The Grip of It Read online

  “Are you okay? You’re scratching.”

  “It must be the dust in here.” She eats another bite. I watch her fingernails approach her arm again. She pulls them back. She shakes it off.

  I want to ask if she saw the children in the woods. I want to lay out what the bartender told me. We play chicken. We wait for the other to give in and listen.

  Julie breaks. “Also…,” she says, stalling, “I found a grave.” She bites her lip, aware of how paranoid she must sound. “In the yard. It’s unmarked.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. Maybe this will serve up an answer for us. I cock my head and I tuck my lips over my teeth. She stands. She takes my hand. We go out the back door. We traipse across the dew-wet lawn. She points at a plot of stale dirt lined on one side with rocks.

  “We don’t know.”

  She says, “I do, at least as much as I know anything about this house.”

  I furrow my brow. All of a sudden it feels as if we’re halfway down a dark alley with a stranger who seemed friendly enough back at the street. Julie toes the edge of the plot. In that moment I feel all the love I possibly can for her. I see a wet drop land on the dirt below. I raise her chin to me and have to remind myself not to kiss her when her lips blouse themselves out like that. “Hey, this is nothing. We’re having some cold feet, but this is nothing. A patch of dirt.”

  She glances to the house next door. She looks for something, but turns back to search my eyes instead. “What did you have to tell me?”

  I hesitate. In this moment of pause, the chirp of the locusts in the trees and the buzzing of the birds in search of one last meal before dark crescendo to a crushing maximum. I think of the hum in the house and wonder if it might be nature we hear. Maybe the threat forms when the sound is filtered through brick and glass. Then the warble dies away. I hear no wildlife at all. The sky has turned a gray blue. The sun is gone. I return to the task at hand. I don’t want to upset her even more. I know that I owe it to her to be honest and share my worry, too, though. I tell her about the children in the trees. I tell her how they call to each other. They hunt for a murderer.

  Julie acts as if this is less concerning. “That’s just kids playing.”

  I feel hurt for taking her seriously and being dismissed myself. This is how she copes, though. “You’re right,” I say. I’m proud of her for not taking this trouble on. I try to believe. I think of the bartender’s stories and keep them to myself.

  9

  AT WORK, PEOPLE are polite when they ask about the house and how unpacking is going and I tell myself they don’t resent that I was hired as VP of product even though they’ve all been here longer and know the business better than I do. I tell stories about finding more secret places in the house and about how floorboards shift and we find the blank treasure that is more storage and about how the humidity swells the windows in their frames and how the glass makes the forest waiting behind the house seem wet and close and I say we think our neighbor might be spying on us and they laugh about what they think is my paranoia. I say, “I’ll have all of you over soon so you can see for yourselves” and “Fine, don’t believe me,” and women and men alike huddle at the entrance to my cube to make easy jokes, until the day Connie asks what’s on my neck, and I don’t know the answer, so she comes over and smoothes the wispy hairs up and tugs my collar down and says, “This bruise. What happened?”

  The two of us rush to the bathroom down the hall and I turn my back to the mirror, but also crane my neck to try to see what she’s talking about, and when I yank at my collar myself, I realize that the area is tender, but the angle is all wrong, and I can’t see. Connie runs to get the compact from her purse, and it takes me a few tries to get the orientation of reflections right, but there it is, a bruise, large and oddly shaped, and we can’t see the bottom of it so we shut the bathroom door and lock it and, because Connie is such an old friend with whom I used to change in dance class, and because it doesn’t matter, I take my shirt off and the bruise is even larger than we thought, running almost down to my waist. Connie asks what happened and I say, “I don’t know,” and she gives me that stern look that says both You can tell me and For real? We’re going to fall into this cliché?

  I say, “Really, Connie. I’m fucking freaked-out right now,” and a million things flash through my mind, but mostly it’s those books I read as a preteen: 6 Months to Live, I Want to Live, Too Young to Die. “Cancer,” I say out loud. “It’s some sort of blood cancer.”

  Connie immediately sobers up. “Come on, Julie. Let’s not be dramatic,” and when I look at her with real fear in my eyes, she pulls me to her and she’s so bony I don’t expect her hug to be as comforting as it is, but I can tell she’s watching my back in the mirror, and trying not to grab at the bruise, because she’d seen me flinch when I pulled my shirt off. “Did you get wasted and fall down again?” she asks, smiling into my hair, knowing I’ve pulled myself together since college, and I can’t help but laugh, because even if Connie is not my best friend, it turns out she’s exactly who I want in this bathroom with me. She’s all I’ve got in this tiny new town and she’s still hugging me, but I’m trying to break free to put my shirt back on and she won’t let go and it’s some kind of joke I don’t get, and that’s why I love her, because she can make me laugh in a nonsense way, and she says, in a spooky voice, “I think it’s growing.”

  I laugh and give her one final push. “So comforting, Con.”

  She squints her eyes at my reflection, as if she might actually be noticing something, but I pull my shirt down and her eyes snap back to mine, and she says, “Yeah, I’m kidding. Couldn’t be.”

  10

  JULIE TAKES HER turn talking to my parents. She puts them on speaker. The picture Julie paints of the house is a bit rosier than the truth. She feels the need to protect us against criticism. It was her idea not to tell my parents about my gambling problem. “They’ll offer only worry and help, and we don’t need either,” she’d said. I felt both better and worse because of this decision. I thought of our vows.

  On the call, my mother pipes in with advice and recommendations on what could be done to improve the place, sight unseen. “Have you replaced the hardware in the bathroom and kitchen? That goes a long way. A fresh coat of paint and some new switch plates for the lights. It’s those little details that can make a home feel really clean and new.” Julie leans her head on the back of the couch, stretching her neck and rolling it along the edge of the upholstery gently. The bruise also goes unmentioned. I turn my finger into a blade and run it across her neck. She lolls her tongue out of her mouth. She knows what she should do to save her own sanity. She waits for my mom to finish so that it’s my dad she cuts off.

  “Thank you for all of your advice!” Julie’s voice is so chipper and believable. “I should probably get to the hardware store before it closes! I hope the two of you have a lovely weekend, though.”

  My mother responds, “You let us know when you’re ready for visitors, okay, Julie? We’ll be there in a jiff. Say goodbye to James for us!”

  “Will do! Talk to you later!” Julie exaggerates the gesture it takes to end the call. “That they can be here in a jiff is not a comfort to me.”

  I take her hand. “That jiff is longer than it used to be. I’d say you’re on the up-and-up here.”

  She frowns. “Do you want to go to the hardware store?”

  “Not really, right?”

  Julie sighs. “She has a point. Maybe if we put a little work into the house, it’ll start to feel like our own.”

  Julie, at heart, is a people pleaser, a straight-A student. She’s had a series of jobs she hates but can’t help being the best at. If someone gives her advice she deems sound, she’ll act on it immediately. Julie pulls on sneakers and a jacket. I follow her out and still can’t quite remember which way to turn my key in the door to lock it. When I get down to the driveway, she has already installed herself in the passenger seat and put t
he keys in the ignition for me. “Thanks for driving.” It is never something I mind. I watch Julie relax in the seat beside me and we pull away.

  We turn onto a side street and then out onto the main road. The farther we get from the lake, the more modest the houses become. Wider spaces separate them. The flat road winds through a tree-lined canopy. Otherwise we’d see all the way to the horizon. When the street spits us out into full light, we pass motels, then condo complexes, town houses, small ranches, and then a section of big old mansions wreathing the center of town. A defunct fountain sits in the middle of a square that’s mostly grass with triangular beds of geraniums and lamb’s ears. “Could you get any more white-bread?” I ask.

  “I’m so glad you care about plants,” she says. “I appoint you head of our landscaping.”

  “If you insist,” I say. I think of how I will transform the empty plot of dirt at the back of the yard into a raised vegetable garden. I will ask what Julie wants to eat and grow it for her.

  The parking spots in front of the hardware store are full, as are the ones at the pharmacy next to it. “I mean, it’s a miracle these places stay in business what with those shopping centers out by the highway. I’m surprised there are this many cars,” Julie says.

  I pull into a spot around the corner in front of the town hall. “These shops are probably more expensive, too.” I let myself out.

  “But they’re owned by human beings, not corporate giants, and that’s why we are choosing to shop here.” Julie slams her door as punctuation.

  Inside, Julie picks the most expensive faucet for the bathroom sink. She chooses the least expensive plates for the light switches, saying, “I can compromise.”

  We watch as our paint is mixed: Gentle Cream for the bedroom, Mascarpone for the living room, Wind Chime for the kitchen, Croquet for the bathroom.

  “Croquet isn’t a color,” I say.

  Julie rolls her eyes.

  “Croquet doesn’t even tip off what color it might be. Is it green?”

  Julie shows me the paint chip. “Gray really, with a greenish tint, I guess.”

  She lists off items I can grab: a painting tray, rollers, primer, brushes. I gather. I turn the aisle corners expecting to run into another customer, but we’re the only ones in the store. “Where do you think all the people are?” I ask Julie.

  Julie looks around as if she hadn’t realized we were alone.

  The girl in the stiff blue apron helping us can’t be older than sixteen. When she talks, she hides her braces by cupping a hand over her mouth. I look to Julie because I know this is the sort of thing she’ll be charmed by. She is giving the girl a smile I’m sure she thinks is friendly, but it exhibits pained pity instead. “What’s fun to do around here?” Julie asks. “It seems like there must be people around. Where are they hanging out?”

  The girl looks stunned, as if she’s been accused of something. She shakes her head and continues ringing up our items.

  A man on the verge of retirement hobbles out of a windowed office to make sure we’ve found what we need. “Jenny took good care of you?”

  Julie is quick with the effusive praise. “Couldn’t have been more helpful. You’ve got a keeper here.”

  “They all leave me for college eventually. The ones who want to stay aren’t the ones I want to keep.” The man turns back to his office. “Come back to see us again and we’ll keep being here.”

  “We hope so,” Julie says, and looks at me expecting some kind of merit badge. Jenny puts the paint cans in a plastic bag and I ask if she has a box. She disappears into the back to look, returning with one that’s twice as big as it needs to be. I accept it and pile the supplies in. We lug everything out to the car.

  Julie says, “Oh, an ice cream parlor.”

  “Let’s check it out.” I close the trunk.

  “Only if you really want to.” She keeps her eyes trained on the shop.

  “Oh, I really want to. If you’d be so kind as to accompany me, that is.” I place a hand on the small of her back, a bit damp from exertion, and push her across the street.

  In the shop, no one stands behind the counter. We can hear voices through the open back door. We examine the flavors. I know Julie will stick with her standard. Still I ask her.

  “Oh, chocolate, of course. You?”

  “Maybe eggnog.”

  “Ugh, James. You don’t even like eggnog.” She hushes her voice. “And that’s probably been sitting in the cooler since Christmas.”

  “I think it’s time to give it another try.”

  Julie sneers.

  I step behind the counter to call out, “Hello? We’d like some ice cream.”

  “James!” Julie says, embarrassed. “I’m sure they’ll be out in a second.”

  But minutes go by. Still, no one emerges. “Can I go back there now?” I’m not asking permission so much as warning Julie.

  “Let’s go. We don’t need ice cream,” she says.

  “For real?”

  “Yes. It’s a sign. No ice cream for us.” She pulls open the door. I follow her. As we pass in front of the window, I swear I see someone peek in from the back.

  Julie lets herself into the driver’s side. She starts the car. I buckle myself in beside her. When we drive past the ice cream shop, I see the CLOSED sign has been flipped. The lights are off. Julie doesn’t notice. We reverse our course through the patterns of zoning.

  Back under the canopy of the winding road, I ask, “Do you feel better? Having a project to work on now?”

  I can tell she feels taken to task. “I know it must seem like I’m throwing money at our problems, but if we think of the house as an investment, this money will all come back to us in time, and if we update little by little, we’ll be able to sell the house someday for much more.”

  “Julie, we just moved in. You’re already thinking of when we’ll leave?” I have also already wondered about when we might move on, about what might prompt such a decision. Would it be the grave or that noise or old age and an inability to keep up with the demands of a home that size? But thinking about the house as an investment that we’d cash in on is not one of the ways I’d considered it.

  She’s quiet for a moment. I know our minds pause to shape themselves around that same possibility, of admitting a mistake and moving on, but she spins out of that current. “That’s how smart homeowners think, James. I’m an investor, not a gambler.”

  I tell myself it’s not a dig. I tell myself that, if it is a dig, I’m getting off pretty easy.

  11

  I SIT ON the lawn in the backyard, pulling the thick, multifingered spirals of weeds out with all my might. I thrill when I succeed in uprooting the thick plug of a base from the ground. My back aches and I take a break, staring at that blank spot that hides something I don’t want to know. Wide gaps of dirt populate the areas between the patches of grass where the weeds once were. I’ll need to add a bag of seed to the list of items to acquire on my next trip into town. I hear what I think is a flock of birds at the forest’s edge, but when I look up into the trees, I see a couple of children, arranged high in the branches, and assume there are more I can’t see farther in based on the volume of their cries. These must be the children James mentioned. I try to pick out what they’re calling to each other, but I can’t flip their sounds from chirps to language.

  I finger the soil, scraping, unpacking, until it’s fresh and loose, and I begin to work my fingers into the earth, get my hands buried deep enough that my wrists feel the cool soil, and let them stay there, feeling fixed in place, grounded, until the chill resolves, and my hands have warmed the earth around them and I feel the dirt go to mud, and it takes a huge effort to pull them up, and the first thing I think when I see them is that these aren’t my hands. These are different hands from the ones I dug into the ground. These fingers look longer now and these palms open wider. I stare up at the sun until the light burns my eyes, and I close them, pull my dirty hands to my face to find some darkness. When
my sight recovers, and I let the light back in, everything looks clearer. My hands are my own again and I can see veins in my legs that are closer to the surface than they’d been before. The grass looks sharper and the dirt is clumped in pillowy mounds around the holes I’d cleaved and I feel a face right in front of my own, but I am alone, and I know that if I am not alone, it is just some other version of myself that is nearby. I feel breath on my cheeks, and I think of the way my hands seemed wrong, and I inhale and the air is cool and the light darkens and I look for a cloud, but I can’t even find the sun because my vision is dark or blocked and I feel a tightness around both wrists, snugger than the dirt had been, but when I pull back, I can move my arms fine, yet the pressure remains. I stumble to stand and lurch-run inside, arms out, muscles taut, the door taking too long to swing shut, and I sit on my wrists on the nice pastel floral couch trying to rid them of that feeling of compression, and my vision comes back in pinpricks as I try to remember how long I’d been outside, try to remember when I’d last eaten. I search for all of my answers in the world, return to look out the back window and memorize the empty garden and close my eyes, trying to imagine I am seeing myself sitting out there, conceiving myself as both inside and outside, and then I feel light-headed and lie down on the living room rug, pace my memory until sleep trips me, and James arrives home, shaking me, sure I’ve passed out. I wake, confused, and he looks at my hands and ushers me into the kitchen, where he washes them gently with warm water and soap that smells like tea, scrubbing my nails. We are both silent, but his is an assured silence, a silence of faith that says, Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, but for now I will care for you. This quiet chimes like a bell, undampered, and I want to thank him for his understanding, for letting this ring, and so I hug him tight, my hands still wet with soap, and I bury my face in the soft flannel of his collar, and he tucks his chin over my shoulder and I feel the scratch of his beard on my neck like Velcro holding us together. He puts me to bed and in the morning I am full of fever, but I pull myself downstairs for water and when I look, there are no longer smudges on the sofa and the holes where I’d buried my hands in the yard have swallowed themselves.