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I don’t know if it’s enough when it’s finished, but I do know I’ve given it everything I have. I hit send to deliver it to Lisa and go back downstairs to get Evie.
“It’s done,” I tell Lisa. “I emailed it to you. What happens next?”
“I enclose it with your offer. And then we wait.” She squeezes my wrist as if to reassure me that it will all work out, but it’s hard to imagine that it will if they reject my offer. I just have to hope.
And so I do. Hard. Day and night for two days. Two loooooong days.
Two stressful days in which I imagine I’m hammering the neighbor’s face when I teach the Builder Buddies workshop at the store on Saturday. And I blame him and growl when I can’t fit my sweatshirt in the dresser Evie and I share. And I daydream about egging his stupid, beautiful house for trying to take my homely one.
On Monday, Lisa comes into the store, grinning. “You got it! He won’t counter. You close in four weeks.”
This leads to whooping and something that is maybe a square dance but is definitely not like any other dance as Lisa and I link arms and skip in a circle while Bill laughs.
It leads to ice cream with Evie after school and a flurry of crayon drawings as she designs her rainbow room.
It leads to list after revised list as I put together a three-year renovation plan, wishing I could do it sooner, but so, so glad I get to do it at all.
Evie and I get ourownhome.
Chapter Five
Henry
Icouldn’tdoit.I had the money, but I couldn’t outbid her on the house. Arshneel insisted I do a walkthrough with him to understand the full extent of the repairs needed. And he was right; I wouldn’t get the monthly rent I’d need to make the house a reasonable investment. But in the end, I kept hearing her voice in my head saying, “I want a home.”
I didn’t bid again.
I catch glimpses of her now and then, walking past the property and scoping it out. I can’t quite gauge her. She looks about the age of my students, or at least the seniors. Medium brown hair, average height, lean build, but I’ll admit she makes jeans look good.
She’s wearing a shirt for the local hardware store every time I see her, so perhaps that’s why she reminds me of the attractive assistant on that old sitcom with Tim “The Toolman” Taylor and that neighbor who talked over the fence. I might even find her pretty if she hadn’t already shown herself to be a harpy.
I hear her too—or more specifically, her child.
Today has so far been safe from such disruptions.
This is what I think exactly two seconds before a loud thunk sounds against the side of the house. I jump and curse, wondering if a branch has fallen, when a small face topped by light brown hair peeks over the windowsill.
“Sorry I hit your house. My ball slipped. It doesn’t look broken. Your house, I mean. Balls bounce. They can’t break.” Then she giggles like it’s the silliest idea she’s ever heard and disappears.
I’m staring in befuddlement where her face appeared and vanished when I hear her shout, “Let’s play catch, Mama. It’s hard by myself!”
Even at a distance, the kid can speak at a frequency that vibrates my eardrum. It’s as if it’s custom-designed to pierce my windowpanes. The child should be studied for science.
These are not what I would call “good” vibrations.
I look down at the papers I’m grading. At least my students have somewhat straightened out. Irritating excuses about absences and late work have dropped by a half since their first essays were returned, as if they fear I’ll have no more patience for those things than I did for their half-baked papers.
They’re correct, of course.Theymay have no issue with wasting their parents’ tuition money, but I’ll certainly make them work for it.
The cat is the other interesting development. He—she? It. It is a feral black cat I’ve spotted lurking beneath my carport twice now when it rained. At least, I assume it’s feral. I don’t know much about cats. But it wears no tags or even collar. It looks a bit . . . tufty, his fur patchy in a couple of places, which makes me think it’s male. A lady cat would care more about her grooming. He slinks rather than walks, and the handful of times I’ve seen him, I always barely catch sight of him from the corner of my eye.
When I get home from campus later the next afternoon, the crisp autumn sun is shining like it’s never seen a cloud, and Cat streaks past me, a fluid black shadow, disappearing around the corner of the house. Each sighting feels like an achievement. This must be how birdwatchers feel when they spot something new. It’s a bit of a thrill. Perhaps I should take up the hobby myself.
Cat is not fluffy. In fact, he’s so skinny, he must be in charge of feeding himself. I drop my things inside and rustle in the refrigerator until I find some leftovers and set a bowl of shredded chicken out for him. I make a mental note to buy tuna.
When I leave the following morning for work, I walk out to a decapitated bird on my back doorstep.
The scientist in me is intrigued by this cultural exchange. I offer Cat shelter and food, and he returns the favor by hunting for me. Cat is quite the most interesting character I’ve met in Creekville so far. And as I glance over to the empty house whose quiet days are numbered, I decide he’s also possibly the least annoying.
