Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (27 page)

John looks down at his dad. “Who invited you?” He knows he’s overruled. He’s not sure about this plan of mine to follow the roofline, but he’s willing to figure it out. He and Ed talk about whether to cut into the original rafters.

“Do you mind seeing them?” Ed asks me. “We can take off the sheathing and leave the roof beams intact. I think that’s best.”

I’m trying to visualize the roof beams now, beneath the deshingled roof. “You know, I don’t think the roof beams will bother me at all. They’ll hardly show from this angle.”

“That’s right,” says Ed. “They’ll just be like dividers on this shelf we’ll be making. You can put books up there and use the beams like bookends to hold them up.” He’s right to figure I always need more space for books, but I am pretty sure I won’t shelve them up there.

“I can dress them, too,” John says, “if you decide you don’t like the way they look.”

“You want light up in that attic?” Stan.

“Can I have it?”

“You surely can. I’ll even give you a switch for it so you don’t have to try to find a string in the dark.”

Stan, Ed, John, and I stare at the old roof, some recalcitrant shingles still attached. I don’t know if they see what I see, but I’m convinced it will be perfect when we’re done.

“Maybe we should talk about those back steps,” Ed says, interrupting my reverie. “You want me to call Vito?”

Vito. I can’t stop the butterfly from lighting on my heart. Vito’s taken, I’ve found out in the interim. In a big way. Married. With children. I found out one afternoon in September, when John called him from my kitchen. He wanted to use Vito’s account at the masonry supplier to charge some interlocking stone for a retaining wall in the hillside. I stood nearby as he dialed. “Amy?” he said.

Amy?
I heard. Oh no.

“Vito home yet?”

Home.
Oh no.

As John joked with Amy, I felt my hopes deflate. No Italian hill towns. No dinner, no wine, no Vito charming the waiters with his perfectly accented Italian. It wasn’t that I ever believed in my fantasy, but I hadn’t entirely given up on the idea that maybe I’d see Vito again and we would talk about that book I’d loaned him. That maybe—
Amy.

I crossed the kitchen, picked up a phone book. Flipped to the M’s. There they were, Robert and Amy. Married. Why hadn’t I thought to check before?
Idiot, Kate.

Vito. Call Vito. Do I want Ed to call Vito? Ed is smiling through the pause. I am pretty sure he knows I had a crush on Vito. Ed’s perceptive, and I bet every woman who meets Vito ends up with a crush on him. Poor Vito.
Poor Amy!

“You know,” I say, wondering how many beats have passed while I was occupied with my review of crush and crash of crush, “I don’t think I can afford the steps right now. Can we wait till spring?”

“Well, you might wanna check with him before you decide for sure.” For a moment, I think he means Vito, but when I follow Ed’s glance, I see Egypt has come to sit just behind me. As the construction has progressed, the Cat-in-Charge has taken his title even more seriously. The cat who still runs from the house at the very sight of a vacuum cleaner is now completely calm in the face of compressor motors, nail guns, electric saws. Even as the weather grows cooler, he insists on at least daily inspections. He’s investigated John’s truck inside and out, scented Stan’s boom box cabinet with a swipe of his head, and walked the scaffolding in the front of the cottage. As more of the work moves indoors, he likes sprawling out on the kitchen floor to keep an eye on the guys. Stan calls him the Pharaoh, and Egypt rewards Stan for his show of respect by paying even closer attention to his work.

“Okay to wait on the steps?” I ask Egypt as I lean down to give him a rub behind the ears. Egypt doesn’t answer, or maybe he does. He turns tail and heads toward the doors to the deck.

“Hey, it’s the Pharaoh. On your way out?” Stan asks him. “Just a sec.” And in the manner of any good subject, he puts down his tools to open the door for the King.

Watching Egypt depart, I realize my answer to Katrina’s question this morning was incomplete. Eight men on the job, I should have told her—plus one woman, and one Cat-In-Charge, in charge of us all.

WHILE THE COTTAGE
was waiting to be adopted, no one thought to turn off the water. No heat, one good cold snap, and all the pipes burst. We find this out only when we try to send water through them, creating a small-scale flood in the bathroom and basement below. It is not my favorite day on the job. I’d hoped to slap a coat of paint in the bathroom and call it a day. Fix it up later, over time. But now that I need to replace the plumbing, it makes sense to replace the hideous, uncleanable shower stall, the faucets that don’t turn off all the way, and the toilet, which is ancient and leaky at the base. And why not tile the floor with the eighteen dollars’ worth of pale blue and cream ceramic tiles I found at the Bargain Box? I’m saving the porcelain sink, though. It isn’t beautiful, and I haven’t been able to remove all the green copper stains, but it is original. Same with the medicine cabinet, which, though rusty, sports an etched mirror and a little slot inside for disposal of razor blades. Whenever I open the cabinet door, I wonder where those forty or fifty years of razor blades are now.

This bathroom renovation, unplanned, is not in whatever is left of a budget. I’m more than a little worried about the money. The equity line is all used up, and I have been using those checks that the credit card companies routinely send in the mail. The interest rates are low for six months, and I figure I will refinance the house by the time they rise, but the monthly payments are a little daunting in the meantime. I sit down with paper and pen and invoices and estimates and attempt to come up with a financial plan. When I opted for mahogany decking, I knew I was entering a whole new realm of cash requirements, but I hadn’t counted on spending $2,000 on the cottage bathroom, or sending another $2,500 to Hayden Building Movers.

Mr. Hayden had told me—even before we almost lost the cottage to the bog—that he’d underestimated the challenge of the site. On the day of liftoff, I’d forked over another $1,500, bringing the total paid to $3,000. “Take me awhile to figure it all,” Hayden had said when I gave him the check, “but this covers my costs anyway.” When I didn’t get a bill in June or July or August, I wondered if he’d decided we were settled for the amount of his original estimate, or if he was still figuring. My answer arrived at the end of August, when I received a detailed bill for a total of $5,500.00. Balance due: $2,500. I thought about calling, protesting, and then thought of his growly machine. I wrote him instead. I told him that I understood the difficulties of the site, that I remain impressed and grateful for his excellent work. I also told him I was stunned by the final bill, by how far out of his original $3,000 ballpark we had landed.

“Therefore, it is with the utmost respect, and appreciation of your work and your word that I propose we settle this bill for $4,500,” I wrote. “If you can live with this compromise, I would greatly appreciate it. If you cannot, I will live with your decision, and will be able to pay you the balance at the end of October.” I wondered, as I reread the letter, how a man might handle this situation—write, call, let it go? Did Hayden assume I wouldn’t question him—because I was a woman? I thought about how our relationship had begun: He was Mr. Hayden and I was Kate. And I remembered his mentioning he’d have his “girl” type up my bill. Was there gender bias buried in this balance due? As an independent contractor myself, I know some jobs just turn out to be bigger and take longer than you expect. You end up charging more than planned. I was sympathetic to that possibility in this case. Certainly, Hayden hadn’t planned on extra men—and trucks—to save the cottage from the bog. But this was such a large discrepancy. I sighed, unsure if I was being paranoid, or merely smart to protest. I enclosed a check for $1,500, sealed the envelope, and hoped for the best. A week went by, then two before the call came.

“Bob Hayden,” he said when I answered.

“Hi. You got my note.”

“Look, this is what I ask people. Is there a quarrel with the work?”

I realized he was asking me. “No quarrel at all. Like I said in the letter, I appreciate all your work—”

“No quarrel with the quality of the work?”

“None.”

“It got done.”

“Yes.”

“Satisfied?”

“Very. You guys were great.”

“Need to pay me, then.”

“Okay. I said in the letter I’d abide by your decision.”

“If you’re short on cash, pay me when you can. This month, next month, by the end of the year. I don’t care when, but I need it all. That’s what the work cost.”

“Fine. I just wasn’t prepared for this bill, hadn’t planned on it being so much more than the original estimate. Everything else is adding up, too.”

“I knew when you started this thing you were in way over your head.”

I decide not to bristle, because I want to accept his offer of a payment plan. In the pause, he changes tone. “How’s it going?”

“Well, it
is
costing me more than I planned. But it looks great. You’ll have to come by sometime and see it when it’s all done.”

“Got some pictures of your move. I can drop ’em by.”

“That would be great.” Another awkward pause. “Are all the cottages moved now?” I venture.

“Oh yeah. Done. Lady had a hell of a time with the Historic people on that last one.”

“Was her move as dramatic as mine?”

“Oh, nothing like yours. Short ride. Did it all mechanically. Easy site, no crane. Could never have done yours mechanically. Hill was way too steep.”

“Tell me about the steep hill.” I was thinking of the failed concrete attempts. “Hey, I saw that old house on East Main Street getting set up to be moved. Is that your project?”

“No, some off-Cape outfit. They sent out for bids. Guarantee you they won’t make any money on that move. Just as glad it isn’t me.”

I noticed we had circled back to the issue of paying Mr. Hayden what he is worth. “It’s a huge house,” I offered.

“Three stories.”

“Will they have to cut it up?”

“Oh no, it’s just going across the street. Can get it that far in one piece.”

“You’re kidding—across the street? Why?”

“Yeah, next time you go by, look down that driveway behind that other big Victorian; you’ll see the new foundation. They’re putting in a heart center where the house sits now.”

“No wires in the way then?”

“Plenty of wires just to get that far. Electric, telephone. Bet on one big traffic jam that morning. Not a long move, but it’s complicated with a house that size.”

“I’d like to see it.” Moving my cottage has piqued my interest in all house-movings. I have a fantasy of bringing all the cottage-movers together for a roving picnic, each of us showing off our relocated cottages. I find myself checking out the Move of the Month on
buildingmovers.com
.

“Watch the paper,” he advised. “They’ll announce it.” Another pause in which I realized this was the longest call I’d ever had with Mr. Hayden. Despite the awkward origins of the conversation, I found myself enjoying our telephone small talk.

Mr. Hayden, I suspect, is more complex than his shorthand sentences—which, I have noticed, are replete with subjects and verbs when he isn’t in a hurry, inspecting a job site, or calling out instructions to his crew. There’s no Hollywood romance here, but I think there is a fondness between us. Even though I questioned his bill, I respect and admire his work, and I am pretty sure he knows that. And if it weren’t for Mr. Hayden, there would be no cottage addition. I am grateful, and I am willing to pay, and I am also willing to trust his judgment. Still, I am not unhappy that I wrote the letter about the bill. Funny thing is, I don’t think he is either.*

*
I’VE TYPED ALL THE INSTRUCTIONS
about Egypt’s meds, the phone numbers of John and Ed, a neighbor, my mother. I’ve recorded a message on my office line saying I am away for the week, and I am more or less ready to depart with Katrina for dance camp. Except I’d rather stay home, watch the walls and ceiling appear. Before we reach the highway, I feel nostalgic for what I will not see unfold. In my mind, it is nothing short of miraculous, this progressing project. That word,
miraculous
—it keeps coming up. From the day of the cottage-moving to the day of liftoff—and again and again, as I have watched the building process. I know miracle is not the right word for what is conceived in imagination and created in our human reality. When it is written down, we call it fiction; when we see it in a gallery, we call it art; what we can hear, we call music. I think about how much creativity it takes just to get through an average day, producing no tangible, earth-moving results. It strikes me that we are very limited in what we describe as imaginative.

Aren’t there a million different kinds of imagination? I can walk into an empty bay in an unfinished shopping center, stare at the concrete floor and metal studs and various HVAC-related items dangling from an exposed ceiling, and imagine a bookstore. To create that reality, I need to be able to communicate that vision so that others—men like Ed and John and Peter and Howard—can build it. They need to see it too, to imagine it in three dimensions, to consider details and implications that are beyond what I can visualize. I think of Ed, gently steering me away from a bad design decision, or of John asking me what I think about an idea he has. What do you call this? Shared vision, collective imagining, standing in a sandpit, drawing pictures in the air, seeing a deck? Then making it—that is what I admire most of all. I think of John and Ed, their crew, Stan, and lately, Kevin and Lyle, men with vision linked to skill, men who make something from nothing every day of their lives. A day’s work to them, something like a miracle to me. Maybe we need a special name for the kinds of miracles mere humans perform.

While I am away, Sandy is taking care of Egypt and the house. She is a Jungian psychotherapist and a colleague of Katrina’s. Tiny and blonde, she wears little tortoiseshell glasses and speaks with a Texas accent, using words like Honey and Girlfriend in the way that only a Southerner can do with authority. Sandy’s gestures are large, like her home state, her enthusiasm contagious. When I met her—just last week—she told me about herself, her work, her recent move to New England, and her book project. As she spoke, I felt sure I could trust her with my kitty and my house-in-progress.