I only came here to get away from my silent phone. Waiting for Reason to call with an update just got too far under my skin. So I left my cell phone at home, hoping for the unwatched pot effect.
“May I help you?”
I turn to the man wearing all black clothing. His tight shirt stretches over his chest, where a crucifix hangs in the cusp of his v-neck. The shirt is so tight his skin shows through the fabric weave. He holds his hands folded in front of him, looking more like a pseudo-priest or a personal trainer than a hairdresser.
I shift my eyes to the appointment book on the desk. “I have an appointment at 2:00.”
“What’s your name, babe?”
I shift uncomfortably. “Erin.” Please don’t let this be my hairdresser.
“Ah, good.” Recognition flashes in his eyes, and he winks. “I’m Rick. You’re all mine for an hour. Follow me.”
So I do, still hoping there’s been a mistake. Maybe he thinks I want a massage. I consider asking, but he leads me to a row of chrome sinks and red cabinets where he extends his arm toward a chair and steps back.
I lower myself into the seat and remove my scarf. He’s already tucked my collar pretty far down by the time I lean back in the chair, so I decide to put the scarf over my chest instead of my lap.
He reaches across my face and arranges my hair. His shiny bicep jumps up and down just inches from my cheek. The scent of coconut oil and sandalwood surrounds me as he leans in even closer.
I will myself to relax. It’s a haircut. Not a pap smear.
He turns on the water. I close my eyes as he begins to rinse and lather my hair. I try to forget about his bouncy muscles, the crucifix that keeps tickling my nose, and the smell of oiled skin. But when he begins massaging my scalp, I actually start to relax.
I woke up all through the night from the same bad dream about the Lawless’ accepting my counter offer. I also think I dreamed about Reason. When I woke up that time, I felt disappointed.
Reason. I’m afraid of who he’ll bring over next, or what new kind of ridiculousness will follow. I know I shouldn’t blame him if I don’t like the prospective buyers. I mean, he’s been more than willing to fix the damages so far. So why am I so irritated at him? And it’s not just the Lawless’ flippancy about the house. It’s Reason trying to sell it that bugs me, too, even though I know I hired him to.
I’m starting to think maybe I’d prefer him to show up without any buyers...and invite me for another walk. I see his face in my mind—the way he looked at the Ceremony of Lights.
“You like this part, huh?” Rick brings me back to reality.
I’ve been smiling without realizing it, so Rick massages me harder.
I struggle to mentally distract myself from the discomfort. The first thing I come up with is Reason. He’s muscular, but not in a prissy way. Unlike Rick. And I bet Reason smells better than Rick too. Wait—what am I doing?
I need to get Reason out of my thoughts. I’m an idiot for not accepting that purchase offer. I should be packing right now. There’s nothing special about Reason. It’s just the isolation, depression, and pain talking. And the pain is really starting to talk as Rick grinds the base of my skull against the ceramic neck-rest.
Just when I think I can’t bare it anymore, Rick finally turns the water on and begins rinsing. He takes forever while I grimace and fantasize about finally getting my head out of his hell-sink. As soon as the water shuts off, I bolt upright in the chair without even waiting for him to wrap the towel around my hair.
“Whoa. Kinda feisty, aren’t you?”
“Looks like snow.” He points upward.
Indeed, heavy snow clouds hang in the sky—the first time this season. The walk home goes faster than I expected. I must have forgotten my plan to walk as slowly as possible. As I turn on my street, I notice a white work truck parked near my house. At first, I think it’s at Callie’s, but as I draw nearer, I see it’s definitely in front of mine.
By the time I pass the next few driveways, I see workmen milling around in my front yard. Some of them huddle together, looking down toward the ground. Others unload some seriously heavy duty equipment. Orange cones have been put out, sectioning off the portion of the street in front of the work truck.
I’m almost to my mailbox, when a guy steps out of the truck’s driver side. He carries a clip board in his hand and a walkie-talkie on his belt.
He squints at me as though it’s bright and sunny. “How ya doin?”
“Good, actually. How about you?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, meaning it completely.
“Not too bad. Are you Ms. Sinclair?”
“Yes.” I feel my smile fall a little.
“We’ve got a little problem in the sewer lines right here. It’s the darnedest thing.”
I draw closer and shove my hands in the pockets of my vest, unsure if I like the beginning of this.
He goes on. “We’ve spent the last few weeks inspecting sewer lines here in the Historical District. Seems there’s a fault line we weren’t aware of before. I don’t know if you ever noticed it, but we had a few tremors not too long ago.”
“No, I didn’t feel anything.”
“Well, we ran some cameras through the sewer lines, checking for leaks at the joints. Everything looked good except for here at your property.”
“You mean there’s a sewage leak?” I sniff the air.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“But you’re fixing it, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, well thanks for letting me know.” I start to walk past him.
“Wait. There’s just one more thing.”
I look past him where I see Klaus watching me through the window with his paws on the sill. “Okay.”
“Some of the leak is on your private property, between the house and the curb. It’ll have to be addressed immediately before it gets down into the water table.” He pulls an envelope from his clip board.
I’m not liking the sound of this at all.
“You should have received a letter about all of this.” He hands it to me and looks in my eyes as if he’s watching for lies.
“I didn’t get a letter.”
“Really. Well, here’s another one. The original gave you thirty days to have the repairs permitted, completed, and inspected. This letter, states the city will complete the repairs. You’ll be responsible for the charges and civil penalties.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief. He nudges my arm with the envelope and I grab it.
“But I didn’t get a letter,” I insist.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to take that up with city administration. I’m just the repair guy.” He starts to walk away, then stops and turns his shoulder back. “By the way, you should come up with a more creative excuse before you call them.”
He gives me a wink then walks back to his truck where another man begins helping him unload more equipment.
I think of calling after him, insisting it’s the truth. But I’m distracted by the yellow “caution” tape splayed across the concrete stairway. I lift my eyes and see it also surrounds half the front yard. Worse, Reason’s red real estate sign now has another sign stuck to it. This one is bright orange with a black biohazard symbol and the words: Sewage Leak
I gape at it as a cold breeze begins to blow over me. I tuck down my chin and start looking for a way in that isn’t taped off, blocked by equipment, or congested with shrubs. I pace the length of the front yard. There isn’t any.
Finally, I shove my hands in my pockets and climb the steep slope of Callie’s yard. I’d rather crawl through the hole in the bitter cherries. Maybe, it’ll take me somewhere else, somewhere without sewage.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon arguing with the sewer department. Not only do they claim they have no record of the letter, they also seem to have no clue about the leak.
“I’m staring at a slew of people in my front yard. They’ve dug up half the lawn. Do you h
ear me? Half the sod is gone.”
“Ma’am, please hold while I get my supervisor.” She speaks with a curt tone. Then I hear a click and Christmas music fills the line. It interrupts occasional for a prerecorded voice that thanks me for my patience while I continue to remain on the line.
Thirty minutes later, another woman picks up. She sounds much happier as she promises she’ll research the matter and call me back within three business days.
“Great, it’s Wednesday afternoon. So, you mean I might not hear from you until next Monday afternoon.”
“That’s correct, but I hope to have some answers for you by Friday.”
My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth hurt. “Look, I really need to know how much I’m looking at here, for repairs and fees. Can you at least give me a ballpark figure?”
“I really can’t. I haven’t encountered a situation like you’ve described. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.” I hang up and throw myself across my bed, startling Klaus who’s sprawled on top. He looks up to see what’s going on. When he sees me, he inches closer for a cuddle. He looks like a large swaddled up cinnamon stick…with legs.
We lie facing each other. Over the top of his head, I see the blurry outlines of my old stuffed animals, soccer trophies, and trinkets lining the shelves. It’s a time capsule in here. Except now, I’m worried about bigger things than detention and prom.
And I still haven’t heard anything from Reason about the offer. Not that it matters anymore, not with biohazards oozing around the house. Even if I wanted to sell to the Lawless’ this would probably be a deal breaker.
For some reason, the longer it takes to get a call from him, the more I wonder how long it’ll be until I see him again. And the more I wonder, the more I realize I want to hear his voice, want to see him. I’m suddenly filled with a sense of impending doom, beyond all logic and reason.
Reason. For some reason. Talk to Reason. Beyond logic and reason.
Not only am I having a hard time keeping the man out of my head, but the word won’t stop either. He’s even affected the way I use the English language.
I close my eyes. My childhood home is probably sinking down into a bog of bodily waste. For that matter, it’s probably already seeped into the water table too. I’ve contaminated the water supply every time I flush the toilet. I don’t even want to think about what that means. Worse, I’ll never use or think the word “reason” again without thinking of my brown eyed, stubbly-haired realtor and wondering how he smells.
I close my eyes, and despite myself I imagine the scent of peppermint—peppermint and rain.
Chapter 10
I SPEND MOST OF THE NEXT DAY cleaning. The harder I work, the less I notice the work crew outside: the drilling, banging, and male voices shouting to each other. And the less I notice my phone not ringing.
The smell of pine permeates the air. I have several candles burning, all of them Christmas-tree scented. I breathe it in and think of the camping trips we used to take before my dad died. It smelled like this. It also reminds me of the obvious: Christmas Trees.
I don’t have one. Christmas will be here soon, and I haven’t cared one bit about anything except forgetting. But now I’m starting to want to remember things. Like how we always went to the local tree sale, and Dad hauled in a fresh tree each year, always the biggest one he could fit through the door.
Last year we used my mother’s artificial tree, the one she bought after we lost my dad. Not having a tree in this living room at Christmas is like a birth with no baby. It doesn’t matter if I choose to cancel Christmas, the rest of the city won’t. I’ve just been trying to ignore it, but it’s not working.
I return the mop bucket to the laundry room and drift over to the small kitchen radio that hangs under the cabinet, just above the can opener. I twist the knob. An articulate, measured voice comes through the static, a Noah Weather Station meteorologist. He calls for a rapid drop in temperature followed by a fifty percent chance of snow here in Merry Valley County.
I remember standing in this very spot, with this exact radio, praying for a forecast like this as a kid. But now I dread snow’s ethereal silence—when I’ll look through the window, gaze out from my cave of loneliness onto an eerily quiet earth, where everyone else has retreated to warmth and family. It’ll be like the worst kind of insomnia or being encased in a snow globe, separated from life and all other living things. I cross my arms, wondering if the temperature has dropped inside too.
The sound of the weatherman’s voice depresses me. Maybe music will help. I scan the stations, but I only hear Christmas music. The best thing playing is Jingle Bell Rock, so I leave it there.
Goose-bumps prickle my arms. It really does feel cold in here. I head for the thermostat in the hallway. As I move through the living room, I pause at the window to lift the faux wood slat and peer through the blinds. The workmen have all gone home. The lawn still looks like it’s been flayed. A huge stack of piled sod leans awkwardly toward the real estate sign. Yellow tape still connects the trees, blocking the stairway leading up from the sidewalk, and they’ve carved a fresh ditch in the ground with a mountain of unearthed soil next to it. Taken as a whole, it looks like a crime scene.
A horrifying thought occurs to me: What if it starts to smell like human—my—human waste? Have I been flushing the toilet straight into the front yard? I swallow. The Collins family will know. Reason will know. I drop the slat and turn my back.
In the hallway, the thermostat reads 62 degrees. I increase the heat setting and cross my arms, waiting for the furnace to kick on. While I wait, I see the digital numbers drop another two degrees. The house waits in silence. I increase the temperature again. The furnace still doesn't come on. I slide the switch off and back on again, hoping it just needs to start from scratch. Nothing happens.
Except now the digital display shows 59 degrees. This can’t be happening. I close my eyes. When I open them again—58.
I scramble for the phone book in the kitchen. I refuse to freeze all night. My watch says 5:30, so I know I don’t have much time. My mother always stuck the business magnets for repair services on the side of the refrigerator. I scan the vinyl rectangles until I find one for Double-S Heating and Air. It guarantees same day service and twenty-four hour response. Thank You.
I call it.
A man answers after the fifth ring. He sounds ancient. “Double-S, this is Nick.”
“Hi, I really need help here. My heater just quit working. It’s getting really cold.” I sound like I’m calling 911.
“Oh, sorry to hear it.” He launches into a coughing fit. There is a pause, followed by a garbled wet hack. It sounds like he’s spitting. Finally, he clears his throat and continues. “What’s your address little lady?”
I tell him my address and wait while he chokes on another cough.
“Is that the Sinclair house? Adelaide Sinclair?”
“Yes, it is.” Relief washes over me. He knows my mother. He’ll be here tonight. I’m sure of it.
“I see.” I hear papers shuffling then a brief silence. “The earliest I can be there is tomorrow afternoon.”
No, no, no, no. “I’ll freeze by then.”
“If I remember correctly, you have a fireplace. A big one. I’d suggest you put it to use.”
He’s right. I do have a fireplace—a big one. But the idea of trying to set a fire in it freaks me out. I’ve never actually done it before. And what will I burn? I have no firewood. And the chimney hasn’t been used in years. Birds probably live in it.
“I see here your fireplace was serviced recently—yesterday, as a matter of fact. It should be ready for a nice warm fire.”
“No, that’s impossible. I haven't done anything to it.”
“Hmmm. Well, it was definitely serviced yesterday. See, we also own Double-S chimney services. The Sinclair house is on a contract. Has been since 1987.”
I consider this. They must have done it when I went to the salon—which means I
’ll be getting yet another unexpected bill for that too.
“Do you happen to know what the bill will cost?”
“There isn’t one, dear. Mrs. Sinclair paid it in advance last year, through the next five years as a matter of fact.”
The next five years? Why would she do that? She knew she was sick—knew she wouldn’t be here. The questions circle in my thoughts. Then one answer settles in the forefront.
She thought I might be here, or at least, she hoped I would be. But why the chimney? We never use it. I know we didn’t last year. But I have no idea what she’s done for the other ten winters. I wasn’t here. My chest feels tight.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon?” He coughs again.
“Yes, tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. Merry Christmas, Erin.”
“Merry Christ—” There is a click, and he’s gone. Erin? Did he really just call me Erin?
I’m certain he did.
Klaus emerges from the hallway. I see his big head in profile as he scans the living room looking for me. When he sees me standing in the kitchen door, he wags his tail.
“What’s the matter, buddy, getting cold?”
He wags faster. His amber eyes watch me intently, listening.
“We’re going to have to build a fire, big guy. I hope you know how.”
Klaus looks at me with an eager face. He probably thinks we’re going bye-bye.
He walks over to the fireplace and lowers his bottom to the floor. His tail thumps against the area rug. Did he really understand me?
I shake my head, wondering if he also knows what mother was thinking when she planned to keep the chimney serviced for five years after her death.
I watch the tiny flame ignite and shrink as it works at the corners of the scrapped two by fours I found in the shed. It creeps along the paper I shoved there too, pushing the burned edges closer to the wood. As a last resort, I have a bottle of lighter fluid on the kitchen counter. I blow soft puffs of air as I kneel on the cold brick hearth. With no idea what I am doing, I pray for the best.
The Santa Society Page 6
