“Well, I think you’re going to love this place. Come on, let’s see the kitchen and you can tell me a little about what it is you’re looking for.”
The walk there was lengthy. Even in his socks now, Arthur stepped lightly on the flawless hardwoods. A stray bit of debris clinging to his foot, or so much as a toenail poking out, could lead to a scratch, and this flooring was more valuable than his entire net worth.
As they walked, Wren peppered Linda with absurd questions: “Now, does the house come with a service staff or will we need to hire our own? How big is the wine cellar? Is there a number I can call if someone yucky is walking around outside and I don’t like the looks of them?”
Linda fielded them like a pro, then: “Dr. Peterson, what about you? What is it that gets you excited about your potential new home?”
He took the opportunity to speak honestly: “It’s not so much features and looks that I really care about, but the feel of a place. I’m hoping we can find a neighborhood with plenty of young families with kids, good schools, friendly neighbors. Someplace that can feel like home.” They reached the kitchen, finally, and found it was surprisingly modest, in both size and features. A simple white quartz countertop, a sink, plenty of open storage. It was the kind of kitchen he could see their family in, believe it or not, if it was detached from this monstrosity of a mansion and placed in a more normal dwelling. He could visualize the entire thing and it gave him hope and optimism for the first time that day. He could visualize it all: him clumsily chopping fruits into bite-size pieces on a cutting board, Wren trying to corral the baby into its high chair, both of them tired and disheveled and laughing, deeply joyful, sneaking kisses while the baby threw messy handfuls of raspberries all over the floor.
“Quite the butler’s pantry, isn’t it?” Linda said.
“I’m sorry, the what?” Arthur said.
“Butler’s pantry. For food prep and storage.”
“So this isn’t the kitchen.”
Linda laughed. “Of course not. That’s through here.” She pushed through a swinging door and they were off into the kitchen proper, the butler’s pantry’s big brother. It had thesame aesthetic but was three times as large, outrageously spacious and grand. Arthur could envision Martha Stewart preparing a Thanksgiving feast in here. And the Peterson-Morris family was not invited.
“What do you think?” Linda asked.
Arthur looked to Wren, who was waving her hand under the automatic touchless faucet, turning it on as if by pure magic, watching it shut off, and doing it again.
“You know, Linda, seeing it in person, I think it might be a little too much house for us,” Arthur said, feeling it was time to bring the charade to an end. “We’re just two people, with one little tiny one on the way. In other words, we probably don’t need thetwoswimming pools.”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded. Arthur could see the look, the disappointment as she began to suspect they weren’t the high rollers she initially thought. An urgent care doctor, perhaps, instead of private practice.
“But the place is beautiful,” he quickly added. “A slightly smaller version would probably be exactly what we’re looking for.”
There had been some value in this visit, at least. There were bits and pieces of this place that spoke to him. The area, just maybe a part of it that was outside the confines of the golf course. The quiet roads with kids riding bikes; he’d seen them on the way in and couldn’t help but smile at the memories it brought back of his own childhood.
“Well, hold on,” Wren interjected. “It is a little cookie-cutter, don’t you think? I mean, white much?” She gestured around the kitchen, at the white countertops, white backsplash, and white farmhouse sink. “I think we’d be open to something with a little more personality.”
Linda jotted down notes. Taking the feedback to hearteven though this was all a farce. Even still, Arthur didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about what they wanted.
“But school district is important to us, too. And being around other families like us. We don’t want to be out in the middle of nowhere, or in the city.”
“Who says we don’t want to be in the city?” Wren said, now pulling out a cabinet drawer and giving it a little push, watching it glide back into place.
“Well, it’s just that we’d have more space in the suburbs, but still be close by.”
“Ah, right, and we can become obsessed with every blade of our meticulously manicured lawn.”
“If it gives the kids some green space to run around, why not?”
“Kids can run around in the city. I did,” Wren spat out, suddenly defensive. “And I didn’t go to the ‘best schools’ and I turned out OK.”
“It’s a lot safer out here,” he said, instantly regretting it. He knew how defensive Wren got about Baltimore’s “reputation,” fueled heavily by Fox News and people rewatchingThe Wire, as if there were a shotgun-toting drug dealer lurking around every corner.
“Is that what you think?”
“Come on, Wren.” He lowered his voice, speaking only to her. “The city’s got its problems, OK? This is just about giving our kid a nice place to grow up.” Then he dropped to a whisper. “This is all make-believe anyway, so what does it matter?”
He hadn’t meant to insult Wren with the schools comment, or by bringing up crime and safety. But he was also annoyed. He didn’t feel like taking a principled stand right now, trying to prove he was cool enough to live in the hectic, crowded city when he preferred a much slower way of life.
And didn’t every parent want the best for their kids, even better than what they had? He didn’t appreciate her implying that growing up in a nice house in the suburbs meant you were devoid of personality or free will, just another cog in the capitalist machine. She hadn’t said as much, but he knew she was thinking it. If she turned out OK despite her chaotic upbringing, he’d like to think he did, too, despite his milquetoast one.
“You’re right,” she said. “If we can just keep them completely safe, never expose them to any risk or anything different or remotely uncomfortable, then everything will be just perfect.”
