It would be an easy sell, she felt at first, and she had first dibs on the selling of it. These state properties were usually a pain in the ass, but this was bread pudding as her grandmother used to say.
The first couple was understandable; their dog refused to walk through the front door. They were polite and took a glance around the front room, remarked on the beauty of the fireplace tiles (something she had missed actually) and left with their wimp dog. She glanced again at the cobalt blue and white tiles and saw that they were story tiles. There was a bearded man standing above a crowd as if giving a benediction and another man, old and bearded, standing over a body of water that looked parted in two. She did not understand what the stories were about, but the tiles added to the place and she felt that it gave the room a soft, peaceful feel. Perhaps she should google the photos and learn something about them.
The other three showings were a comedy of errors. Even she had to admit it. The water in the hallway sunk couple number two. She still wasn’t sure what the hell brought that on, and the plumber assured her that everything was fine. She was sure that the upstairs bathroom had flooded, or that someone had left water running up there, but the bathroom was dry. It stumped her.
The third couple fell in love with the property at first sight until they heard something climbing through the walls.
She called the exterminator who assured her that no infestation of rats or squirrels lived in the walls of the house. She was unconvinced. She heard what she heard and wanted a second opinion. The second opinion confirmed that no rodent was present. Finally, in exasperation, the exterminator huffed over the phone, “lady, that house is so whistle-clean no self-respecting rat would bother with the place. I couldn’t even find a roach.”
So she felt that it was her. She was bad karma, and the place needed someone new to show it off, but she didn’t want to let the sale leave her office. She sent her partner, David Combe, in with couple number four. He came back complaining that the house was defective. The showing was going fine; they seemed to consider it and when they went upstairs; they heard a door slam downstairs.
“We all jumped, then laughed, but then the damn door slammed again.” David looked weary, and a little shaken up. “Listen Carol, I’m ready for any old house to have drafts, back drafts, that sort of thing, but the same door slamming repeatedly is a little off.”
“Well, someone must have been in the house.”
“We looked.”
She looked at him askance.
“Listen Carol, it’s like we pissed the house off…”
“Never mind put the file back on my desk.” She was in no mood to listen to him whine.
The place was in perfect shape to sell. On the third floor of the old heap one day she saw a man walking among the trees. He wore a white shirt and overalls. He was tall and had silvery blond hair. She tried to recall what couple number five looked like and couldn’t. She glanced down at her watch, it was still early but she they may be early. They were meticulous (she remembered that) and were probably hoping to wander around the yard.
Sure enough, the couple was waiting at the front of the house when she walked out the front door. He was in a suit and she was in a polka-dotted pink and white dress. She was hideous. Yes, this was the couple she remembered.
The showing was perfect, and they were standing in the kitchen; the man had his arm around his wife’s narrow, polka dotted waist. The back door was wide open and the evening breeze wafted in. She noticed a funny look on his face first and then his wife’s face seemed to grow longer and her nose looked pinched in. Then she, herself smelled it. It was odious and strong she couldn’t determine from where she it was coming. All three rushed out the back door and started gasping for air.
What the hell?
The back door was still open, and she made her way up the back porch and into the kitchen.
No smell.
The evening was settling in, the shadows were long in the yard and inside the house. The kitchen was order free. All the plain cupboards gleamed and the enamel appliances shone. She walked around the ground floor, taking in deep breaths.
She realized the echo of her own footsteps and felt her shoulders ease. She walked into the large sitting room and the three window seats, each supporting three narrow windows. A narrow couch was still in the living room and she fought the desire to sit down and watch the sunset. She didn’t have the time. She did imagined young girls reading or doing some hand sewing in the window seats. Perhaps even she could learn to do some handwork.
Then she realized what was wrong. She was showing the place to the wrong people. The room could never make way for a flat screen TV, the scratch of a dog’s claws on the wooden floors, or the garish, plastic toys of children. The place was too old; it needed peace. It demanded someone to love it.
Was that running water?
She paused outside the upstairs bathroom. Through the door which was slightly ajar, she heard water. She remembered the last couple turning on the water and admiring the white tile and marble vanity. She smiled and nodded during their examination agreeing with their admiration but felt, for herself that the bathroom was a little cold, a little sterile despite its amenities of a shower, deep, claw-foot tub and enclosed toilet.
With her hand upon the door, she listened intensely. Yes, water was running. She sighed in consternation. How did she miss that? They must have left a faucet turned on. She pushed open the door, shocked by the amount of steam in the room. She blinked and walked further in, angrier still. One of them, without her being aware, must have come back in and checked the shower. She didn’t mind but make sure they turn the damn thing off.
She opened the shower door, steam billowed out, heat encompassed her. She groped for the shower handle. She recalled a long silver handled lever that moved in an almost 360 degree motion. She surmised that one of the couple (she blamed the male part of the equation almost subconsciously) turned on the shower and walked away.
She leaned in, fuming and knowing that her hair was going flat and her suit would sag with all the heat, humidity and steam that was rolling out of the shower and she would look like a soggy rat back at the office. She felt for the lever, almost too hot to grasp she started moving it into the off position when she felt a firm grip upon her wrist. An electric, coppery taste of fear shot through her mouth. She let go of the handle and wrenched her hand toward herself, but the grip would not let go. Bright sparks of fear blinded her, and she thought the water was getting hotter and the steam thicker. She opened her mouth to scream but felt her throat only tighten. She pulled again to release her hand but felt the heavyweight of a wet male body slip forward and slump against her.
Everything went dark.
She bought the old house three weeks later; at last, the sale she wanted.
A year later she sold her portion of the business to David Combe, planned a lily garden in the southeast corner of the property. The grape arbor trimmed back to acceptable proportions promised a beautiful crop the first year. She added cobalt blue tiles to the bathroom floor and walls.
Her few friends encouraged a hot tub, but she resisted their suggestion.
She had an old fashion Christmas party but served nothing more potent than a hot rum punch she found in an old cookbook, played traditional Christmas carols and told everyone that she was taking piano lessons.
Her old partner stops by once in a while to admire her latest piece of art work in embroidery or crewel work, but leaves when he hears the upstairs shower turned on. He doesn’t feel her private life is any of his affair.
The Sale
