Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings
If You Were Here (11 page)
Liz is fully versed in all the reasons I want this house, a few flaws notwithstanding, but I need her to help me sell Mac. After we tour the bedrooms, she pulls out the big guns. “Mac, perhaps you’ll be interested in the full English basement. Plenty of space for a pool table!”
“Honey, see? There’s a bar down here!”
When I say a bar, I don’t mean a small slab of countertop and room for a few stools. I mean a full, operational, ready-to-open-forbusiness bar with a keg cooler, an industrial-strength ice maker, and seating for fifteen, all covered in a really retro knotty pine paneling. Plus, you have to go through a separate door to be able to stand behind the bar, so it’s particularly authentic.
“Huh,” he says, running his hand over the place where I’ll wager he’s already mentally stocking cut lemons, limes, and other assorted cocktail garnishes. I saved the basement for the end of the tour because I’m counting on Mac’s unresolved bartending issues. He was hired as a bartender during college but he kept yelling at people when they’d order blender drinks and was eventually demoted to bouncer. Actually, that’s how we met—he stormed into the dining area one night because he wanted to see what kind of person
60
ordered a banana daiquiri in an Irish pub. Oh, and FYI? This is the perfect example of the hand of fate at work. If I didn’t have a lifelong love of Cool Whip–topped cocktails and he weren’t so fussy about what he mixed, we’d have never met.
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ordered a banana daiquiri in an Irish pub. Oh, and FYI? This is the perfect example of the hand of fate at work. If I didn’t have a lifelong love of Cool Whip–topped cocktails and he weren’t so fussy about what he mixed, we’d have never met.
“Nice, right?” I prompt.
“Hmph,” is all he says in response.
After we’re finished (grudgingly) admiring the bar, we head into the adjacent area. There’s a big spot in the middle of the carpet where someone’s laid down more parquet to form a functional dance floor. I point down at it, saying, “How many homes have you seen that come with their own disco?”
“Other than in
The Jerk
? None,” he replies before something in the corner grabs his attention. “Hey, what is that over there?” He points to a platform that’s surrounded by paneling, covered in carpet, and buffered by stairs.
The Jerk
? None,” he replies before something in the corner grabs his attention. “Hey, what is that over there?” He points to a platform that’s surrounded by paneling, covered in carpet, and buffered by stairs.
“Not sure,” Liz admits. “We couldn’t figure it out last time.” She and I kind of thought it was a stage for midgets, but don’t want to say this, because Mac’s already convinced this house was built for little people.
Mac takes a small jackknife out of his pocket. He very gingerly peels back a section of the carpeting and lifts a small portion of ply-wood. Then he whips out a mini Maglite and shines it in the crevice, leaning in close to get a better view. “There’s a . . . Jacuzzi under here.”
Liz and I are both completely perplexed, although this does make slightly more sense than a little-person karaoke stage. “Does it have water in it?”
“No, no, it’s empty. I guess that explains why there’s a huge exhaust fan over there.” He gestures to a massive grated system behind the hot tub.
“That’s just badass,” I exclaim. “How often do you pull up the carpet and discover
a hot tub
? How much fun would that be? You could stand behind your bar and I could sit in here and have fruity blender drinks. If that’s not the key to happiness, what is?”
a hot tub
? How much fun would that be? You could stand behind your bar and I could sit in here and have fruity blender drinks. If that’s not the key to happiness, what is?”
“Let’s be realistic, Mia. The hot tub is obviously broken if it’s covered up with panel and carpet. Plus it’s so big they probably built the basement around it. I doubt we could get it out,” Mac cautions.
“Details! Silly, torturous details! We can get it fixed,” I promise.
We move on to the main part of the basement and Mac grows really quiet. We’ve just entered the area that meets his exact specifications for his dream home-theater system. Not only is this room the right shape and height and width for ideal sound quality, but the windows are positioned in such a way that they wouldn’t cast a glare on the plasma screen. He won’t look me in the eye and all he manages to mumble is, “I might be able to work with this.”
Yes!!
We move on to the basement kitchen. “What is this?” Liz wonders, poking at the black screen and weird knobs. “Like an old TV or something?”
“Ha!” Mac barks. “That, ladies, is a microwave. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the first microwave. Ever.”
I feel like all my good work with the bar and media area might be for naught, and I can sense I’m losing him again. “Mock it if you want, but a microwave is what, a hundred dollars to replace? What you’re failing to see is that there’s a whole extra kitchen down here with a fridge and a stove and a dishwasher. Yes, it’s all a bit
Brady Bunch
, but I bet it’s functional. Which means you’d still be able to prepare your gourmet meals
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while the upstairs is under renovation. So this is actually a really good thing.”
Brady Bunch
, but I bet it’s functional. Which means you’d still be able to prepare your gourmet meals
61
while the upstairs is under renovation. So this is actually a really good thing.”
Actually, if any of these appliances are functional, I’ll be shocked, but I feel it wise not to mention this.
After Mac mocks the kitchen a bit more
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he moves on to the basement bathroom, and we add one more color (beige) to the toilet collection. He’s appalled by the state of the water heaters, and I’m not sure what he might have thought about the furnace, because he was bent over, clutching his sides and laughing.
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he moves on to the basement bathroom, and we add one more color (beige) to the toilet collection. He’s appalled by the state of the water heaters, and I’m not sure what he might have thought about the furnace, because he was bent over, clutching his sides and laughing.
When Mac finally composes himself, he takes my right hand. “Mia, this isn’t going to happen. We cannot in good conscience buy this house.”
I begin to panic and speak almost exclusively in exclamation points. “But it’s huge, it’s close to the water, and you’d get to renovate! This house has great bones! Think of all the new tools you can buy! And the location! Come on, this is east Abington Cambs! You can’t get a better address than this! Yeah, there are a few cosmetic issues, but those will be fun to fix! If this house were fully operational and perfect, we’d never be able to afford it!”
He appears wholly unmoved by my monologue.
Then I do something I’m ashamed to admit. I try to get my eyes to water, knowing full well that crying is his Kryptonite. I generally follow Spider-Man’s aunt’s dictate of great power coming with great responsibility, so I rarely trot out the tears without due cause. Yet my eyes stay dry for some reason, so I surreptitiously snake my left hand up to the thin, sensitive skin beneath my armpit and I give it a solid pinch to see if that prompts the waterworks.
It doesn’t.
Damn it.
“Mia, stop that. You’re going to leave a mark.” He pulls my left hand out of my cardigan. “We’ll find our house. But this isn’t it. There’s too much to do. I mean, maybe renovating this place wouldn’t be impossible, but it seems like an awful lot for a couple of first-time home buyers to take on. I don’t want to put that kind of financial or emotional stress on us. I mean,
we
are too important, and I worry that the strain might mess up what we have. Does that make sense?”
we
are too important, and I worry that the strain might mess up what we have. Does that make sense?”
Numbly, I nod. He presents a cogent case for his findings. I can’t argue with his logic . . . and yet I don’t understand how this can be. I’m
supposed
to live here. I feel like this place is my destiny, the manifestation of all my childhood dreams. When my sister and I were home at night while Mom worked her second job to give us a better life,
this
is where I’d imagine I’d be once it got better. The universe told me so; all the signs pointed to it. Then to be so close and have it not work out? I don’t get it. What are the odds
another
John Hughes movie house is going to open up in our budget (stretched though it may be) in the next couple of weeks? Walking away from this place feels wrong all the way down to my soul.
supposed
to live here. I feel like this place is my destiny, the manifestation of all my childhood dreams. When my sister and I were home at night while Mom worked her second job to give us a better life,
this
is where I’d imagine I’d be once it got better. The universe told me so; all the signs pointed to it. Then to be so close and have it not work out? I don’t get it. What are the odds
another
John Hughes movie house is going to open up in our budget (stretched though it may be) in the next couple of weeks? Walking away from this place feels wrong all the way down to my soul.
Liz concludes our tour, saying, “I guess that’s everything. Why don’t we head up the back stairs, since we forgot to look at them last time?”
Just as we’re about to ascend, we pass one more door. “What’s in here?” Mac asks.
Bitterly, I respond, “Probably just another utility room full of ‘fire hazards’ and ‘red flags’ and all the other scary words that mean we don’t get to buy Jake Ryan’s house.”
He pushes open a heavy steel door to reveal . . . nothing. We’re enveloped in darkness. “Let me see if I can find a light.” Mac feels the walls until he finds a switch, flips it, and illuminates a vast expanse of cement walls and wire shelves. There’s an exhaust system similar to the one over by the defunct hot tub, and in the far corner, there’s a low door with a dial on it. On the opposite side, I spy another junction box with a bunch of thick blue wiring coming out of it.
“What a perfect area for dry storage,” Liz remarks.
I’m not so sure about that. “Maybe. But I don’t like how there aren’t any windows. I feel kind of claustrophobic in here. Plus the door’s so heavy that I’d worry about getting trapped.”
Confession time? Being trapped is a real concern, because I kind of get stuck a lot. It’s not because I’m fat—regardless of what that jerk Vienna says. I’m actually in fine shape, especially when you consider my deep and abiding love of butter. But I’m a bit of a disaster magnet. Things just seem to happen to me, like once when I was vacuuming in front of this huge antique mirror in the bedroom. Somehow the cord must have caught and the whole thing came crashing down on me. Luckily it didn’t shatter, but I spent half an hour screaming for Mac to get it off me, and he couldn’t hear me over the roar of my Dyson.
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If a locked door’s going to break, I guarantee you I’m on the inside of it. One time Ann Marie and I were staying in her brother’s loft in New York and the bathroom doorknob fell off while I was in the shower. Fortunately Ann Marie is the unholy love child of MacGyver and Martha Stewart, so she not only had me out in ten seconds flat using nothing but items from the fridge and spice rack, but she also whipped up a miracle hair serum that kept me from getting the frizzies the whole time we were in town.
“Anyway, are we ready to go?” I don’t want to leave, but I don’t really have a choice.
I guess this isn’t, in fact, going to be my house. Mac and I are a solid partnership precisely because we listen to each other, so I’m not going to insist we buy this house just because I have some weird tie to a couple of movies made a quarter of a century ago. We function well as a couple because we make our decisions together. We’re a team. I mean, separately we’re both one hundred percent, but when we band together, we’re one thousand percent. That’s why we’ve come so far from our humble postgrad beginnings. If one of us makes our mind up based on rational thought and solid arguments, the other has to respect that.
Liz and I turn to leave but Mac just stands there. “Mac? Mac? Honey? Are you coming?”
“This room . . .” he says in a voice full of awe and wonder. “Do you know what this room is? This is a
panic room
.”
panic room
.”
“A what?” Liz asks.
“Like that Jodie Foster movie?” I add.
“Right, exactly.” He begins rubbing his hands together, almost as though in anticipation. “You see, over there, someone installed a ventilation system and a pumping system, and that over there is enough CAT5 fiber to support a government-grade surveillance system. There’s a ton of room to lay in supplies, and with a foundation like this, someone could easily survive any disaster, up to and including nuclear war. And over there? That’s a gun safe big enough to house an actual arsenal. You know what? I’d like to see ORNESTEGA try to breach this perimeter! Ha! This is . . .” He trails off again as he takes in every bit of the room.
He touches the walls with quiet reverence, and it’s the first item he’s come into contact with in this place that hasn’t cracked, splintered, or crumbled. “This is . . .”
“This is what, honey?” I prompt.
“This is . . . our new home.”
Chapter SixWE DON’T NEED NO STINKING SECOND OPINIONS
“Tell me again why we’re doing this ourselves.”
I can’t see Mac while he says this, save for the very top of his head, as he’s hidden behind a mountain of moving boxes and flanked by huge rolls of Bubble Wrap and both dogs. “Do you know how much it costs to hire someone to pack for us?” I ask rhetorically. “We’re totally capable of doing it ourselves. Plus I’m not forking out all that money for some company to come in here and parcel up all my free-range drawer pretzels.”
What I don’t mention is that every minute I spend packing is a minute I don’t have to be working on my new book. Let’s just say the writing isn’t going so well. For some reason, the only scenes I can imagine go like this:
Mose:
What are your plans after the harvest?Amos:
First, of course, I’ll thank the Lord for being with us during the long, hard autumn days. I’ll praise Him for keeping our backs strong and our hearts full. I’ll extol the glories of His bounty and the virtue of His grace and mercy. I’ll pray that our work proves fruitful and that the grain elevator will give us a fair price for all our toiling so that our families may enjoy a warm hearth and a full belly all winter long.Mose:
Aye, the Lord is good indeed. But what of after we give thanks?Amos:
My beloved Miriam has her sights set on a trip to the wicked city. She showed me some glossy photographs of what she calls her “heart’s desire.”Mose:
Surely she doesn’t yearn to give in to carnal pleasures? Let her not be Eve to your Adam and lead you down the sinful path!Amos:
Oh, but no. I wish that it were me who captured her attention so. She seeks not the glory of God, but the opportunity to visit a special barn for pottery. My forbidden love cannot stop speaking of her lofty desire for oil-rubbed bronze fixtures and granite-topped vanities for her en suite bathroom and . . .
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