Cottage for Sale, Must Be Moved (29 page)

OFFICE-MOVING DAY
is set for December 17. Tony and Harry are coming to help.

Howard and I have already moved the Bond—a huge oak kitchen cabinet from the early 1900s, the British equivalent of an American Hoosier. The unit is about six feet tall and four feet wide. Designed to store all manner of pantry items, the Bond features a white enamel fold-down counter ideal for rolling out piecrusts, but it lacks the built-in flour-sifter that some Hoosier cabinets have. That’s just as well, because I use every inch of available storage space in my Bond to hold office supplies, files, and reference materials. I bought it several years ago, and it was delivered by a husband-and-wife team, he American, she British. I’d given directions replete with landmarks, including my standard, “Slow down when you see the Blessed Virgin Mother.”

When they arrived with the Bond, they told me the story. “I missed the turn,” he said. A common enough error. It’s sometimes hard to see Mary in the dark, especially if she isn’t lighted up. The Catholics are erratic in their attention to the BVM. She’s down the hill from the church itself, and perhaps the priests don’t have occasion to drive by Mary that often. They don’t notice when the spotlight burns out, leaving her blasphemously in the dark. I cannot explain how much this annoys me, more than for the sheerly practical reason of losing a directional landmark. I consider the Virgin’s presence a benediction of sorts, and not just because I am a long-lapsed Catholic. I am equal opportunity when it comes to blessings, saints, and masters. Just a stone’s throw away from Mother Mary is a large statue of Buddha. He sits high, in the middle of a brook, on another part of the property originally willed to the Catholic archdiocese, and subsequently sold off to fund the building of the church. I’ve always wondered what the priests had to say about Buddha when they discovered him, large and content, the water flowing around him. I take it as a sign of their respect that Buddha remains, though now he is on private property. A bit of a shame. Still, taken together, the Buddha and Mother Mary are a very strong spiritual team. I like living nearby.

The Bond-delivering wife interrupted my silent reverie on the neighborhood saints. “We saw the statue of Mary, but he didn’t think we’d gone far enough.”

“It didn’t seem like we’d driven that far, and I didn’t remember seeing the general store you mentioned,” he put in on his own behalf.

“He keeps driving until I say, that must have been it. But he is sure we haven’t gone far enough. ‘For God’s sake,’ I say to him, ‘how many bloody Virgin Mothers do you think there are in this town?’”

I couldn’t help laughing at her exasperation and conceded she had an excellent point. He just shrugged and asked me where I wanted them to place the Bond. In the bedroom, I told him, on this side—the side of my bedroom that has been my office for the past five or six years. For the five or six years before that, my office was on the other side of my bedroom. I’ve rearranged more than you’d expect given my limited options, always attempting to make the office feel a little farther away.

This weekend, we’ll move the office out of the house entirely, and into the cottage. This is the moment I have been waiting for, the reason for all the chaos of the past six months. The cottage is ready; the office is lovely, the walls, blue above and Kate and Howard’s custom-blended stain on the wood below. The floors have lightened with refinishing. They catch the shadows of the six-over-sixes when the winter sun pours through the windows. I can hardly wait to move into this new and glorious space. I cannot imagine what it will be like to have elbow room, to be able to move from one project to the next without clearing everything off my desk to start all over again. And I am especially looking forward to the morning commute, the distance we have created between home and work.*

*
THE WEEKEND BEGINS
on a Friday with the arrival of the Bog Boys in their Volvo station wagons. Shortly after they get here, Harry and I take off in his car for some off-Cape shopping. “Sorry—no heated seats,” Harry jokes, a reference to Tony’s newer vehicle. Tony is very proud of this feature, and also of his working air conditioning. Harry says he’ll sweat, which is easy to say in the wintertime. I’ve told him he should fix it now, just so he has it; after all, the car only cost him $1,500. But he reminds me that he drove around those last days of his Toyota-Chevy without AC, and he survived. I’m convinced that if he had hair on his head, air conditioning would be more of a priority for him.

“Besides, the heat works great,” he says.

“That’s what you said about the Nova,” I say, “on the day we went to look at the cottage.” We both smile. It’s just ten days shy of a year since we first saw the cottage, my cottage. So much has happened in a year’s time.

We’re going to the Wal-Mart in Plymouth, where I intend to buy a little futon for the yellow room, and a microwave—my first. I have resisted owning a microwave for all these years. It isn’t simply a matter of principle—though there is that—but a matter of practicality. You can’t fit a fax machine and a microwave on the same kitchen counter and still have room to cut veggies. Now that I have the space, I find I also have a need—twenty-something relatives due for the family Christmas in a couple of weeks, and there’s no way I can keep everything warm in the oven.

While we are off-Cape, we will also patronize the new Home Depot, where Harry wants to buy a table saw. I feel more than a little uncomfortable with this foray into the world of retail giants. As a consultant to independent booksellers, I believe in the value of local ownership. I believe also in owner-occupied stores where you are noticed, indeed welcomed, and where your purchase matters in a direct way to another human being. I’ve never been inside a Home Depot, and until two weeks ago, my only acquaintance with Wal-Mart was through Billie Lett’s novel
Where the Heart Is.
The pregnant protagonist, having left her no-good boyfriend, drives halfway across the country and ends up living in a Wal-Mart. That book softened my attitude a little, though I still think if I were going to hide out somewhere, I’d follow the example of the kids in
From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.
In that one, two kids—a brother and sister, as I recall—manage to hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. As host institutions go, the Metropolitan has a lot more to see. On the other hand, you can grocery-shop in a Wal-Mart.

This Wal-Mart is busy with people piling stuff into overflowing shopping carts. It is the week before Christmas, I reason. Still, I get the feeling that everyone shops here except me. But here I am, watching Harry heft the studio futon ($59.99; I saw it when I was in my first Wal-Mart ever, two weeks ago, on an errand for the bookstore in Maine) into our cart. We proceed to the appliance aisle, where I select a Magic Chef microwave without those annoying little food icons on the front. It’s white with a single timing knob. “Kinda retro,” Harry says. “Go get another cart.” We proceed to the register with two shopping carts. The cashier rings me up. For less than $200, I have acquired a new appliance, a spare bed for the yellow room, and a baker’s rack to hold my plants in the office. All made in Third World countries, I scold myself. Possibly by children in sweatshops.

At Home Depot, I am underwhelmed. It is vast, true, but I find that the closer I look, the less they really carry. Yes, they carry windows and doors and paint and floors and plumbing and electrical supplies and rugs and tools. But within each category, they carry items from only a couple of manufacturers. They also don’t have deals like my old friend, the Bargain Box at the Mid-Cape Home Center, or wide-plank wooden floors like those at my favorite hardware store. But the man who helps Harry select a table saw is helpful and knowledgeable. And he turns out to be a musician who knows Harry.

Okay. I got some good stuff cheap at Wal-Mart. And Home Depot wins points for good service and providing at least one musician with a day job. But I still feel like I should visit the Virgin Mother when we get home and say a few Hail Marys.*

*
IN THE HALLWAY,
Tony is holding the canister vacuum cleaner while Howard vacuums the sawdust off the walls and ceiling. Howard is standing on the stepladder that John left behind. I take a photo of them, Howard intent on his job, Tony so serious in the way he holds the vacuum he appears to be taking part in a solemn ceremony. They can’t speak over the sound of the vacuum, so their ceremony is wordless. I offer to run for lunch. Howard declines, planning to leave a little after noon, but Harry and Tony place their orders and I run out for Indian food. “It’s your chance to try some Indian food,” I say to Howard. I’ve learned during our days together that Howard’s son-in-law—the one who isn’t handy around the house—is East Indian. Howard’s told me he plans a trip over the holidays to install that wire molding and do a few more things around his daughter’s house. By now, I’m convinced that Howard is not so displeased with his son-in-law’s lack of building talent. Howard’s superior skills assure him of his place in his daughter’s heart—and home.

“You can heat up the leftovers in the microwave,” Tony says as we finish our meal. It becomes a refrain for the weekend, Tony pointing out all the uses I will find for the shiny new appliance that Harry has unpacked and placed on the corner counter. After lunch, we get to the business of moving, but not until I have taken pictures of Harry’s beautiful handiwork from all angles: desk alone on refinished wood floors, sunshine streaming through windows; desk with desk maker leaning on it; desk with a Bog Boy hefting each end; and after we lay the carpet that pulls the wood tones and the blue walls together, desk with Harry seated at it, striking an executive pose.

My new desk is beautiful, cherry-topped with purple-heart accents and copper-pipe legs. And it’s huge. I’ll be able to open a blueprint on my new desk and still have room to make notes. In the past, all layouts and architectural drawings were spread out either on my bedroom floor, my dining room table, or—often—my bed. Egypt prefers the floor option, but I find it tricky to see through his bulk when he is stretched across a crucial element of a plan.

That night, Tony claims the futon in the yellow room after we test it out as a couch—the three of us sitting side by side, knees up to our chins. We must look idiotic. Egypt confirms this hypothesis by sitting just out of reach, tail-side facing us, on the little blue chenille rug in front of the futon. “Maybe I’ll actually get some sleep tonight,” Tony says. He’s thrilled to be a house-width away from Harry’s legendary snoring. Harry, past the stage where he denies that he snores, takes the remark in stride.*

*
BY THE END
of the next day, the office is in place. My bedroom is a little lopsided now, the room robbed of exactly half its function. But I find I enjoy sitting in my bed under the new matching windows and staring at the empty space. I’ll keep my eye out for a comfy armchair, but for now, I inhale the space where my desk used to be. It will be good for dancing, I think. More room to move, and easier to close the door and use the full-length mirror I hung for practicing. Good for flute practice, too. The acoustics will improve with less furniture in the room.

The first day of my new commute, I make myself a cup of morning tea and stroll down the hallway. I am thrilled—and, to be honest, a little scared. It’s so lovely, the blue walls, the deep wood wainscoting, the yellow pine floors, Harry’s handmade furniture. When I sit down at my desk, I feel as though I will have to do great things, think great thoughts, write great words, and not because I feel inspired, but because I feel like I need to live up to my surroundings. I’m in my new, longed-for office, and I find I am entirely intimidated.

The phone rings, and I reach for it. John. “Do you have the wood for the hall?” I have grown unused to these early morning logistics and it takes me a minute to comprehend his question. Oh—he means the birch flooring.

“I haven’t picked it up yet, but it has arrived,” I tell him.

“I’d like to put the floor in this week, if that’s okay with you.” We’d planned on the week after Christmas, but he is feeling as though we are cutting it too close for the family party, scheduled for the day before New Year’s Eve. It is the new deadline, this party, and so far it is working to my advantage. Kevin promises I’ll have plumbing in the cottage before the party, the tile man says he’ll finish the bathroom floor in time, and John says we’ll finish the hallway, no problem.

I should have had the family party in October.

“The wood is supposed to sit in the environment for a few days,” I remind him.

“But you have some there already.” He is talking about the three boxes I found months ago at the Bargain Box.

“Forty-five square feet,” I say. The numbers are easy to retrieve. Six more boxes were required for the job. And they weren’t cheap. Birch, I learned, is used more rarely for floors than the standard oak, or even fir. It wasn’t easy to match the boards I found at the Bargain Box, and when I finally tracked down a distributor, I paid a premium for the beautiful blond wood from Canada—the special-order flooring cost three times as much per box.

“They’re in the house?” John asks.

I confirm that the wood from the Bargain Box is now stacked in the hallway. Over the weekend, I had Harry and Tony haul the three boxes up from the basement.

“Good. We’ll start with those. If we pick up the other wood today, we can let it adjust for a couple of days. I have to work at the station tomorrow anyway,” he says. “I’ll be there in about half an hour—as soon as the girls are off.” On those mornings when John isn’t at the firehouse, he takes the morning duty with Katelin and Nicole. Often I can hear breakfast activity in the background of his calls.

By nine, John is at the door, and I am adequately presentable. I am aware as he enters that I am truly happy to see him, and not just because he is here to make me a beautiful floor for the hallway. I’ve missed him. “It’s good to see you,” I say.

“It’s good to see you, too,” John says. To a stranger, ours might sound like an automatic exchange, but there is a smile between us, a meeting of our eyes, and a two-beat pause after we greet each other. I am pretty sure that John senses, as I do, the warmth behind the words. I think back to the days when I wasn’t sure of him, when I wished for John’s calm and steady dad instead. I cannot locate in my mind the exact moment when things shifted between us, when John began to enjoy the project, and I began to enjoy—and fully appreciate—John. Perhaps it was the slow, steady process of working together, of talking, deciding together, of laughing together. John and I have had fun, and maybe that is at the root of our unforeseen friendship. We have become collaborators; we have developed a mutual respect for each other, for our differing ideas and ways. We have learned to joke, we have learned to listen, and we have discovered we are perfect partners. What I could imagine, he has made real—and often, more beautiful.