House Wrecking Read online

  The voice of David Letterman broke through her dreams of the new house. She swallowed the final gulp of wine, convinced that she could get Jeff to at least take a look.

  Rusty Nail

  The night before Sarah’s trip to New York, she stepped on the protruding nail used to secure the Persian carpet runner. She glanced around to see if anyone saw her before she bent to examine it. It hadn’t broken the skin. She tried to pull it out, but it was stuck tight.

  All through dinner she thought about the feel of the nail head under her silk slipper. Her best bet for removing the nail was a table utensil. She could grasp the head of the nail between the prongs of the fork. She envisioned it coming up easily. She hoped it would be long and a little curved. With her father Peter’s head stuck behind his newspaper and her mother Alice’s eyes too drugged with laudanum, Sarah easily slipped a fork and spoon under her sleeve when leaving the table.

  She considered the risk of extraction. If her parents saw her on the stairs, they might question her actions, but her excitement got the better of her. She found the nail and positioned it between the prongs, topped it with the bottom of the spoon and pulled. The nail was stubborn. She glanced about before wiggling it with her fingers and dislodging it – a disappointment. It was a half inch long; no curves. She grasped it tightly and went to her room, pushing a chair beneath the door handle.

  Sarah nestled into the window seat, opened her legs and hiked the skirts of her green muslin dress up to her hips, exposing her stockings and knickers. An unexpected summer breeze blew through the window and she shivered a moment as she lifted the edge of her knickers higher toward her hips and fixed her eyes on the skin of her thigh. She pierced the clear, white skin, dragging it three inches toward the back of her thigh, before letting it fall out of her hands between her legs.

  The blood beaded along the incision, then dripped down her thigh and onto the brocade seat beneath her, running together into one flow. She rested against the side of the window seat. A rare pleasure filled her as her foul insides leaked out, leaving hope that something good might replace it. Outside, the squirrels flew from elm to elm in front of their house. Their occasional chatter broke the silence in her room. She imagined herself in a room where she would tuck in warm and tight – alone, except for perhaps a kitten. Not those dirty stray cats like Abby had. Her kitten would smell like Eau de cologne and sleep on her pillow. It would rub its soft, lemon-scented fur on her face and nestle into the curve of her neck.

  She must have dozed. The blood had caked on her inner thigh stuck her to the cushion. The clock on the mantle above the fireplace revealed it was close to nine. She unpeeled herself from the cushion, slid over to her desk and opened the gray leather cover of Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Peter’s razor had been the ideal tool to cut a perfect square in the middle of the pages for her precious pieces. Admiring her beautiful collection once more, she nestled the nail among her other precious pieces.

  She knew she should get ready for bed, but couldn’t settle into bed knowing he might come. It was Thursday, and he usually only came on Tuesdays, but he had given her a wink at dinner, which had set her to worry. Instead, she slipped downstairs and peaked through the crack between the two oak doors of her father’s study as Peter positioned his backside in his favorite chair and settled into the worn cushions. The hallway was dark – she wouldn’t be seen. She let out a silent sigh of relief when he hoisted his obese legs onto the ottoman. He looked right and left, eyeing his already-packed pipe and ashtray on the table to the left of his chair, along with matches. The Colebrook Current, his spectacles, and a snifter of brandy were on a table to the right.

  He sat for a few moments, encircled by his small luxuries. At dinner, he’d complained about how the people of Colebrook persisted in making a mess of their lives. Earlier in the day he’d had to physically separate Randolph Beech and Samuel Hyde from fighting over an easement between their properties. He’d brought this to each man’s attention years earlier, but they’d chosen to ignore the ownership issue until the railroad company started offering money for their property. Then in the afternoon, the pathetic Williams couple came in to make a will, only to realize their property was so heavily mortgaged, they had nothing left to bequeath. They had no idea the papers they’d been signing at the bank for years in exchange for cash had stolen the inheritance from their children.

  Peter brought the pipe to his lips. Striking a match to it, he breathed in deeply, and then took a sip of the brandy. He lowered the snifter and pipe and reached for the paper and his spectacles. After folding the newspaper in a position in which he could hold it with one hand, he brought the pipe again to his lips and began to read the front page.

  Content that her father was settled in for the evening, Sarah was just about to go back to her room, when she saw him fidget in his chair, reposition, and readjust the paper. She’d stay a moment longer, just to make sure. Part of her, whether big or small she couldn’t be sure, wanted Peter to invite her into the study so she could make the corners of his eyes crinkle as she told him funny stories about her school chums. But she remained still as he read the front page, and then flipped to the obituaries. He picked up the brandy snifter and readjusted himself once more, then looked around the dark-paneled study and to the velvet curtains drawn against the winter night.

  Sarah watched as Peter forced his heavy form from the chair to his desk and picked up the instructions she’d given him for the dressmaker with her modified measurements. She’d gained weight lately and wasn’t happy about it. She knew she could try the dress on when it arrived at the express office, C.O.D., but she hoped it would fit. If it didn’t fit, she would…Well, she didn’t know what she’d do, but she’d be angry – angrier than she already was. Peter inserted the instructions in the envelope and affixed the proper postage. He rested back in his chair to finish his pipe and sip his brandy and Sarah went back to bed, never truly sure she would remain there alone.

  On Deposit

  The spring had grown cold again in New Haven, and Lauren bristled against the chill in the old Queen Anne as she and Carol waited for Jeff. As if they hadn’t had enough snow this season, an early spring storm was forecast for later that evening. Carol turned up the heat, but Lauren doubted it would make any difference – it would take hours to heat this big place. She wanted Carol to leave her alone, so she could study her notes and remove the tape measure from her bag, but Carol stuck close to her side with a steady stream of chatter. Lauren tried to tune her out to count the number of windows in the tower. The postman pass the house without a glance. It was clear that he hadn’t delivered here for a while.

  “What do you do, Lauren?” Carol asked, interrupting her counting and planning.

  “I’m a nurse practitioner.”

  “A nurse practitioner – Is that the same as an RN? My sister was a nurse for thirty years before she retired. She loved it.”

  She hid a sigh and launched into her elevator speech. “A nurse practitioner usually has a master’s or doctoral level. We do more than registered nurses, and can actually diagnose, treat, and prescribe.”

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “I think you’ll see more and more nurse practitioners replacing primary care physicians in the years to come.”

  “Perhaps I should consider finding one?”

  “Perhaps you should. Most studies show that nurse practitioners provide as high-quality and effective healthcare as physicians. I would absolutely recommend it.” They talked further on the subject since Carol seemed genuinely interested.

  Twenty minutes later, when Jeff arrived, she overlooked his tardiness and concentrated on convincing him about a future in the house. Carol pointed out the features and Jeff questioned the cost of remodeling and repairing. It was clear that he visualized his salary flying out the drafty doors and windows along with the heat. She tried to jump in a number of times, but she had an ally in Carol, who reassured them the city would make certain baseline repairs
to facilitate the sale.

  “You have to agree, it is charming,” Carol said in the first floor parlor as she wrapped up the tour.

  “Charm is the least of my concerns,” Jeff said, frowning.

  An awkward moment lingered then he threw up his hands and stormed out to the foyer. Lauren stayed behind to speak with Carol before following him.

  Carol said to her, as if she’d seen this behavior a hundred times, “I’ll leave you two to discuss it. Stay as long as you need and close the door behind you. It will lock automatically.” Carol shook both their hands and said, “I look forward to hearing from you,” and left through the double front doors.

  “I don’t get it.” Jeff said as soon as Carol drove off in her Black Lexus.

  “Don’t get what? Why real-estate agents are driving around in Lexus’ and we have a beat-up old minivan from 1995?” she said, taking his arm.

  “You know what I mean. I don’t get what you see here.”

  “I know. It’s hard to explain. I feel like…like this house needs me – needs us.”

  “It needs something. That’s for sure.”

  “And maybe we need this place too.” Lauren stepped closer and tipped his chin slightly with her index finger to get his eyes to see something in her own. She kissed him right on the lips, which she usually avoided. He kissed her back and inserted his tongue into her mouth, which she allowed as if she enjoyed it.

  ***

  The negotiations took months to complete and it was midsummer before the city accepted their reduced offer on the house and they began packing. Without curtains, the mid-morning sun took full occupancy of the attic in their old house. The perfect rays were interrupted only by the dust that rose and settled each time Lauren dragged a dusty box from the eaves. She lifted a silver ashtray and traced the deep grooves of the shell pattern with her fingers. It was from the days when she and Jeff used to smoke in bed, distractedly flicking ashes into the silver bowl between them. She sat back on her heels and brought the scarred knuckle of her left ring finger to her mouth, absently gnawing on the smooth skin as she recalled their first night together years earlier.

  Although they never discussed it, they knew it would happen the night of Jeff’s Halloween party, a few short months after they met at a bar in Boston between her junior and senior year of college. Lauren had dressed as a Hare Krishna and gone to the party with her roommate, who was dating Jeff’s roommate. Her costume was nothing more than a flesh-colored sheet wrapped toga-style around her thin body. She accepted the many beers Jeff offered throughout the night, but passed on the tray of slippery nipples. She noticed Jeff downed two.

  When everyone left, Lauren busied herself collecting the empty beer cups, many with cigarette butts drowned in the remains of stale beer. The roommates, Jeanne and John had already gone into John’s room. Jeff lay on the couch watching her housekeeping for a few minutes and grabbed her arm to pull her down next to him. She backed away playfully, excusing herself to dump an armful of cups in the trash, assuring him she would be right back. She grabbed her purse from the table by the front door and went into the bathroom to insert the diaphragm. The physician at Planned Parenthood suggested the diaphragm, even recommending that Lauren’s partner could put it in for her. Lauren thought that sounded nice at the time, but couldn’t picture asking Jeff. She was a little drunk, but remembered to add the spermicide from the carrying case into the rubber cup, folded it in half and tried to stick it in her vagina. She giggled when it slipped out of her fingers and ricocheted off the opposite wall, landing in a messy glob on the bathroom floor. She got it in the second time, but wasn’t sure if it was right.

  She’d brought a special nightgown for the occasion – nothing too sexy. But she slipped it on with no panties and tiptoed through the dining room to Jeff’s room. He was waiting for her bare-chested in bed. She climbed in next to him and snuggled up close. They started kissing, as they often had before, and Jeff cupped her breasts.

  “Did you want to…?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you on birth control?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Without hesitation, Jeff fumbled clumsily beneath her gown for the soft spot between her legs. She opened them, hoping he’d take charge and direct her legs into submission. But he worked with what obvious little experience he had, choosing various spots to rub before moving to another ineffective one. She knew where she wanted him to go, having been there herself on many occasions. She twisted her body to draw his fingers where it mattered. When she couldn’t stand the futile rubbing any longer, she coaxed him on top. He was inside her instantly and came moments later.

  In the months after Jeff proposed, when she still couldn’t see a date, the wart began to grow on her ring finger. Through the winter and spring, Lauren continued to pick at the ragged edges of it until her friend Bethany suggested a therapist. Lauren could still picture the young therapist poised at the edge of her chair.

  “Lauren, you like Jeff. He has a lot of qualities you find appealing and I’m sure you have grown to love him over the last few months. But, you’re not in love with him. I don’t think you ever were.”

  Lauren took in this information with uncharacteristic silence. After a moment, she said. “But, I hear that goes away over the years. And we have…”

  The therapist interrupted. “That may be the case for some couples, but you have to at least start with that.”

  Ten years later, “you’re not in love with him,” still bubbled to the surface, until Lauren could find another activity to supplant it in her consciousness.

  In the hot attic, Lauren tossed the ashtray into the box and slid it among the stack of boxes bound for Goodwill, but changed her mind. The box was full of Jeff’s school books and beer signs from college. She knew he would never go through them, but it still wasn’t right for her to throw them away. The unwelcome idea that he might still need the stuff unsettled her. She moved onto a box of old nursing texts that taught her how to solve everyone’s problems but her own.

  A Day in the City

  On the day of the trip to New York City, Sarah donned her favorite dark blue taffeta dress with a sweetheart neckline and fastened her special pearls around her neck. She and Peter rode in the carriage to the station in neighboring Winsted. She could barely contain her excitement. Once on the train, she peppered Peter with questions about what they would do –shop or dine out. He smiled and patted her on the knee, but didn’t respond. When the Naugatuck River Railroad train came to a stop, Sarah assumed they had arrived in New York. She was disappointed and a little embarrassed to learn they were only in Bridgeport and had hours to go.

  New York could not have been more different than Colebrook. An energy emanated from the city that Sarah had never before witnessed. She followed Peter out of Grand Central Station, and then took the lead rushing from one shop window to another. When she found a hat she wanted at the third shop they approached, she turned quickly to tell Peter and crashed into a bearded stranger. Sarah leapt away from the man who’d stepped on her new silk boot, and bent down to rub the offended foot. The man went off with a backward glare, as if the assault had been her fault.

  “Father, did you see that?”

  “Yes, dear. Are you all right?”

  “How rude! He didn’t even apologize.”

  “Perhaps we should get you out of harm’s way and into a carriage?”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be best.” For the first time, she took in the mass of people walking the streets of New York and decided it wise that she stick close to Peter for the rest of the day.

  With a hand on her back, Peter waved down a carriage. Once inside, he gave the driver an address on a slip of paper. Her curiosity was piqued and she wondered anew where they were going. Mere minutes later, the carriage pulled up to a dingy house on 23rd Street and 1st Avenue, its door bearing the plate, Office of Doctor Lloyd Janiak.

  Peter introduced the man who opened the door as Doctor Janiak, who
would take care of her “problem.” He told her to go along with the man and he would be back for her soon. Sarah hesitated, but complied. The old doctor had a kind face, though few words. He led her to a back room and gestured for her to climb onto the narrow wooden table. “Remove your knickers and lie down,” he said. Despite her confusion, she took them off and lay on the table. Without another word, the doctor quickly spread her legs and secured them in the stirrups. Before she could resist, he fastened another strap around her waist, trapping her hands at her side.

  Dr. Janiak bent between her legs and soon something hard and cold entered her. The pain began immediately, causing her to cry out, “Father!”

  The doctor said, “It’ll be alright now. You’ll feel some pain and cramping for a few minutes, and then it will be over.”

  Sarah clenched her teeth to stifle her cries, oddly not wanting to bother the man who was causing it. It went on and then her insides cramped. She didn’t know what the doctor was doing and when it would end, but couldn’t find the words to ask. The two different, yet equally torturous pains worked together with no relief. The doctor did not speak to her again.

  When she thought she could bear it no longer, it stopped. Dr. Janiak emerged with a bloody and distinct shape. Her tear-filled eyes remained glued on him. He wrapped the thing in rags and tossed it in a metal pan with a lid.

  He unfastened her. “You can get up. You’ll feel pain and cramping and you’ll bleed a few more days.” He gave her cotton for her drawers and turned so she could clean herself and dress. “I was careful not to cause any further damage than necessary inside you, but take care not to let this happen again. If you are fortunate enough to conceive in the future, make sure you want it. Another procedure like this will be your last.” He led Sarah back to the front parlor to Peter, waiting as promised. Money changed hands. Peter offered his arm, which she reluctantly took as she couldn’t walk without his help.