“It’s a bit of a mess right now,” Gretchen says in a voice that is surprisingly deep. “But we have big renovation plans. Harris tells us this is something you do?”
Immediately, Mark feels exposed. Most likely he is the same age as these people, but inside he is still a boy, a student.
“Yes,” he says as casually as he can, “and I especially enjoy working with historic homes.”
“How serendipitous!” the woman pronounces, glancing at her gay German husband. “I’m so glad we came in today. You never know who you’ll meet. Well, Mark, could we ask you to come by one day and have a look?”
Mark glances at Harris, who is smiling paternally at him.
“Of course. Which house is it?”
“Four-thirty Cannonfield.”
Mark pretends to think, pulls out his phone, pretends to check his calendar.
“They’re taking the olla pot and the demilune table. They put cash down on the spot.”
“That’s great.”
“I had a feeling when they walked in. You know how sometimes you can just tell? I knew by the guy’s shirt, the French cuffs, that he was all business. And the way the woman’s eyes scanned around, quick like an eagle. She’s had practice.”
“Like an eagle sighting its prey.”
“What? Why do you always have to mock everyone?”
“Who’s mocking? I just didn’t see anything so special about them. Also, I drove by the house. It’s a disaster.”
“So what? You don’t have to deal with the outside.”
Mark doesn’t answer. It’s true that he hasn’t been hired for a big project in years. In a recession, even the eternal clamor for interior design is muted. Only high-end firms with physical showrooms can expect to thrive. So he’s been spending more time at the store, helping with bookkeeping and inventory.
“It’s perfect timing,” Harris continues. “You’ll probably finish up by next summer, just in time to go somewhere. We still need to do Africa. I was thinking Tanzania.” Harris pauses. “While we’re there, maybe we could go on a safari.”
Mark’s lips tighten. A safari will mean staying in a luxury lodge, surrounded by primitive villages with no access to clean water. It will mean dropping enough money to feed one of those villages for a year, in exchange for the indulgence of looking at wild animals that would prefer not to be looked at. He has no interest in feeling like a descended extraterrestrial again, touching ground just long enough to take something.
“I don’t mind going to Tanzania,” he pronounces carefully, “but only if we can stay in a village and do something useful.”
“Oh, honey.” Harris stares for a moment, smiling, as if at a child who has said something amusing. “You’re not serious, are you?”
Mark is quiet. It is at times like these when he feels their age difference most sharply, feels a returning undertow of regret like a soft tug in his gut. It is at these moments, unbalanced and vulnerable, that Seth sweeps back to him in a flood, like a mythical ocean creature. No future there, no destination. It would have been like riding a sea horse, dipping and diving and drowning, over and over. He was in Nairobi, last Mark heard. He was in Cairo, Marrakesh, Damascus. It’s been fifteen years. The choices that had seemed fungible, reversible, whimsical fifteen years ago have finally cemented. Time goes in only one direction; a hackneyed truth, but suddenly as dense as iron. Their bodies, young and beautiful as they were then, will never again be seen on this earth.
Mark looks at Harris, large and able. His autumn-brown eyes give the warmth of a thousand hearth fires.
“We used to talk about it, you know,” Mark reminds him quietly. “We used to talk about how important it was to give back. You agreed that maybe we could join a volunteer service someday.”
“Someday we could still do that.”
“But why not now?” Mark bleats. “Why not rent out the house and go away for a while?”
“When you say volunteer service, do you mean like the Peace Corps?”
Mark lets a beat pass. “Yes, like that. Now that we’re married, we can apply as a couple.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you know we can’t do that now. Not with the store.”
Mark doesn’t answer. He doesn’t mention that he’s begun filling out their applications for next year. He is hopeful that his architecture degree and sustainable design training might make him an attractive candidate. Perhaps there is a need in some far-flung outpost for environmentally responsible interiors. He imagines himself wearing a bandanna in an equatorial African village, reflooring huts with cork, lining walls with hemp board. As for Harris, his art history degree won’t count for much, but with some volunteer experience at home and language training, he might make an adequate English teacher.