of the seat. The old wood cracked. Alan repeated with another blow. This one broke the front of the seat in half and the arms of the chair were pulled inward, like the chair was trying to protect its vitals. Alan lifted the chair by its arms and slammed it down on its side. He kicked and beat at the wood, smashing the chair into pieces held together by the old caning of the back.

The window overlooking the dooryard wouldn’t open anymore—Alan had sealed it. He carried the remnants of the chair to the front window, opened the sash, and then threw the sticks to the front yard below. He slammed the window shut.

Rock now—I dare you
, he thought.

Alan’s extension cord coming up from the bedroom had two things plugged in—a compressor for the nail gun, and a radio. He turned them both on.
He got to work.

O
CTOBER
23

B
OB
’
S
HOUSE
looked neat and tidy. The front yard was still mostly dirt, but all the leaves had been raked. Bob had trimmed the scraggly bushes to look symmetrical. A new front porch constructed with untreated two-by-sixes had a sturdy railing attached. These cosmetic changes were not permanent fixes. Bob wanted to influence the inspector by making the house look cared for. So far, the approach had not worked. As Bob had told Alan, his remodeling work had been rejected in several areas.
 

Alan got out of the Colonel’s old green truck and walked to the front door. He tried the new steps. They were solid. They wouldn’t hold up for more than a few years before the wood started to rot. They weren’t meant to.

Alan went back down and headed for the garage entrance. He let himself in.

“Hello?” Alan called. He heard the radio coming from the basement.
 

“Hey,” Bob called as Alan walked down the stairs. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Alan said. “How’s this mess?”

“I don’t know,” Bob said. “I honestly don’t know. I thought I was following the code pretty specifically the first time. The inspector seemed to have all kinds of little exceptions and rules that aren’t documented anywhere. I’m starting to regret ever calling him in.”

Alan laughed.

“Who would know, right?” Bob asked.

“When you go to sell this place, you don’t want the buyer’s inspector finding all the issues,” Alan said.

“You’re right. Anyway, I’m about halfway done with the list. This power cable has to be moved about six inches and I’m just coming to accept that there’s not enough slack. I think I’m going to have to run new cable all the way to the breaker.”

“Can’t you just splice in another section. Maybe put in another junction box?”

“I don’t know. I think not. He said a lot of things. I’m starting to think that this whole thing is a racket. They don’t want to promote safety, they just want to line their pockets by making everyone adhere to arcane standards that it takes years and years to learn. If you try to jump in and do it yourself, they just make up new rules.”

“If that were true, then he wouldn’t have given you a list. Come on, let’s see what’s left,” Alan said.

Bob handed him the list and Alan tried to puzzle out what was written.
 

“Here,” Bob said, handing Alan a pair of pliers, “you can help me pull these wire staples.”

Bob pointed up to where the wire was mounted overhead between the naked joists. The men worked in silence for a few minutes, separating as their work took them in opposite directions.
 

Alan broke the silence. “So you wouldn’t believe what Joe wanted to talk to me about last night.”

“Oh yeah?” Bob asked.

“He’s doing a paper for English class. It has to be a scary topic so he wanted to do it on migrators.”

“On what?”

“Migrators—you know like Buster was talking about the other day? Some of the kids at school told him that migrators are around this time of year.”

Bob stopped working on the staple he was trying to remove. He walked over to where Alan was working.

“The kids don’t have any details. They just talk about them like generic boogeymen, you know? Anyway, I guess he overheard me telling Liz about Buster’s migrators, because last night he wanted to know the whole story.”

“What did you say?” Bob asked. Alan didn’t notice that Bob was now completely still, just staring at him.

“I told him some of the Buster stuff. I left out all the gruesome details of course, but I said that some people believe migrators collect remnants of spirits from the deceased. I told him that they were invisible and moved in the wind. I made up some pretty good stuff about how migrators are really made of vapor. I think Joe’s story is going to be pretty good,” Alan said.

Alan finished wrenching out the wire staple. He had bent the wire a bit, but the insulation wasn’t damaged. All in all, he thought he’d done a decent job. He looked down and saw Bob staring at him.