The House in the Cerulean Sea

by TJ Klune

  He took a seat away from them.

  “Almost home,” he whispered to Calliope.

  She didn’t respond.

  He looked out the window as the bus pulled away from the train station.

  A sign next to the train station caught his eye.

  On it, a family was at a picnic in the park. The sun was shining. They sat on a checkered blanket, and the wicker basket sitting between them was open and overflowing with cheeses and grapes and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The mother was laughing. The father was smiling. The boy and the girl were staring adoringly up at their parents.

  Above them, the sign read: KEEP YOUR FAMILY SAFE! SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!

  Linus looked away.

  * * *

  He had to change buses once, and by the time he stepped off the second bus it was almost five in the afternoon. The wind had picked up, and it was cold and miserable. He was three blocks from home. He expected to feel relief at this moment.

  He didn’t. Not really.

  He huffed as he lifted the crate and suitcase.

  He was almost there.

  * * *

  His street was quiet as he turned onto it.

  The streetlights were lit, beads of water clinging against the panes of glass.

  86 Hermes Way was dark. Oh, the brick pathway to the house was the same, and the lawn was the same, but it still felt … dark. It took him a moment to realize what little splash of color there’d once been—his sunflowers—was gone.

  He stared at the front of his house for a moment.

  He shook his head.

  He’d worry about it tomorrow.

  He walked up the path and reached the porch. He set down his suitcase as he fumbled for his keys. They fell to the floor, and he grumbled as he bent over to pick them up.

  Through the rain, he heard, “That you, Mr. Baker?”

  He sighed as he stood upright. “It is, Mrs. Klapper. I have returned. How are you?”

  “Your flowers died. Drowned, if you can believe that. I had a boy come pull them. They were rotting. Hurts the resale value of a neighborhood when a house looks so rundown. I have the receipt for what I paid the boy. I expect to be reimbursed.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Klapper. Thank you.”

  She wore the same terry cloth robe and was smoking out of the same pipe. Her hair was in the same bouffant. It was all the same. Every little piece of it.

  He started to put the key in the lock when she spoke again. “You back for good?”

  Linus felt like screaming. “Yes, Mrs. Klapper.”

  She squinted at him from across the way. “You look as if you’ve gotten some sun. You don’t seem as pale as you once did. Lost some weight too. Quite a vacation you had.”

  His clothes were a little looser on him than they’d once been, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself not caring about that at all. “It wasn’t a vacation. I told you I left for work.”

  “Uh-huh. So you said. Though, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with snapping at the office, threatening to murder everyone, and then getting sent away to a rehab facility.”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  She waved a hand at him. “None of my business if it was. Though, you should know it’s already the talk of the neighborhood.” She frowned at him. “Hurts the resale value.”

  He gripped the doorknob tightly. “Are you planning on selling your home?”

  She blinked at him as smoke curled around her craggy face. “No. Of course not. Where would I go?”

  “Then why on God’s green earth do you care about the damn resale value?”

  She stared at him.

  He glared back at her.

  She took a puff on her pipe. “I got your mail. Most of it was ads. You don’t seem to get much personal mail. I used the coupons. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  He was sure that was the end of it, but of course she continued on. “You should know you missed your opportunity! My grandson met a nice man while you were gone. He’s a pediatrician. I expect there to be a spring wedding. It will be in a church, of course, because they are both godly men.”

  “Good for them.”

  She nodded as she stuck the stem of her pipe back between her teeth. “Welcome home, Mr. Baker. Keep that filthy animal out of my yard. The squirrels have known a month of peace. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  He didn’t bother saying goodbye. It was rude, but he was tired. He went inside the house and slammed the door behind him for good measure.

  * * *

  It was stale inside his house, the smell of a home that hadn’t been lived in for a while thick in the air. He set down his suitcase and the crate before switching on the light.

  It was the same. Perhaps a bit dusty.

  There was his chair. His Victrola. His books.

  It was all the same.

  He bent down and opened the gate for Calliope.

  She shot out, tail standing straight up behind her. She was damp and didn’t appear to be amused. She disappeared down the hall to the laundry room where her litter box was.

  “It’s good to be home,” he whispered.

  He wondered how many times he would need to say that before he believed it.

  * * *

  He set his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

  He changed out of his wet clothes.

  He donned his spare pajamas.

  He fed Calliope.

  He tried to eat himself, but he wasn’t very hungry.

  He sat in his chair.

  He got up from his chair.

  “Some music,” he decided. “Perhaps I should listen to some music.”

  He selected Ol’ Blue Eyes. Frank always made him happy.

  He slid the record from the sleeve and lifted the lid to the Victrola. He set the record on the spinner. He switched the player on, and the speakers crackled. He lowered the arm and closed his eyes.

  But what came from the Victrola wasn’t Frank Sinatra.

  He must have switched up the sleeves before he left.

  Trumpets flared brightly.

  A sweet masculine voice began to sing.

  Bobby Darin, grooving about somewhere beyond the sea.

  He remembered the way Lucy had bounced in the kitchen, bellowing the words at the top of his lungs.

  He put his face in his hands.

  As Bobby sang, Linus’s shoulders shook.

  * * *

  He went to bed.

  The blankets and pillow were slightly musty, but he was too tired to worry about that now.

  He stared at the ceiling for a long time.

  Eventually, he slept.

  He dreamed of an island in the ocean.

  * * *

  On Sunday, he cleaned. He opened the windows to air out the house, even though it was raining. He scrubbed the floors. He wiped the walls. He washed the counters. He changed the sheets on the bed. He took a toothbrush to the grout on the tile in the bathroom. He swept. He mopped.

  His back was aching by the time he finished. It was early afternoon, and he thought about lunch, but his stomach was a lead weight.

  Laundry. He needed to do laundry.

  And he still needed to complete his final report.

  He went to the suitcase at the end of the bed. He lay it on its side and unlatched the buckles. He lifted the lid and froze.

  There. On the top of his folded clothes, on top of files, on top of RULES AND REGULATIONS, was a brown envelope.

  He hadn’t put it in there.

  At least he didn’t think he had.

  He lifted the envelope. It felt stiff in his hands.

  On the top were two words, written in black, blocky letters: DON’T FORGET.

  He slid the envelope open.

  Inside was a photograph.

  His eyes stung as he looked down at it.

  Zoe must have taken the picture. He didn’t even remember seeing her with a
camera. It was the first adventure they’d taken through the woods to her house. In it, Lucy and Talia were laughing. Sal sat with Theodore in his lap. Chauncey and Phee were wrestling over the last roll. Arthur and Linus sat together. Linus was watching the children with amusement.

  And Arthur was watching Linus, that quiet smile on his face.

  It was grief, then, that Linus felt in his little house on Hermes Way. Grief bright and glassy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He was but paper, brittle and thin, and he clutched the photograph to his chest, hugging it close.

  * * *

  Later, much later, he sat in his chair, the final report in his lap. It still only had one sentence written on it after the introduction.

  He thought it was enough.

  He set it aside.

  He listened to the Big Bopper bopping along. He drifted, eventually, and disappeared onto an ocean, the waves lapping beneath him, and it felt like home.

  Outside, the rain fell steadily.

  * * *

  His alarm went off bright and early Monday morning.

  He got up.

  He fed the cat.

  He took a shower.

  He dressed in a suit and tie.

  He picked up his briefcase.

  He remembered his umbrella.

  * * *

  The bus was full. There was barely room to stand, much less to sit.

  People didn’t look up at him except to scowl when he accidentally bumped into them. They returned to their newspapers as he apologized.

  * * *

  No one greeted him as he walked into DICOMY.

  He walked through the desks, and no one said, “Welcome back, Linus. We missed you.”

  There were no streamers on Row L, Desk Seven. No balloons. No paper lanterns.

  He sat down, setting his briefcase beside him.

  Mr. Tremblay glanced over at him from Row L, Desk Six. “I thought you’d been sacked.”

  “No,” Linus said as evenly as he could. “I was on assignment.”

  Mr. Tremblay frowned. “Are you sure? I could have sworn that you’d been sacked.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Oh!” He looked relieved, and Linus started to feel a bit better. Maybe he’d been missed after all. “That means you can have all your cases back. Thank God. I didn’t have time for them in the slightest, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll dig them up for you first thing.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Linus said tightly.

  “I know, Mr. Barkly.”

  He said, “It’s Mr. Baker, you git. Don’t make me correct you again.”

  Mr. Tremblay gaped at him.

  He opened his briefcase. He lifted out the files he’d been given and his final report. He hesitated before taking out the only thing that remained.

  He set the framed photograph on the desk near the computer.

  “What is that?” Mr. Tremblay asked, craning his neck. “Is that a personal thing? You know you can’t have that!”

  “Maybe you should consider minding your own business for once,” Linus snapped without looking at him.

  “On your head, then,” Mr. Tremblay muttered. “See if I’m ever nice to you again.”

  Linus ignored him. He straightened out the photograph until he had it just right.

  He turned on his computer and got to work.

  * * *

  “Mr. Baker!”

  He groaned to himself. Today had been going … Well, it’d been going. He didn’t look up as he heard the sounds of heels clicking against the floor, getting closer and closer.

  A shadow fell on his desk.

  The typing around him stopped as his coworkers listened in. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in the last month.

  Ms. Jenkins stood above him, the same dour expression on her face. Gunther, of course, stood slightly behind her, his clipboard ever present. He smiled sickly sweet down at Linus.

  “Hello, Ms. Jenkins,” Linus said dutifully. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Yes, I expect it is,” she said with a sniff. “You’ve returned.”

  “Your observational skills remain unparalleled.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  He coughed and cleared his throat. “I said, yes, I have returned.”

  “From your assignment.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your secret assignment.”

  “I suppose.”

  The skin under her left eye twitched. “Just because Extremely Upper Management did us all a favor and got rid of you for a month doesn’t mean things have changed around here.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I expect you to be caught up with all of your work by the end of the week.”

  Impossible, of course, but she knew that. “Yes, Ms. Jenkins.”

  “Your caseload will be returned to you by lunchtime.”

  “Yes, Ms. Jenkins.”

  She leaned forward, putting her hands flat on his desk. Her nails were painted black. “Gunning for a promotion, are you? Think you have what it takes to be a Supervisor?”

  He laughed. He didn’t mean to, but he did.

  Ms. Jenkins looked scandalized.

  Gunther’s smile fell from his face. He looked shocked.

  “No,” Linus managed to say. “I’m not trying for a promotion. I don’t think I’m quite cut out for Supervision.”

  “For once we agree,” Ms. Jenkins said nastily. “I couldn’t think of anyone more ill-suited than you. You are lucky you still have a desk to return to. If I had my way, you would … have … had … Mr. Baker! What is that?”

  She pointed a black fingernail at the photograph.

  “It’s mine,” he said. “It’s mine, and I like it.”

  “It is prohibited,” she said shrilly. “Per RULES AND REGULATIONS, caseworkers are not allowed personal effects unless sanctioned by Supervision!”

  Linus looked up at her. “Then sanction it.”

  She took a step back, hand going to her throat. Gunther scribbled furiously onto his clipboard.

  “What did you say?” she asked dangerously.

  “Sanction it,” Linus repeated.

  “I will not. This will go into your permanent file! How dare you speak to me this— Gunther! Demerits! Demerits for Mr. Baker!”

  Gunther’s smile returned. “Of course. How many?”

  “Five! No, ten. Ten demerits!”

  The caseworkers around them began to whisper fervently.

  “Ten demerits,” Gunther said, sounding rather gleeful. “Yes. So wise, Ms. Jenkins. So knowing.”

  “That … that thing will be gone by the end of the day,” Ms. Jenkins said. “Mark my words, Mr. Baker. If it’s not, I will see to it you don’t have a job to return to.”

  Linus said nothing.

  That didn’t sit well with her. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Ms. Jenkins.”

  She sniffed again. “That’s better. Insolence will not be tolerated. I know you’ve been … wherever for the last month, but the rules have not changed. You would do well to remember that.”

  “Of course, Ms. Jenkins. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Her words seemed to drip poison when she said, “Yes. There is. You have been summoned. By Extremely Upper Management. Again. Tomorrow. Eight o’clock on the dot. Do not be late. Or do, and save me the trouble.”

  She whirled around. “What are you all staring at? Get back to work!”

  The caseworkers began to type immediately.

  Ms. Jenkins glared at Linus over her shoulder once more before stalking away, Gunther trailing after her.

  “I wonder who my new desk neighbor will be?” Mr. Tremblay asked.

  Linus ignored him.

  He stared down at the photograph.

  Right below it was a mouse pad with a faded picture of a whit
e sandy beach and the bluest ocean in all the world.

  It said, of course, DON’T YOU WISH YOU WERE HERE?

  * * *

  By lunchtime, files had been piled on his desk. Dozens of them. He opened the top one. The last notes were his own. They hadn’t been touched in the last month. He sighed and closed it.

  * * *

  The office was empty by the time he left, a little before nine that night. He put the photograph in his briefcase and headed for home.

  * * *

  It was raining.

  The bus was late.

  * * *

  On his porch sat a plastic bag filled with his mail. It was all bills. There was a note on the top. It was a receipt from Mrs. Klapper seeking reimbursement for gutting his flower bed.

  * * *

  He took the photograph out of his suitcase and set it on the nightstand next to his bed.

  He watched it until he fell asleep.

  * * *

  At a quarter till eight the next morning, Linus pressed the gold number five in the elevator.

  Everyone inside the car stared at him.

  He stared back.

  They looked away first.

  The elevator slowly emptied until he was the only one left.

  EXTREMELY UPPER MANAGEMENT

  BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

  He pressed the button next to the metal grate.

  It slid open, rattling on its tracks.

  Ms. Bubblegum blew a pink bubble. It popped prettily as she sucked it back in between her teeth. “Help you?”

  “I have an appointment.”

  “With who?”

  She had to know. “Extremely Upper Management. I’m Linus Baker.”

  She squinted at him. “I remember you.”

  “O-kay?”

  “I thought you died or something.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  She tapped a couple of keys on her computer before looking back at him. “Do you have the final report?”

  He opened his briefcase. Inside, his fingers brushed against the frame of a photograph before he found what he was looking for. He pulled the folder out and slid it underneath the glass.