A House by the Side of the Road

by Jan Gleiter

  “Okay,” said Meg. “Gotcha.”

  “Like that, but not so dramatic. Your wires had come loose and the current tried to jump over the gap. It arced. The spark set off a fire.”

  “Just like that?” asked Meg.

  He nodded. “Just like that.”

  “This sort of thing happens often? Just accidentally like this?”

  “Not real often,” he said. “But too often. You shoulda got this place inspected. A house this old … Heck, there’s no sap left in wood this old. It’s dry. And your junction boxes are all uncovered. That’s crazy.” He stopped, embarrassed at his bluntness. “I mean, well, you’ve only been in the place awhile … The previous owner shoulda known.”

  “I knew,” said Meg, feeling stupid and careless. “A friend of mine told me. I need some coffee. You want some? I made it the old-fashioned way, on the stove. I figured the electricity in here wasn’t going to work and didn’t want to find out.”

  “I would,” he said. “Black, if you have it.”

  Smart and funny, thought Meg. What else did a person need in an electrician?

  “The only way I could get to you this morning was to skip breakfast,” he continued. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat, crossing one foot over his knee and leaning back. He dropped a hand to scratch the top of the dog’s head, a gesture the dog did not appear to resent. “But Dan said it was an emergency, so here I am.”

  Meg poured two cups of coffee and sat down across from him. “I’m grateful,” she said. “Can you make it so I have power back in the kitchen and cover the boxes? I mean, like, now? And then, as soon as you can schedule it, can you rewire the whole darn place?”

  “Sure,” he said, “if you can wait a few weeks for the rewiring part.”

  “You tell me,” she said.

  “Yeah, you can,” he said. “I’ll check the connections in the other boxes before I put plates on ’em. Even if something did happen, a cover would contain it.”

  Meg nodded. “Deal, Mr. Halversen,” she said. “Rewire the whole place. I want conduit up the wazoo. I want you buying those … those little red plastic things that fit over the ends of the wires—”

  “Redheads. And it’s Lyle, not Mr. Halversen.”

  “Redheads by the truckload, Lyle. And it’s Meg.”

  “Okay.” He nodded slowly. “I’ll give you a bid.”

  She didn’t care if she had to finish paying him with the last dime in her savings account, and she probably would. The night had passed slowly, and before she’d finally fallen asleep where she sat on the couch, she’d had plenty of time to think. Afraid to try to turn on any lights, she’d curled up in the dark with a blanket around her shoulders and concentrated on taking long, slow, deep breaths. Eventually, she’d stopped trembling, and then had sat very still and thought about the house—the line of its low roof against the sky, the way sunlight came through the kitchen windows in the morning, the smell of the basement.

  The house was the first thing she’d ever really cared about owning. Things you care about, she told herself, you take care of.

  When Lyle was finished, he drove off in a shiny black Jeep. Meg walked out with him and watched gravel spit back from his tires as he pulled out onto the road.

  Early in the morning, she had walked over to the Ruschmans’ and caught Dan before he left. He’d called the electrician for her, and Christine had been shocked and sympathetic.

  “Just live here,” she said, “until you’ve rewired the place. You’re going to, aren’t you?”

  “Rewire? Yes,” said Meg. “I’m going to.”

  “Then just stay with us until it’s done. Dan, don’t you think she should just stay here?”

  Dan grinned. “She’s welcome to stay here, but it’s completely unnecessary, unless she’s got the heebie-jeebies. Lyle will put it right.” He looked at Meg, his smile fading. “I should have looked up there. Wiring isn’t my area; I never do it. But I know enough to spot uncovered junction boxes. And if I’d spent some time checking them, I would have noticed wires coming loose.”

  “Good grief, Dan,” she replied, “it’s not your fault. I begged you not to be the expert. I didn’t hire you to inspect the place.” She looked at Christine. “Is he Catholic?”

  “You’d think,” said Christine. “No, but it’s hard to tell him from the real thing.”

  Meg didn’t have the heebie-jeebies. She was just sleepy, which made it hard to concentrate on the worksheet she needed to finish. Adding to her physical weariness was guilt about her carelessness and false economy. Still, she thought, having herself to blame was better than the apprehension that had crept into her mind as she was drifting toward sleep in the deep stillness of the very early morning and kept her awake for another hour—the ugly thought that the fire had not been an accident. Bad as it was to have been so irresponsible as to nearly destroy her own home, it was better than having to wonder if the fire had been connected to the other odd occurrences in the house.

  She yawned and tried to concentrate on the computer screen. As soon as Lyle had checked and covered the junction box for her office, she’d started on a list of words, but she’d only half finished by the time he left.

  She got up, took a bath, and wrestled with three more words. Then she sat and stared at the last two, serene and prostrate. She had room on the page for four lines of copy. It had to be light verse; that was the format she was using for this worksheet. She was stuck. She was sleepy, disheveled, and stuck. Maybe if she got dressed and brushed her hair, she’d feel more energetic.

  The dog stretched and yawned near her feet. Meg glanced down.

  “Thank you,” she said, and began to type.

  My dog is quite the calmest dog that one has ever seen.

  He never gets excited; he is peaceful and ———.

  A burglar came last night and took the silver, cash, and more,

  And stepped right over Rover, lying ——— on the floor.

  The dog got up and pushed her nose against Meg’s hand.

  “What? You don’t like it? I made the dog a boy,” said Meg. “It couldn’t be about you, anyway; the word list doesn’t include insufferable and odious.”

  The dog whined.

  “Gosh, I’m kidding,” said Meg. “Could I be anything but kidding, Hero Dog? Hey, want to go for a ride? There’s a nursery on the other side of town, and I think this warm weather’s going to hold. Want to put in some flowers?”

  She pushed back her chair and got up. The dog ran toward the front door.

  “Yeah, well, wait a minute. It may seem silly to you, but I make it a rule not to leave the house in my underpants.”

  If she would be carrying flats of flowers, she should wear old clothes. Her work shirt from a few days ago hung from a hook in the closet; as she pulled it on, she felt an object in the pocket. She’d forgotten about the tape.

  She stood staring at it. It hadn’t been long ago that she had sat on the pantry floor wondering why someone would have come into her house. The obvious answer—to look for something—had made no sense to her. What could such a person have wanted to find? But here was something she had found, something that might have been deliberately hidden.

  Curiosity underlaid with uneasiness took her into the living room, where she slipped the cassette into the player and waited. Nothing happened. The spools turned, but no sound came out. She fast-forwarded a bit and turned up the volume. Nothing.

  The dog leaped against the door. “All right,” said Meg, relieved that there was nothing on the tape. “Just a minute.”

  She had pulled on a pair of jeans and her sneakers and was standing in the bathroom brushing her hair when a voice from the living room startled her. It was a woman’s voice, husky and sultry. She was suggesting, in graphic terms, certain cooperative behaviors.

  Meg went into the living room and turned down the volume on the tape player.

  “Good heavens!” she said. She backed up and sat on the couch, staring at the machin
e. Why would anyone record this?

  There was silence on the tape except for breathing, some sounds of pleasure, and what sounded like bedsprings creaking. Then the woman spoke again, calling out. “If you’ve got anything cold to drink, bring me some.”

  “I think this is the appropriate time to ask for an ashtray,” said Meg dryly.

  The tape rustled. “The stuff I’m taking back is going to net a pretty penny,” the husky voice said.

  Someone spoke from a distance. He—it must be a he, given the woman’s earlier suggestions—was too far away for his words to be clear.

  “She surely left you a lot.” It was the woman’s voice. “You did wait until she’d died to take it, didn’t you?”

  The other voice spoke again. The comment, whatever it was, was short and angry.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The woman was annoyed. “I was kidding! Don’t be so damn touchy!”

  The bedsprings creaked again; there were more rustling noises. Then footsteps moved away. The rest of the tape contained indeterminable noises and more conversation, but whatever was being said was being said in another room. Then there were sounds, laughter, footsteps, and the faint noise of a door closing.

  Meg let the dog out, alone, and sat cross-legged on the couch, paging through a magazine, listening to nothing. She ejected the cassette and looked at it, groaning at the length of tape left. But there might be something else and, if so, she wanted to know what it was.

  She took the cassette into the kitchen and put it in her portable machine. While the silent tape ran on, she emptied the dish drainer, washed the window above the sink, and swept the floor.

  The phone rang, and she hit “pause,” then went into the living room to take the call.

  It was Christine. “I’m going to John Eppler’s to get some honey,” she said. “Will you give me coffee if I come by on the way home?”

  “Gosh, let me think … Is it my turn?”

  “I’ll be there in, oh, half an hour or forty-five minutes. Spend the time straightening up, would you?”

  “Ha!” said Meg. “I already did.” She grinned and hung up, thinking about how Christine was going to get something a lot more interesting than coffee. Coffee. She’d have to make more. Knowing Christine, what remained in the pot would hardly suffice. She went back to the kitchen to turn on the water in the sink and get the coffee out of the cupboard and reached over to the tape player to push “pause” as she went by. The spools did not resume turning, so she pushed “pause” again, this time more firmly. The tape began to play, but, as she expected, nothing but silence came from the speakers.

  She measured coffee into a fresh filter, poured in water, and started the machine. Then she sat back down at the table and gazed at the tape player, wondering how much more blank—most likely blank, she reminded herself—tape it had to run through. Something didn’t look right.

  “Oh, shit!” she said. The dog looked up. “I mean, heavens to Betsy! What did I do?” No wonder the tape hadn’t resumed the first time she pushed “pause”; it hadn’t been “pause” she had pushed. It had been “record.” She had ruined the last several minutes of tape, erased whatever existed.

  She pushed “stop,” wondering what, if anything, she’d missed. “The Watergate investigators could probably tell us,” she said to the dog. “But I don’t have access to their equipment.”

  There was nothing she could do about it now. She pushed “play” and listened to twenty more minutes of blank tape as the coffeemaker gently rumbled and blurted. How good were the chances that the tape’s silence would have been interrupted by useful conversation during the exact few minutes she’d erased? Small. Really small.

  So, there was almost certainly nothing else on the tape. That was regrettable, since her level of curiosity was high, but it would be fun to play the beginning of the recording for Christine. And Christine might have some ideas about the questions that arose in Meg’s mind.

  It appeared that Angie Morrison had recorded herself engaged in what most people considered a very private experience and then hidden the tape. Why? And who was the man who had inherited so much? And from whom? It couldn’t be Meg’s great-aunt; all she’d owned was this house and four thousand books. From whom, then? Mrs. Ehrlich?

  She rewound the tape and found the husky voice again. “You did wait until she’d died to take it, didn’t you?” What did that mean?

  The dog barked in the front yard, and Meg looked out the window to see the mailman slow and stop at her box. She ran out the door and through the gate, shouting to keep him from pulling away.

  “Morning, Ms. Kessinger,” he said. “Not much today. You got something for me?”

  “Just a question,” said Meg. “I haven’t been getting the previous person’s mail at all. Did she give you a change of address?”

  The mailman shook his head. “No. She just had us hold it, like for vacation. Said she didn’t have a new place yet.”

  “Okay,” said Meg. “I thought, if something got delivered here by mistake, I should send it on. In Chicago, things keep coming to the previous resident, sometimes for years.”

  “Well, you gotta expect that in a place like Chicago,” said the mailman. “Out here, we usually know when things change. ’Less it’s addressed to ‘Resident,’ we’ll just hold it downtown.”

  Christine’s car edged around the mailman on the shoulder and pulled into the driveway. Meg walked alongside it until her friend had stopped.

  “I’ve got, let’s see…” Christine looked into her backseat. “Clover honey; raspberry, creamed honey; and beeswax candles.” She selected a jar. “Got anything to make toast out of? And I want to see the smoking ruins.”

  “You can see them, although they’re unimpressive,” said Meg. “But don’t chew too loudly because I have something just the opposite, something extremely impressive, for you to listen to…” She stopped, swallowing hard at a sudden thought.

  “Listen to what?”

  “A poem about a dog,” said Meg, her face warm.

  The taped conversation, confusing as it was, involved secrets and what seemed to be substantial and ill-gotten gains. What if the woman’s voice belonged, not to Angie, but to Leslie McAlester? If it did, was her partner Dan?

  * * *

  “This is heavenly,” said Meg, spreading more of the creamed honey on a toasted bagel. The tape kept edging into her mind. It was hard to keep pushing it out. She concentrated on the honey.

  “Tell me about it,” replied Christine. “The man is a genius. He grows the raspberries and mixes them in. My kids would live on it if I didn’t think a bit of protein now and again was necessary.”

  “He seems to dislike Mike,” said Meg. “It’s hard to imagine anyone actually disliking Mike, unless he won a case against him.”

  “He disapproves of him,” said Christine. “He disapproved of Hannah’s will and thought Mike should have made it more precise.”

  Meg’s interest in the tape receded behind her surprise. “But he didn’t ‘make it’ at all,” she said. “And what you quoted about the linens was pretty precise.”

  “Let me rephrase. John thought Mike should have persuaded her to be more precise about the descriptions of things. Any, as he put it, ‘reputable attorney’ would have pointed out how vague it was. But nobody had any trouble figuring out what stuff she was talking about. There were no squabbles at all, so far as I know.”

  “But why did Mr. Eppler care?” Meg had trouble thinking of the man as “John.” Maybe after living down the road from him for a few years she could manage it as easily as Christine did. “Didn’t he get what he expected?”

  “Who knows what he expected?” said Christine. She got up and took an apple out of the refrigerator. “Can I eat this?”

  “Well, I won’t have any dinner, but go ahead. It won’t be cold.”

  “Oh, great,” said Christine. “If God had meant people to eat apples that weren’t cold, he wouldn’t have put all these refrigerators
down here.” She washed the apple at the sink and dried it on her jeans. “John inherited a sizable chunk of IBM stock,” she said. “Seems pretty precise to me. I doubt it was his own inheritance he was miffed about.”

  “Then what?”

  Christine, who was chewing, held up one hand to indicate a need for time.

  “This is good,” she said, swallowing. “I don’t know. He seemed to think Mike’s getting the house was a case of coals to Newcastle. But the will was clear on that point, so I imagine John was just looking for something to quarrel about. Who knows? He surely couldn’t stand Angie. Maybe that was it—he just extrapolated to Mike since she worked for him.”

  Meg tried not to show how intense her curiosity about Angie was. “What’s she like? All Mr. Eppler would say directly is she drives too fast.”

  “I hardly know her,” said Christine. “So all I know is what anybody who so much as glanced at her would know. An absolute knockout. Not at all classy, but whoa!”

  “What people of your generation call ‘a red-hot mama’?”

  “Gosh, Meg, you’re just so funny,” said Christine dryly. “It’s no wonder John doesn’t think much of her. He didn’t get to be the president of the Chamber of Commerce, on the board of directors at the savings and loan, and the chairman of Saint Paul’s building committee by approving of people like Angie. She reels men in. They walk around looking dazed. It’s all quite deliberate. The few times I saw her, like at the Fourth of July picnic in town last year, she flirted with every man in sight. Including Dan. Especially Dan. It drove her nuts that there was a man in town who didn’t have his tongue hanging out. And her taste! Well, I can’t criticize her taste in men too much, I guess, but her taste in general, though expensive, is pretty flashy. Her car, for example, is purple.”

  Meg’s stomach knotted at the mention of Angie’s flirtation with Dan. She tried to think of something, anything, to say.

  “Purple?”

  Christine leaned sideways to toss her apple core across the room into the wastebasket. “Purple. T-top. Spoiler. A Firehawk, and she knew how to drive it. She needed all eight cylinders.”