House for Sale

 

Patrick Fealey

957 9th St.

Fortuna, CA95540

707-601-5230

207-943-5639

 

                                      

 

 

 

House for Sale

 

Luigi had been telling his wife about the house and she had been telling him she didn’t care. Now he sat quietly in his rocking chair, watching her put clothes into her suitcase on the bed. Violet was packing a lot of polyester.

  She counted her socks into the suitcase, which she had won in a contest at the A&P in 1977. This trip to Florida was her first opportunity to use it.

  “It’s a nice house,” Luigi said. “On a good piece of land.”

  “How do you know?” Violet said.

  “A cute little house on a trout stream.”

  “You don’t fish anymore. What are you going to do with trout?”

  “Eat ‘em.”

  “You’ve never seen the place.”

  “I’ve seen it plenty up at Mike’s.”

  “Well.”

  “Two bedrooms, a big fireplace, the kitchen is big and new. One-hundred acres of hardwood and pine. You would like it.”

  “Would you please shut up already! How many times do I have to tell you I am not moving.”

  Luigi laughed to himself and quietly said, “not moving,” just loud enough for her to know he had gotten in the last word, but low enough to leave her the option of pretending she didn’t hear it. She sighed in exasperation. She had her fourteen pairs of sox and he went on rocking, watching her tremendous polyester rear-end prepare to leave him for two weeks.

 

Later that night, violet could not sleep. She was thinking about the house, this house, her house. Keeping this house was the one thing she would never back down on. He knows it as well as I know it. It’s mine to sell or keep. I have given in on many things, but not the house. His dreaming is pointless. He knows it. It took me twenty years to pay for this house. I paid for it, not him, and I have never backed down on the house, not when he wanted a fence and I wanted a flowerbed, not when he wanted blue and I wanted grey. I gave in when he wanted a pick-up and I wanted a station wagon, I gave in when he skipped work to go fishing and hunting with his buddies while I took a second job, I gave in to his desires before he overpowered me, but I have never given in on the house, this house, my house. This house is where I put my foot down and my feet are staying right here in Staten Island. I’m a city girl.

 

Violet reached from under the sheets and turned on the radio. Across the room on Luigi’s bed the sheets lay flat. He was probably in the kitchen. Angina kept him up most nights. There was nothing she could do. He took his Demerol and waited it out. Violet stuck the earpiece in her ear and rolled over to face the wall. She closed her eyes and listened to the words of the preacher on the radio.

 

“WE THANK YOU, JESUS. WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR WORD. WE THANK YOU FOR GIVING US ANOTHER DAY. WE THANK YOU FOR THE CHANCE TO WORSHIP YOU.”

 

I am not moving up-state. I am not leaving my city. I am not giving up my friends here. I am not going to live like a hillbilly again. When I was a girl, all I dreamed of was getting out of the country, out of the woods, away from the ignorance, out of the poverty, out of a place where milking cows was a way of life, away from men like my father. I had enough of cows and farms in Pennsylvania. I milked cows every day of my life until I escaped to the city and college. The smell of the beasts and the dung and the warm of the milk on your hands while your breath condensed inside the barn before sunrise is something you never forget. But there comes a time in a woman’s life when there are no more cows.

 

“IN THESE TROUBLED TIMES WE WILL RISE UP AND BE THE CHRISTIANS WE SHOULD BE . . .”

 

I am not giving up my home. That is what he is asking me to do. Give up the home I worked all these years to pay for. I worked while he drank and smoked himself into that first heart attack in ’65. And then another in ’67. And then another in ’70. He collects heart attacks like his Winchesters. I’m not subscribing to his Demerol-induced hallucinations of returning to the woods one last time. Does he think he can do it all again? Shoot wild turkeys and skin deer and catch trout and bring them home for me to cook? That dream is going to stay a dream. He can barely walk. He’s already done it with all his buddies, like some kind of character out of field & stream, or maybe john wayne. John Wayne, his hero. The straight John Wayne. Coming and going for weeks at a time, drinking, fighting, refusing to hold a job, a near stranger in his own home, smacking the boys around, even hit his daughter, and . . . he didn’t know his kids and now they’re gone. They don’t know me the way they should. The way they could have. I was working doubles at the Department of Health.

 

“EVERYONE THAT’S LISTENING, THE LORD KNOWS ABOUT ALL YOUR PROBLEMS. WE ARE CO-WORKERS TOGETHER WITH THEE. LET US SERVE ON A HIGHER LEVEL!”

 

I worked the toughest schools in New York City, a nurse who fought not only disease, but guns and drugs and tough kids with tougher parents. I don’t know how I did it, or why, but I did. They needed me, that’s what I told myself. They needed me and I needed them because I had a family to support. I did it for my kids. I raised those kids. I could have raised them better, but I saw worse. My kids turned out good. I did good with what I got. You never know what you are going to get in this life. You have to be strong. I didn’t do so bad. God knows there are things I regret. Like the time I sent them to school with mustard sandwiches. And the time the new station wagon was repossessed because it was hunting season. He would never sell any of his guns. Not even when his kids were eating mustard sandwiches. He didn’t even know his kids were eating mustard sandwiches. He didn’t want to know what was going on with us. I tried. Really, I tried. I did alright with what we had. The city didn’t pay so much then. I hear it’s better now, but an RN still makes less than a city bus driver. I like the bus, I like bus drivers, but nurses help people who are suffering. I mean, you can’t go anywhere on a bus if you are not alive. But I guess that’s life. A bunch of bad ideas we’re supposed to eat.

 

“LET US SERVE AND WE WILL BE FREE IN THIS LIFETIME! MANY SIT, KNEEL DOWN, AND THE SPIRIT IS MOVING FROM HEART TO HEART, BREAST TO BREAST, LIFTING US HIGHER UP ON THE MOUNTAIN!”

 

I didn’t become a nurse for the money. A good nurse does it for the people and I was a good nurse. It was only after his heart attack in ’65 that I started to think about the money. I started to think about the money because I understand inflation. My pension wasn’t going to be enough. I did what I could those last ten years. I made sure we would have as much as we could. I volunteered extra shifts in the VD clinic. All the disease and death you could ever stand to see. I can’t believe I lasted those last ten years, until my ankles gave out. I might have gone longer if it wasn’t for these ankles. I couldn’t stand anymore. Thirty-five years.

 

“AND WHEN WE GO DOWN FROM THIS PLACE THIS MORNING, WE PRAY THAT WE WILL BE EMPOWERED TO SERVE, THAT NO ONE WILL BE ABLE TO FRIGHTEN US.”

 

It’s a miracle this house is paid for. It’s a miracle my pension and his V.A. benefits keep us alive, keep the cupboards half full, make the insurance payments, are enough to help the kids when they get into trouble. I send what I can, but it makes me sad to think of how little it is, how little is left. Where are those dreams? Where is the easy retirement? Where are the golden years? I know these are not the best years of my life. I don’t know which years were. These are the years of franks and beans and macaroni and cheese. It’s a miracle I can go on this trip with Vera. It’s a miracle I can go anywhere. I worked thirty-five years without going anywhere. Two weeks with my sister. fourteen days without him. It’s never happened where I left him. I hope I can enjoy myself. I hope my sister’s car is running good.

 

“IN THE NAME OF JESUS! IN THE NAME OF JESUS! IN THE NAME OF JESUS! THANK YOU LORD! THANK YOU LORD! THANK YOU LORD!”

 

I don’t feel bad spending the money. Not as bad as I feel leaving him alone. I don’t know why I feel so guilty. Maybe it’s how he wants me to feel. I wouldn’t put it past him. He started in on me as soon as I reminded him I was going. It’s too hot down there this time of year. What are you going to do? Play cards in an air-conditioned motel room? I’ll play cards with you. I guess the real reason I feel bad is he is sick. He could die any day. He has been sick for twenty years and I am still not used to it. He has been dying every day for twenty years and he is still here and I still think about it every day. But that’s one reason I need a vacation. He’ll be alright. He’ll be the same. He can take care of himself. I told him, you landed at Saipan! I’ll leave you stocked with Chef Boyardee! He quieted down, until today he brings up this moving business again. I thought we’d had that settled.

 

“AMAZING GRACE . . . HOW SWEET THE SOUND . . . THAT SAVED A WRETCH LIKE ME . . . I ONCE WAS LOST, BUT NOW AM FOUND . . . WAS BLIND, BUT NOW I SEE . . .”

 

Violet awoke in the morning remembering she should pack a sweater. She was going to Florida, and she was going to South Carolina, and she would be spending a lot of time in air-conditioned places. She didn’t trust the weather either. If she didn’t wear it, all the better, but she was going to be prepared. She found a light cotton sweater in her bureau and took it to the living room, where her suitcase was waiting near the front door. She kneeled down and opened it. She put her sweater inside and refastened the clasps.

  “What are you packing a sweater for?” Luigi startled her. “It’s spring. You’re going to Florida.”

  “That’s right. I’m the one who is going, so mind your own beeswax.”

  “What do I know?” Luigi said.

  “What do you know?”

  she went into the kitchen and ate breakfast. Luigi sat in his chair. She had her usual breakfast of Special K, two-percent low-fat milk, a sliced banana, and coffee, cream, no sugar. Violet tried to read the morning Advance, but her thoughts were on the trip. She looked at her Bonanza ticked. Staten Island to Philadelphia, leaving at 11 AM. From Philly to Charleston, SC and Vera! They would drive to Disneyworld the day after tomorrow. Everything would be alright.

  Violet called the taxi at 9:30.

  The taxi beeped in the street.

  Luigi made it to the front door ahead of her. He was standing with his cane. The driver came up the walkway. Luigi held the door for him. He came inside and took the suitcase while Violet watched.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” she said.

  “Come here,” Luigi said.

  “What now?”

  Luigi pulled her into his hard belly and brushed her soft cheek with his stubble.

  “Cut it out!”

  He laughed. His breath smelled of macaroni and cheese.

  “Okay! You’re not funny!”

  she pushed against him. Luigi let her go.

  “I’ll give you a ring when I get to Vera’s,” she said.

  “I may be out,” he said.

  “Where you going to? Never mind. I don’t want to to know. Just stay out of trouble.”

  “ . . . “

  “You hear me?”

  “Yes, m’am.”

  And violet walked out the door, flushed.

 

Luigi watched her go down the steps and across the walkway he had poured, past the red and violet pansies she planted, moving well in her sneakers and windbreaker. She was leaving him.

  She had not expected him to tell her to have a nice trip and it did not bother her. She got in the yellow cab. She closed the door. The vinyl was cool. The cabby knew where to go.

  Luigi watched the yellow cab roll away with his wife in the back seat. He knew this was something he had never seen before and he didn’t care for it.

  Violet looked up and saw her husband, an extra large white t-shirt, standing in the front door. She did not wave. The cab took her into the gray morning. She watched the neighborhood go by and felt good.

  The house was quiet. Luigi closed the door and locked the deadbolt.

 

Luigi went into the kitchen. He buttered a piece of bread and sat down in front of the television. The butter tasted good, but not as good as when she was yelling at him not to eat it. Tonight he would order a pizza. Pepperoni, sausage, onion, olive, and pepper. He turned on his television. He heard voices. They sounded smart, but they were saying stupid things. He listened to the people be stupid until the picture came into focus. It wasn’t the Mets.

 

He would call his brother.

 

He dialed his brother. His sister-in-law answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, well.”

  “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “Luigi,” he said.

  “Oh, hi. Michael’s at the hardware store buying a plane of glass. He’s finally fixing the kitchen window.”

  “Didn’t a bird break that?” Luigi said.

  “That was an experience. we thought it was dead, the poor thing. We were going to throw it away when it’s eyes opened and it hopped on its feet. Then he took right off!”

  “Must have been a big bird to break a window.”

  “He was good-sized.”

  “Is that cabin still for sale up on sugarloaf creek?”

  “As far as I know. Why? Do you want it? Michael would love for you guys to move up here. So would I.”

  “I’m just wondering.”

  “I’ll tell Michael to call you when he gets back, Lu.”

  “I’ll be here.”

 

Luigi’s blue address book was on the table. He looked through the book for someone to call. Tommy was in there, but he was at school this time of day and Luigi didn’t have the number of the school. His mother wouldn’t give him the number and the school kept changing its name. it’d be a nice surprise for him to talk to his grandpa at school and get out of class, unless it’s gym. I wouldn’t want to get him out of gym. A boy needs gym to keep from turning out a queer. I could call Joe or Ralph. Luigi thumbed through the book. This is not Joe’s number now. I still have them in here from before people began telling me I went to their funerals. They were drinking beers on my back porch last week. That’s in my hand . . what? From the 1950s? how long have I had this address book? I guess it’s always been the address book. Since after the war, anyhow. Notice how my friends are always Jews and Italians. I attract Jews like flies to honey. But Joe here, he was Irish. How I used to love to get in the ring with those Irish, boy. They liked to fight as much as us krauts. I never fought Joe. He was my best friend. We fought, but not like that kind of fighting. You didn’t fight your friend or your brother. It wasn’t allowed. I fought my brother once for money and father kicked both our asses when he found out. Then he took the money. I could call Joe and he would be here in a few minutes, drinking beer. I could call Ralph and the two of us could be on our way up north to go wade the streams for trout. I don’t know. They’ll probably call me. I know where they are. I’ll call Tommy when he gets home from school. Tommy is like Joe and Ralph. He knows how to wade a stream quiet and clean, without tipping off the trout. He never comes back without a creel full of brookies. Wish I had some trout now to cook up. A little egg and flour, fry them in a pan. I can taste them already. That grandson of mine is just like his old man. He’s not afraid of blood. he can take a deer at two-hundred yards without a scope. That kid loves the woods as much as I do. He stalks turkeys like a fox. That twenty-five-pounder he got beats my best, that rascal. I have to remind Mike to send for those turkey permits soon. Fall is coming. The kid and me will be up there soon enough. It would be better to have our own place. Maybe we will by then. That cabin on sugarloaf creek is perfect. I Wish I could go away like violet. I should have been able to talk her out of it. In the old days with Joe and Ralph I could talk her into anything.

 

There was a crash out on the back porch. Luigi thought burglar. They were coming in a window. It was the goddamned neighbor again. my gun. My gun is in the bedroom. Beside the bed. It is loaded. Goddamn neighbors. They think I am gone too. They always wait. They’re in for a surprise named buckshot. I will drag the bodies in if I have to. The law is the law. Now I must get to the bedroom and get the double-barrel. Luigi leaned forward in his chair, pushed on his cane. Something twisted inside his chest. He dropped the cane and fell back. He groaned and the pain broke across his face. This is the curse of living long enough to piss on your doctor’s grave. This is the brother of loneliness. You know Joe and Ralph are gone. You are sick and old. You are the last one. Are you sure you are glad to be alive? It hurts, it hurts, god please . . . he reached for his Demerol, knocking down other bottles for other sicknesses. Finding the Demerol, he shook one into his palm and swallowed it. Every day this pain is like the cold touch of persistent fingers. It is enough to kill a man’s hope. He held his chest with two hands while his heart struggled. He listened for the back porch and prayed for it all to go away. He wanted to live. The pain sharpened. He cried out. Outside the kitchen window was the grey and littered access road. The sound of tires never ceased. A piece of garbage flew by on the wind. There is no worse place to die than Staten Island. He saw the cabin in the woods by the stream. He smelled the smoke of a wood fire and knew he was alive. He would not die. Not yet. The worst of the pain was over. Thank you lord, thank you lord, thank you lord . . . The Demerol is working. I am not going to die. Not here. Not yet. You have always known that you will die in the woods. Violet will be there. In the woods you can say your prayers. You shouldn’t have been so worried. Violet will be gone two weeks. That is plenty of time. The last appraisal is more than enough for the cabin on sugarloaf. Money is not the big thing. Just get to the mountains.

  A gust of wind hit the window out back and Luigi remembered the burglars. A fierce rattling of glass and the whistle told him it was only the wind. You’re lucky it’s just you.