He forgot to list Elbow Patch Rocker.
I turned back to the house with a chuckle. And almost stepped on the bad plank again. Slapping the porch railing, which wiggled generously, I muttered, “Can’t make any repairs? We’ll just see about that.”
I worked my ass off all day, stopping only for leftover pizza and beer while standing in the kitchen, picking at contact paper on the pantry shelves. Was this historical contact paper? Was I allowed to pick this off? Or does the future of this town rest on the 1970s snail-and-grasshopper motif on this very contact paper?
After my standing lunch I ventured back to the basement, armed this time with three flashlights and a box of lightbulbs I’d found under the sink. Now fully lit, it wasn’t nearly as scary as before. I investigated the cold room, pleased to see that Aunt Maude’s jars of vegetables and preserves were still stacked neatly along the shelves, all dated from last season. Yum, blackberry jam. Heading back into the laundry room, I stalwartly ignored the box of heads as I put the sheets into the dryer. I brought the camp blankets upstairs and pinned them on the line out back, letting the winds blowing in from the west catch them on the breeze, snapping the ends. Then I trooped back upstairs, determined to restore order to the bedroom I’d be claiming for now. I scrubbed the floor, carrying bucket after bucket of dingy water out back to dump. I pulled down the old curtains, thick with dust, and contemplated throwing them out. But now that I was thinking about the frickin’ historical significance of every last item in the house . . .
Grumbling a little, I folded them neatly and set them aside. At some point, things were going to have to get thrown away. But apparently an archivist librarian had to be here for that.
I tackled the hall bathroom upstairs next, and with elbow grease and the grace of God, I got it spick-and-span. I’d found an old box of baking soda in the linen closet and with a bucket of warm water and a brush, I scrubbed the little octagonal floor tiles until they gleamed. The iron tub was still stained a bit despite all the bleach I’d used, but the old chrome faucets shone so I could practically see my face in them.
By the time dusk was setting in, I was tired and stinky, but I had a sparkling clean bedroom and bath. Too tired to even think about food, I stood under the shower and washed quickly, shampooing my hair as fast as I could in case the hot water ran out. Once the particulars were taken care of, I luxuriated under the warmth. Running my hands down my skin, I could feel every muscle that ached from the hard work.
I could also imagine feeling a very particular muscle, one that belonged to a cowboy named Hank. But as quickly as I was beginning to heat up, the water cooled down, shoving my daydreams out of the shower. I toweled off, listening to the house settling in for the night. I finger combed my curly hair as I dried it most of the way, literally too tired to even hold the hair dryer for too long. Clutching my copy of Loins of Endearment, I crawled into the most sinfully plush bed ever created, loving the scent of clean linens and line-dried sunny blankets.
I was asleep before even one loin was endeared.
chapter four
I dreamed of a man on horseback. Splashing through the surf, his very presence called to me. Walking across the sand packed firm by the waves, I stared at the beautiful man jumping down off his mighty steed and starting toward me. But at the same time, a man who looked curiously like Clark waded in from the sea with a briefcase full of clamshells, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to throw out any of the lobsters I might find in my shoes.
“Lobsters? What lobsters?” I’d asked, to the tune of “Rock Lobster” by the B-52’s, of course. He’d pointed down, and I was horrified to see my legs were now lobster claws, clacking up and down the beach.
I woke in a cold sweat. But the soothing sound of the waves lulled me to sleep again, and I was back to the Land of Nod in no time.
I woke again as the morning light began to creep into the sky, my body still on East Coast time. I needed to stay up later tonight, try and get on West Coast time. Except for the disturbing dream, I’d slept like a rock. No drips, no leaky roof.
I pulled the covers over my face, trying to squeeze in one more set of forty winks, but it was useless. Then I realized that it was after six. And that meant . . .