“I wish they’d cleaned out the place,” she said, referring to the bank from which they’d bought the Crofts. “You’d think it would be standard to do something like that.”
Few things about their purchase of the Crofts had been standard. After the death of the spinster sisters, a local bank had taken possession of the property on account of unresolved debts. When that bank collapsed last summer, it was bought by a larger bank, which had to sell itself for pennies on the dollar a few months later to an even larger bank. This last bank, headquartered almost a thousand miles away and saddled with the same toxic assets that had sunk the previous two, was happy to rush the sale of the Crofts to the Tierneys. A year ago the local bank might have laughed at their offer on the property, but times had changed. With the local staffs of the two previous banks terminated, a lawyer from the city had rushed north to manage the sale, and many a corner was cut in the name of expediency.
Caroline opened the box and pulled out a pair of matching floralprint sundresses. Yellow tulips against red cotton, the flowers arranged as if they had rained from heaven. The house had stood for over two centuries, and the little sundresses made Ben wonder how many children had been born and raised within its walls. It was hard to imagine the people who had lived here before them when all he could do was guess from the ruined things they’d left behind.
The baby monitor clipped to Caroline’s waist emitted a short blast of noise. Ben and Caroline listened until they were sure that Bub hadn’t woken up.
“Baby dream,” Ben said.
“There’s a big pile up there, Mom,” Charlie said on his way back down the stairs.
“How big is this truck that’s coming tomorrow, anyway?” Ben asked her.
“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already.”
“It’s just that there’s a big difference between filling up a van and filling up an eighteen-wheeler. If he doesn’t have enough room for it tomorrow, I’m not sure we want all this rotting on the lawn.”
“I hate the idea of all this stuff down here,” Caroline said.
“Actually, some of it isn’t too bad. This is a nice little piece, isn’t it?” He turned his flashlight on a small dark-wood captain’s desk with inlaid leather. “What do you think?”
“No, Ben. It’s all got to go.” Her voice got hard-edged as she shook her head, her blond locks coming loose to whip at the air. “That’s not the style we’re going with. The last thing I want is for this to look like a patchwork of different styles. I hate that.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right.” Ben nodded quickly. He hadn’t meant to wind her up, but these days almost anything could do it. “A clean slate. Don’t worry, I remember.”
“I mean, that’s why we’re killing ourselves to get this right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll bring some more of this outside; then if you could give me the guy’s number, I’ll find out how big his truck is. If it’s on the small side, I’ll schedule him again for his next available slot. Okay? We want all this out as soon as possible.”
“Otherwise it’s just festering down here.”
“Yep.” Ben found himself nodding again, and soon Caroline was nodding as well.
Bub’s gurgles came out of the baby monitor as digitized spurts laced with static. The sound sent Caroline for the stairs.
“If you could put the guy’s number on the kitchen island?” he called after her. When he turned back, he saw Charlie trying to pick up the captain’s desk. “Leave the big stuff for me, okay? How about you get some of those couch cushions?” Charlie picked one off the floor. “No, not that one, Charlie. Get one of the really disgusting ones. Yes, that one. Thank you. That’s a huge help.” He watched Charlie lumber up the stairs with a cushion as large as himself.
Ben stooped to pick up the captain’s desk. He thought it was better to get rid of it now, in case Caroline saw it down here again and thought he’d forgotten. It had been a stupid thing to say to her. He knew better, but more than that he knew in his guts that he didn’t want to keep any of these old things. No matter how much the Tierneys made the Crofts their own, the presence of the house’s former inhabitants would linger if given the chance. He felt this in the way that every empty room seemed to recoil at his presence when he walked the halls on sleepless nights. Better to throw it all away and be done with it. Better not to give the ghosts any furniture of their own to sit on.
But it was still a shame. The desk was made of good wood, which could be worked to a glossy depth with a little polish. He tested its weight and was surprised by its heft. He checked the drawers to see if anything heavy had been stashed there, but they were wedged full with nothing more than old paper that disintegrated in his hands. Peering through a large keyhole, he saw that there was a compartment under the writing surface, but it was locked. He tried to force it, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock had been built to last.
Bending from his knees, he hoisted the desk to his chest, wincing at the strain. As he lifted it, he felt something shift inside. Something heavy enough that he had to adjust his balance to compensate. Threading his way between mounds of junk, he crossed the room and started up the stairs.
His sweaty hands grappled the desk’s worn contours, but just as he found a better grip, his trailing leg went through the planks of a stair. Ben fell backward, shoving the desk to the side as he lost his balance. Ribbons of pain bolted up from his shin as his center of gravity shifted with the fall. He caught the banister. One of the spokes broke, but the next one held. The desk picked up momentum as it descended. Ben didn’t watch, but he heard the old thing scream as it splintered against the wall at the foot of the stairs.
“Dad?”
He heard Charlie padding back down the hallway. The boy poked his head through the doorway.