1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  “Then we’ll need to make an offer on the house as soon as possible.” She noted the immediately raised eyebrows of both Clint and Jarvis. “Provided that everything else checks out, of course. Come on, let’s take a look at the rest of the house.”

  3

  “And here we have the basement,” Jarvis said, leading the way downstairs. “Watch your step.”

  They stepped gingerly down the basement staircase, their eyes taking time to adjust to the darkness. This was the last stop on the grand tour. Clint and Jennifer had by now been through the entire first and second floors, and made a circuit around the front lawn and back yard.

  The last of these revealed unexpected surprises: a deluxe tool shed that warmed Clint to the house considerably, and several rows of hedges. These would provide both privacy and a natural enclosure in which Connor could play.

  “Basements are usually the least exciting part of any house,” Jarvis said. “But the basement is important to some people. I’m sorry to say that if you were hoping for a basement-level recreation room or entertainment space, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “The floor is dirt!” Clint said, once they were all down the stairs. This was true: Jennifer looked down at her feet to see a floor not of concrete, as she had expected, but hard-packed earth. The rest of the basement was equally basic from what she could see: The bare walls were unpainted brick. The only illumination provided down here came from a few widely spaced light bulbs. She looked up at the ceiling, and saw nothing but shadows and bare rafters.

  “It is a dirt floor,” Jarvis said, confirming Clint’s observation. “Keep in mind that this house was built right before the U.S. entered World War II—in 1940. Dirt basements are more or less unheard of in any house built since the 1960s, and rare even before that in Ohio. There are usually too many drainage problems to allow for that in this part of the country. Dirt basements are more common in New England, where the soil is rocky and rainfall levels are lower. But even there, it’s mostly something that you see in older homes.”

  “So this turns to mud when it rains?” Clint asked.

  “No, not at all,” Jarvis said. “You’ll recall that we had a heavy rain earlier this week, and look at this floor.” The realtor kicked the floor with the toe of his penny loafer. “Dry as a bone. This house was built at the top of a hill, so the water all runs downhill, away from the basement. If you take a look at the walls, you’ll see that there is no evidence of water damage. But that’s something that the house inspector will be able to confirm for you. That is—if you decide to make an offer on this house.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll definitely be making an offer,” Jennifer said. She was now way past the seduction stage. She had fallen in love with the house at 1120 Dunham Drive. While she toured the upstairs bedrooms, a series of movies had played out in Jennifer’s imagination: She saw them moving in just in time for the new school year. Then she saw the house as the scene for key life events: their tenth wedding anniversary, Connor’s first day of high school—maybe even their retirement.

  Why not? The house gave them room to grow. This would, she believed, be the home into which Connor’s younger siblings would be born.

  “I don’t know, Jen,” Clint said. “This dirt floor.”

  “You heard what Tom said. This floor has been here since 1940 and the house’s foundation hasn't washed away in the rain. I’m sure that the basement will still be dry in 2040.”

  “Mrs. Huber,” Jarvis said with a laugh. “With your ability to see the possibilities in a house, you really ought to consider a career in real estate.”

  “I see the possibilities in this house, anyway.”

  “Well, let’s give the basement a good amateur inspection, anyway,” Jarvis suggested. “I don't see you using this area for much more than storage—at least not in the short run. You could eventually put a concrete floor in, if you wanted. That wouldn't be cheap, but it could be done.”

  Jarvis gave them an unexciting tour of the basement. Jennifer noted that Clint was inspecting the walls for water damage. She was delighted to see that he found none. There were not even any damp spots on the dirt floor. As Jarvis had put it, the floor was “dry as a bone”.

  The only odd or unexpected sight in the basement was the little room in the rear corner—the corner farthest away from the stairs. It was not really a separate room, strictly speaking, but a makeshift enclosure of wood paneling. The room was about the size of a large walk-in closet.

  “What’s this?” Clint asked, heading toward the little room.

  “Oh, that’s a little storage space that Mr. Vennekamp built at some point. Wait a moment, let me go with you. I’ve got a penlight.”

  Jennifer followed Jarvis over to the storage room. Clint was already standing in the room’s darkened doorway.

  Clint stepped aside so that Jarvis could enter with the penlight. What the penlight revealed was a mostly empty storage room. The tiny beam of light shone on a small pile of bricks, some boards leant up against the room’s single brick wall, and some old cans of paint. The floor was mostly covered by several decaying pallets.

  “Not much to look at in here,” Jarvis said. “It might come in handy for storage purposes, though. Or you might want to tear it down. Either way.”

  They also examined the water heater, and Jennifer was relieved to find that it had been installed a mere three years ago. The house was certainly old, but most of its key elements were either in good shape or had been recently updated.

  “Well,” Jarvis said, as he led them back upstairs, “what do you think?”

  This time Clint preempted Jennifer. “I think we need to talk between ourselves—the two of us—and get back to you.”

  4

  After 1120 Dunham Drive, Jarvis took them to one other house. It was a ranch home that both Clint and Jennifer quickly rejected for a number of reasons. The house was outside the Mydale school district, the floor plan was awkward, and there was a suspicious smell in the basement that might have been cat urine.

  “We really want to find a house in the Mydale school district,” Jennifer reiterated, as Jarvis drove them back to the real estate office. “That was a big factor in our selection of you as our agent. Your office is located in Mydale.”

  Jarvis looked in his rearview mirror before responding to Jennifer, who was seated in the back seat of the Lexus with her husband. “And I thought it had something to do with my personal appeal.” The remark could have been interpreted as either routine salesman’s banter, or yet another attempt at flirtation.

  Unseen by Jarvis, Clint smirked and shook his head. Jennifer replied: “You’re very charming, Mr. Jarvis, but please don't forget that we really want a house in Mydale.”

  “Duly noted,” Jarvis said. “We won’t be looking at any more houses that don't have a Mydale mailing address, or that fall outside the Mydale school district.”

  In the parking lot of Jarvis Realty, Tom Jarvis invited the Hubers to come in for refreshments and additional discussions, even though he must have known that the day had reached its natural conclusion. It was past two o’clock, and they had to pick up Connor.

  They had left him at Clint’s parents’ house. As was usually the case, Jennifer’s parents would theoretically have been a babysitting option, but Connor—with the typical candor of a six-year-old—made no secret of the fact that he preferred the company of Grandma and Grandpa Huber over that of his maternal grandparents.

  This needled Jennifer a bit: Clint’s father was an older version of Clint—affable, not terribly serious, and vaguely childlike himself. Her own father, meanwhile, had been a partner in a Cincinnati law firm. Hank Riley loved his only grandchild, Jennifer was sure, but he was often stilted and remote when it came time to actually interact with him. Seventy-hour workweeks had absented Hank during much of her own youth.

  Jennifer’s fifty-seven-year-old mother, Claudia, meanwhile, seemed to be in denial about the very concept of grandmotherhood. Since turning fifty, Cla
udia had gone on a plastic surgery binge: botox, a facelift, and even a mentoplasty on her chin. Jennifer often joked with Clint that breast implants were likely next on the list.

  “Another time,” Clint said, shaking hands with Jarvis. “We’ll be in touch, though. Thanks for your time today.”

  The realtor shook hands with Clint and then with Jennifer. “You’re welcome. If I can answer any additional questions, or set up any additional showings, let me know.”

  “And just to confirm,” Jennifer said, “the Dunham Drive property is still on the market.”

  “It is,” Jarvis allowed. “Unless Deborah Vennekamp decides otherwise.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Vennekamp will want to have a say, too,” Jennifer replied, proud of herself for not defaulting to the self-consciously feminist position. Moreover, the Richard Vennekamp in that portrait hadn’t looked like the sort of man who allowed his wife to make all of the family’s major decisions, carte blanche.

  Jarvis smiled enigmatically. “You haven’t met Deborah Vennekamp.”

  5

  “Well, you seem to have made up your mind,” Clint said, starting the ignition of their minivan, a Kia Sedona that would take them another two years to pay off.

  Jennifer could not tell if Clint was kidding or not. For years their relationship had been one long college romance, and this had continued during their first few years of marriage. Over the last few years, however, they had been forced to collaborate on more complex decisions regarding finances, childrearing, etc. At times they did not collaborate well.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked cautiously.

  Clint shrugged, putting the minivan in gear. “Nothing, really. I’m just kidding, Jen. You just seemed so set on that one particular house. It’s like you’d already made up your mind.”

  “Is there another one that you have a strong preference toward? Or do you have a particular problem with the Dunham Drive house—other than the basement? Because I think that Tom Jarvis pretty much answered that question.”

  “No, I don't have a strong preference toward another house. And I don't have any particular problem with the Dunham Drive house—as long as Mrs. Vennekamp doesn't prevail on her husband to take the house off the market.”

  “So we’re in agreement, then?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you’re kind of rushing ahead on all of this.”

  “Clint: At some point we have to make a decision, and no matter which house we choose, our choice will be an imperfect one. Connor is going to be starting first grade in a matter of weeks, and this house is in the Mydale school district.”

  “So you’ve noted,” Clint said, smiling, and looking much like his college-era self for a brief moment.

  “Yes, I did. And this house—unlike every other house on the market in Mydale—is within our price range. And it's a good bargain for the money.”

  “So this is kind of a no-brainer, you’re saying.”

  “Yes, that’s kind of what I’m saying.”

  She knew that a part of Clint secretly resented her taking the lead like this. It might be the second decade of the twenty-first century, but Clint had been raised to believe that taking the lead on major household decisions was naturally a man’s job.

  And she would have been more than willing to let him take the lead—if only he would have done so. But her husband sometimes seemed oddly out-of-place in the adult world. They had been living in apartments and rented places for so long now, long after most of their friends had established themselves in homes with real back yards. All she wanted was for them to live like real adults.

  But what did Clint want? Sometimes Clint gave the impression that he was still stuck in the mindset of the college milieu in which the two of them had first become acquainted nearly fifteen years ago.

  In those days she had interpreted Clint’s easy nonchalance as a manifestation of masculine self-confidence. After all, Clint Huber had moved easily through the campus social scene. Both good-looking and personable, it had seemed that every woman had wanted to be his girlfriend, and every man on campus had wanted to be his buddy. Clint had not pursued a demanding major, so he had plenty of time to hang around campus bars, and to attend every party.

  At thirty-four, though, that same nonchalance more often than not struck Jennifer as lackadaisical. She wondered sometimes if the man she had married was not a bit of a slacker.

  “Well, then, I guess it’s settled,” Clint finally said. He sighed aloud, and she could sense that he might be coming around to her way of thinking. “And there’s no denying that the house is a bargain at that price. We’ll of course put in a bid that’s a few grand lower—even if the house is, as Jarvis puts it, ‘priced to sell’. They’ll be expecting us to do that, after all. We could save even more money that way.”

  “Sure,” Jennifer said, as if this had not been obvious to her all along. “That’s a good idea.”

  They were traveling toward the interstate now, the road that would take them back to Clint’s parents’ house, where Connor was waiting, and then to their rented condominium in the northern suburbs of Cincinnati.

  She leaned across the space between the minivan’s two front pilot seats and squeezed Clint’s arm. “I’m so excited. It’s going to be great to have a real house of our own. You know how much I hate my job. At least home will be a sanctuary of sorts, a place where I can relax with you and Connor.”

  “Sure, honey. I understand that. And I think that us buying a house is a great idea. It’s long overdue, in fact. But as I’ve said before, if you really hate your job that much, you should look for something else.”

  Jennifer realized that once again, she had said too much and invited suspicion regarding her situation at Ohio Excel Logistics.

  On the surface, Clint was right: If you really hated a job, if you felt yourself growing physically ill each morning as you drove into the office, then the sensible thing to do was to find another job. It was a free country, after all.

  But Jennifer could not leave Ohio Excel Logistics—not without risking what meant most to her: her marriage and her life with Clint and Connor. For the time being she truly was stuck in an unworkable situation, and she was unable to discuss her dilemma with anyone—most of all her husband.

  “You might be right, babe,” she replied. “Maybe I will update my resume soon. In the meantime, it isn’t that bad.”

  “That’s what you’ve been saying for a long time now. But I sense that it really is that bad.” He shook his head. “I don't get it. I mean, if you hate it so much, you can even quit as far as I’m concerned. Do the stay-at-home mom thing for a while. Then maybe go back into the labor market when Connor is a little older.”

  “Clint, we both know that we can’t get by on one income. Especially if we purchase a house.”

  What she did not say was that they could not get by on Clint’s income. Her best friend, Moira, was married to a CPA who had recently made partner at his firm. After their first child had been born, Moira’s husband had urged her to quit. He made plenty of money, after all, and he didn't want his wife to have to balance motherhood with the demands of a career. Moira had readily agreed. Besides, the whole “career” thing was much overrated for most people, once they got an actual taste of it.

  Lots of college educated, married women were ditching their careers nowadays once their children were born. The newspapers had even written about the trend as a sort of post-feminist backlash. They had dubbed it, “the opt-out revolution”.

  But that only applied to women whose husbands were high earners. As a salesman at Glutz Machinery, Clint made about the same income as she did. And that wasn't enough money to support two adults, a child, and a house—not if they also wanted to put something away for retirement, and Connor’s education.

  Connor was now buckled into the rear passenger seat of the Sedona, but rather than talk to his parents, the boy had d
rifted off to sleep. Six-year-olds were like that, weren’t they? Animated one minute, drowsy the next. Connor reported having had a great time at his paternal grandparents’ house. As always. Could he go back to Grandma and Grandpa Huber’s next weekend? Sure—if his parents went “new home hunting” again next weekend, he almost certainly could.

  Clint Huber had decided not to press his wife any further about leaving the job at Ohio Excel Logistics—a job that obviously made her sick. He didn't understand what was holding her there, and numerous appeals to logic had failed to convince her. He had offered to help her find another job. They were both pretty good at researching things on the Internet; and if they combined their efforts, it wouldn't take long for them to have her resume in the hands of a hundred potential employers.

  For that matter, she could go ahead and simply quit, no matter what she said. The problem was not that they couldn't live on a single income. The problem was that they couldn't live on a single income and live like her parents, or like her friend Moira, who was married to the accountant.

  Clint recalled his youth: Clint’s mother had been a stay-at-home mom for most of his childhood. She had worked part-time only after he and his brothers were all at least in junior high. They had all managed just fine on his father’s income—which Clint knew even then to be nothing to brag about.

  No, you’re only making excuses for yourself, he thought. He knew full well that Jennifer was not his mother. Nor was she one of the girls that he had grown up with in his blue-collar, tract home neighborhood.

  Jennifer had a different set of expectations; and he had known that when he married her—against the gentle admonishments of his own parents, and the barely concealed disappointment of her own. Hank Riley was a prominent attorney, and he had wanted his pretty, smart daughter to marry an attorney, or a CPA like Moira Prater had married.