Surreal Estate

by Jesi Lea Ryan

  I was about to seek out the basement when a shuffling noise came from upstairs. I paused to listen. Squirrels? It was common for the rodents to nest in the attics of older homes. The yard had several overgrown trees with branches close enough to the roofline to make that possible.

  The shuffle noise sounded again, this time accompanied by the soft creak of a floor board.

  Could someone be in the house? No way. I’d walked around the foreclosed property and peered in as many windows as I could before making a bid on it. The place had been locked up tight. Must be an animal. Probably a bastard raccoon. I was halfway up the stairs to investigate before I remembered the crowbar I’d left in the back of the truck.

  “Whatever you are, fucker, you better not have rabies,” I called out, hoping the sound of my voice would scare it off.

  I reached the top of the steps and peered into the first bedroom. Nothing but yellowing wallpaper.

  Then I pivoted toward the next room and came face-to-face with a man.

  “Holy shit!” I leaped back and raised my fists.

  The stranger lifted his hands as if surrendering to the police. “I don’t have rabies.”

  “Who are you?” I yelled, still trying to catch my breath. “Why are you in my house?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone owned the place.”

  Without taking my attention off the guy, I did a quick scan of the room beyond. It was obvious from the layers of sleeping bags in the corner, stacks of clothes, and neatly arranged personal items that he’d been squatting here for a while.

  “You armed?”

  The guy’s eyes widened, and he dropped his hands. “No! I have a few plastic knifes over there next to the peanut butter jar, but that’s it. I swear.”

  Sure as shit, the guy had the makings for sandwiches sitting on a box in the corner.

  I eyed the squatter. He was young. Early twenties maybe? Just a kid. He was as tall as me, but thin. I had thirty pounds of muscle on the guy easy. The tension in my neck eased. If he wasn’t armed, the kid was no threat.

  “Look, I’ll go. I just . . . Let me get my stuff.” He ran his hand through the nest of dark hair and narrowed his eyes at his belongings. No way would he be able to carry it all with him unless he had a car.

  “How’d you get in here?” The question came out harsh with the adrenaline still coursing through my system.

  “Uh, basement window,” he said absently, as he slipped into a pair of worn combat boots. “The first time anyway. Now I come in through the balcony.”

  A small balcony at the back of the room looked out on the backyard. The overgrown trees were just right for hiding an intruder from the sight of neighbors, not that there were many neighbors who could see this side of the house. The old Milwaukee neighborhood backed up to a wooded city park. The privacy of the backyard was one of the home’s selling points.

  The squatter snatched a large pack from somewhere and began jamming clothes into it. He’d need at least three of those bags for all his stuff.

  Not sure what to do with myself, and unwilling to turn my back on him just yet, I studied him. His hair was overgrown and bushy and knotted with curls, and his face hadn’t seen a razor in a while, but he appeared clean enough. The water was shut off in the house, so he must be getting regular showers somewhere else. His face was pale, and he had to keep pushing that hair out of his eyes so he could see what he was doing. Shit, he looked nervous, maybe even scared. I’d seen his type before. Guys who were down on their luck and had few, if any, options. Back when my company was flipping houses all the time, I used to hire guys like this, day laborers, to assist on jobs. As long as they were sober, I’d been happy to throw some work their way.

  “Hold up.” I sighed. When the guy didn’t stop his frantic packing, I reached out to touch his sleeve. “I said, hold on a minute.”

  He glared at where my hand rested on his forearm before he stepped away. “You’re not gonna call the cops, are you? I didn’t damage anything. Okay, I smoked in the house once in a while, but honestly, that’s it.”

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “Sasha.”

  “What kind of name is ‘Sasha’ for a dude?”

  “Russian Jew.”

  “Really? What’s your last name?”

  “Michaels.”

  “What kind of name is ‘Michaels’ for a Russian Jew?”

  “The kind whose grandfather decided not to saddle his future kids with ‘Mikhailovich’ when he left the Soviet Union.”

  “Good call.”

  Sasha rubbed a shoulder, and then bent to snatch up one of the many blankets that made his bed on the floor.

  “I’m Nick. Nick Cooper.”

  Sasha grunted and began folding.

  “You got somewhere to go, kid?”

  “I’m twenty-four years old. Not exactly a kid.”

  “Well, do you?”

  He gave a small headshake, and glanced out at the falling twilight. “Might be room over at the United Methodist shelter. I’ll have to find a place to stash my things first, though. Last time I was there, some assholes made off with my shit while I slept. Only reason they didn’t get my guitar is because I was curled up with my arm around it . . .”

  Sasha motioned to where a beat-up guitar case leaned against the far wall. He averted his eyes from me.

  “How long you been staying here?”

  Sasha shrugged. “A few months. More like six. Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone owned the place. It’s such a lonely old house. Figured I’d be long gone before anyone came around.”

  “An out-of-state bank owned it. I just bought it today. They don’t let people tour foreclosed properties before purchase, so I didn’t know you were here.”

  “You bought a house without seeing the inside? That’s . . . risky. Have you seen the kitchen yet? The place looks like a science experiment gone mad.”

  “I saw it. It’s fixable. I was going to have to gut the kitchen anyway. I’m going to renovate the place and sell it.”

  The ghost of a smile touched Sasha’s lips. “Really? I mean, that’s cool. That you’d fix it up and not just knock it down to build a parking lot or something.”

  “No parking lot. They don’t make homes like this anymore.” I knocked on the plaster wall. “You know, with character. A new kitchen, some cosmetic work, and it’ll make a good family home again.”

  Sasha trailed his fingers down the nubby plaster wall gently. “Yeah. She’ll be happy to get rid of that kitchen.”

  She? Uh, okay. In any case, the guy seemed to have genuine affection for the old place. Could he see the same potential in it as I did? If so, maybe I should keep him around. I could use someone on my side when Steven the Great finally showed up to tell me what a mistake I’ve made.

  I leaned in the doorway and crossed my arms. “What’re you doing for light here without electricity? Candles?”

  “I have a camping lantern. One of those where you turn the crank a bunch of times and it stays lit for about ten minutes. I don’t need much light anyway. I go to sleep early so I can get up for work in the morning.”

  My brows shot up. “You have a job?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he answered sarcastically. “I work the opening shift at a coffee shop on National Ave during the week. And I do some busking around town for cash. Once in a while, I’ll play in a bar gig or a coffee shop or something, but that’s not regular.”

  “So you work, but you’re squatting in an abandoned house? Why?”

  Sasha scowled at me again, and I stifled a grin.

  “I’m trying to save money, all right? Do you know how hard it is to afford rent in this town on your own? Not to mention, every landlord wants two references and a credit check. Baristas and buskers don’t exactly rate as the most financially stable people with the credit bureaus. I’m doing the best I can.”

  I raised my hands. “Sorry, man. Not judging. Just trying to understand.”

 
Sasha’s scowl faded as he reached for a sleeping bag. He smoothed out the wrinkles and began to roll it with the precision of a well-practiced Boy Scout. Suddenly, I felt like an asshole for making the guy leave. He wasn’t hurting anything. And I’d heard terrible stories about sleeping in homeless shelters. Shit, if it weren’t for my family’s support when my business had gone bankrupt and my ex-wife moved out with her share of what was left, I could’ve ended up on the streets myself. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let a homeless guy stay here. What if he trashed the place?

  In his haste, Sasha bumped his knee on the box he was using as a table and knocked a plastic bottle half-filled with water over onto the hardwood floor.

  “Oh, shit! I’m sorry!” He grabbed a threadbare bath towel draped over the radiator to sop up the mess. He scrubbed the area. When the towel was soaked, Sasha slipped off the flannel shirt he was wearing over a T-shirt and used it to finish the job.

  “Dude, you don’t need to use the shirt off your back. It’s just water.”

  Sasha didn’t look up as he gave the wood planks one last wipe. “There isn’t much lacquer left on this floor. If I let it sit here, the wood will discolor.”

  He said it so earnestly that I swallowed hard to stop from telling him that every floor in the house would need to be redone anyway. It touched me that he had taken such good care of a house that wasn’t his. Not quite believing what I was about to say, I said, “Hey, it’s getting late, and obviously you aren’t cooking meth in here or anything, so I guess there isn’t any harm in letting you stay the night.”

  Sasha clutched the wet cloth to his chest. “Really? You’d let me stay? Why?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “You don’t have anywhere to go. And if you got all your things snatched in a shelter, I’d feel like a dick for making you leave here.”

  He eyed me with suspicion. After a moment he asked, “And what do I have to do for it?”

  “For what?”

  “For being able to stay the night. What do I have to do for it?”

  “Nothing, man. It’s too late in the day for me to start any work now. Just get some sleep, all right?”

  He averted his eyes from mine and took in the room. “Thanks. I have to work in the morning, but as soon as I get off, I’ll come by and get my things.”

  “I should be around in the afternoon. Feel free to use the front door. I don’t need you breaking your leg climbing that tree and suing me.” I knocked my fist on the doorframe. “Well, I want to finish looking around, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I was halfway down the hall before I understood what he’d been asking.

  The glow of the camping lantern had long faded, leaving only the silvery moonlight to illuminate the room. I didn’t need it anyway. I’d been lying on the pallet of blankets and staring at the ceiling for hours. The house buzzed with nervous agitation, making my mind anxious. I should’ve been trying to come up with a game plan for where I was going to sleep tomorrow night, but instead, I was overcome by the intense emotions rolling off the walls.

  “Oh, House, you have to calm down. I can’t think.” I sat up wearily, wishing I had a cigarette. Plus I needed to piss. Normally, I’d go off the balcony into the lilac bush below, but hell, I had permission to be here now. I could use the back door and piss in the bushes like a civilized person. I stood, my bones creaking too much for my age, and made my way downstairs.

  Nick Cooper was a surprise. Not just because he’d showed up out of the blue and scared the shit out of me, but because he hadn’t run my ass out of here with a pitchfork. I still wasn’t sure why he’d let me stay. Judging by the muscles bulging from that T-shirt, he could’ve kicked my ass into next week. Whatever his reasons though, I was glad for them.

  At the bottom of the steps, I turned left into the living room. Of course, I knew the room was empty, but that wasn’t what I saw. Before me was the ghostly image of a comfortable family room with clean, but dated, plaid furniture and a plant stand filled with African violets. The fireplace crackled with a fresh log, its promise of warmth making my bare arms break out in goose bumps. As always, there were no people in the vision, only the evidence of their presence . . . a folded-open TV Guide on the coffee table, a Motorola console record player with unsheathed John Coltrane albums lying out as if the listener would return any moment. I’d seen this particular scene before. It was from a time when the home had been especially happy, and it liked to revisit those days over and over.

  I clenched my eyes tight, hoping the vision would clear. It didn’t. The energy in the house was too strong tonight. She didn’t like it that Nick bought her without seeing her first. It was like he didn’t really give a shit about her at all. Made her nervous. And when the house was nervous, I felt it like a flutter in my chest. It had helped when he said he planned to sell to a nice family, but what if the house didn’t like them? She didn’t care for toddlers coloring her walls with crayons or moody teenagers who took their aggression out punching holes through her plaster. Worse, what if no family wanted the old home, and Nick had to sell to a group of young guys who brought in a Kegerator and had parties every weekend like that group in 2002 had done? It longed for quiet, respectful occupants.

  “Relax, House,” I whispered, petting the cool wooden banister. “Be happy that you’re getting a makeover.”

  I made my way to the back door off the kitchen, carefully avoiding the furniture that I’d be able to walk right through. The visions weren’t usually this vivid. Sometimes I would go days without seeing anything, only feeling the psychic pulse of the walls around me. That was what had called me to this place to begin with. The old house had been so lonely, it had practically begged me to move in. Okay, it didn’t actually talk to me with words. That would be crazy. But the place made its wishes known just the same.

  I tugged open the back door and stepped onto the concrete stoop. I opened my fly and turned to do my business. The night air was cool. Too cool to sleep outside. What the fuck was I going to do? The few hundred bucks I had stashed away wouldn’t buy me a week in a motel. Kenny, the baker at work, had intimated several times that I was welcome at his place, but the thought of having to suck the fat fuck off for the privilege of sleeping on his pot-scented couch made me sick.

  Nick Cooper on the other hand . . . I might be willing to go to my knees for him if he’d let me stay here until he sold the house. Those full lips and that intense stare had about killed me. Dude was a fine specimen of man. Unfortunately for me, my gaydar hadn’t given the slightest ping when he’d stood in the room.

  I tucked myself away before I got hard and had to do something about it.

  Back in my room, I checked the time on my pay-as-you-go phone. Not quite midnight yet, but I needed to be up before the sun to make it to work by six. If I wasn’t so desperate for cash, I’d call in tomorrow and work on my living situation. For the millionth time, I thought about my zayde’s—my grandfather’s—place in Oak Creek, the home I’d grown up in. I’d still be living there if he hadn’t died, and his whole meager estate hadn’t passed to my deadbeat mother. The only way she’d let me stay there now is if I agreed to give her my paychecks to feed her drug habit. I’d rather sleep under a bridge than spend one night under her roof.

  I drew my guitar out of its case and arranged myself on my simple bed with it perched in my lap. I strummed the strings in an absentminded tune, hoping to soothe both myself and the house. My eyes drifted closed as I picked away with my calloused fingers. Behind the dark lids, I saw Nick’s face again. His whiskey-colored eyes and granite jaw, those full lips, begging to be bit. Without consciously meaning to, the tune dropped into a slow, sultry swing. I hummed along in a wordless melody until the house calmed, and the night overtook my restless mind.

  “Good thing the power’s off,” I mused, fingering the knob and tube wiring in the attic. “The place is gonna have to be completely rewired and brought to code.”

  “Got it,” my intern, Kelly, replied as sh
e entered the costs of an updated electrical system to the budget spreadsheet on her tablet. “One hundred twenty amp?”

  “Nah, make it two hundred. Won’t cost that much more, so we might as well do it right. The good news, we won’t have to reinsulate the whole attic. Looks like just the spot on the rear side where that leaky vent is.”

  I’d found the source of the moisture in the kitchen easily enough. An old ice dam must have loosened a few of the shingles around a roof vent, allowing rain water to trickle in and down the inside the walls. I’d bet money there was mold behind the tub surround of the upstairs bathroom also. I wouldn’t know for sure until I demoed it all out though.

  Damn, the place was going to be an expensive fix. Not to mention, it would take all my free time for the next couple of months. I couldn’t afford to pay my regular crew to help with the work. I needed them on the few remodel jobs I had that would actually pay my bills. No, if I wanted to flip this house, I need to do as much of it on my own as possible. Damien would help. He owed me a lifetime of brotherly debts. I might even be able to rope Steven into rolling up his sleeves for some manual labor, if he wasn’t too pissed off that I’d bought the house behind his back. I still hadn’t returned his angry voice mail.

  “And have you made a decision on replacing the roof?”

  I shook my head. “No, the shingles are at least twenty years old, but they’re holding up. I’d love to replace it, but there are more pressing concerns. I’ll just fix the spot by the vent. I think the rest is good for another five years.”

  “Okay. If that’s it, I’ll work on calculating the budget. Nick, this place is going to cost a fortune. I hate to say it, and I know that you always say you need to take some risks in this business, but you may have gotten in over your head here.”

  Jesus, not another person getting down on me for my decision. Why couldn’t anyone else see the potential here? A 2,700-square-foot house filled with original architectural details, for only $65,000? No way could I lose. I just had to be smart about how I spent my money.