Линвуд Баркли - A Noise Downstairs

She smiled. “I told you, I wanted to inspire you. How many times have we been in an antique shop and you’ve stopped and looked adoringly at one of these? I know you love these old gadgets.”

His eyes misted. “When I was a kid, we had a typewriter like this, well, it was a Royal, not an Underwood. But just like this, it weighed about as much as a Volkswagen.”

“I can attest to that,” Charlotte said. “I think there’s more steel in that thing than in our stove.”

Paul continued. “I liked to write stories, but writing them out by hand took so long. When I was ten, before every house had a computer, I asked my dad to show me how to use the typewriter. I got the world’s fastest lesson. Your fingers go here, this one hits this key, this one hits that key, and so on. I remember him holding his hands over mine.”

He put a hand over his mouth, took a moment to compose himself.

“Anyway, that was it. That was my lesson. Been typing ever since.” He smiled wistfully. “All the bad habits I learned at that age, I still have.” He ran his hand over the top of the typewriter. “Just think of all the things that may have been written on this. School essays, love notes, maybe letters from a mother to her soldier son fighting somewhere in France or Germany, if she wasn’t into handwriting. A machine like this, it has a soul , you know?”

“What does that mean?” Josh asked.

Paul struggled to find a way to explain. He turned his son so he was standing directly in front of him.

“You know how — how do I put this — you see things with your eyes” — he pointed to Josh’s — “and you take them in, and they’re just there . Like, watching a bus go by or something like that. But other times, you see things, and you feel them in here.” He placed his palm on the boy’s chest. “Like, a beautiful sunset. Or an eagle, or even when you hear a magnificent piece of music.”

Josh stared blankly. “I like buses,” he said.

Paul looked at Charlotte with amused dismay.

She smiled. “I wasn’t thinking you’d actually write on it. It’s not exactly easy to do cut-and-paste with scissors and a bottle of glue. And you could wear out what’s left of that ribbon and never get any replacements. I thought of it more like a work of art. Like I said, it’s meant to inspire.” She cast her eye about the tiny room. “If you can find any place for it.”

“Oh, I’ve got a spot for it. And I like your idea. I’m already inspired. And considering what I’ve been researching lately, you could have hardly found something more appropriate.”

Josh got into the chair and began tapping away madly at the keys.

Chit chit. Chit. Chit chit chit.

“I love you,” Paul said, putting his lips to Charlotte’s.

“Right back at ya.”

Chit chit chit. Ding!

“Whoa!” Josh said. “What was that?”

“You have to hit the carriage return.”

“The what?”

Paul reached around his son to hit the lever on the left side of the machine to move the cylinder back to the right. Josh resumed typing.

Chit chit chit chit.

“Where did you find it again?” Paul asked.

“Someone selling their house had a garage sale to clear out their stuff. Less stuff to pack, right? I stopped because, you know, you never know what you might find, and if they haven’t found a new place yet, they might just need an agent, so I thought I might hand out my card. And then I spotted this little beauty and immediately thought of you.”

“Well, I’m glad you—”

“Ow!”

They both turned to see Josh’s right hand deep into the heart of the typewriter. His fingers were entangled in a collection of keys fighting to get to the ribbon.

“Everything’s stuck!” he cried, looking at the antique as though it were a dog that had bit him.

“Hang on, hang on,” Paul said. “The letters got jammed. It’s not a big deal. Just let me carefully pull apart those—”

“It hurts!” Josh said. Before Paul could help him, Josh jerked his arm back to free himself. Blood spurted from the index finger of his right hand. The skin was torn on the side, just back of the nail.

“Shit!” Paul said as blood dripped onto the keys and the top of his desk.

“Why did it do that?” Josh asked.

“If you hit too many keys too fast—”

But Josh wasn’t interested. He’d turned to Charlotte, who had grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the desk and was wrapping them around her stepson’s finger. “Come into the kitchen. We’ll get you fixed up.”

Paul watched as they left his cramped office, then at the blood-spattered typewriter.

Josh could be heard saying to his stepmother, “That thing sucks. You should have got him a new computer instead.”

Bill Myers dropped by that evening with a folder full of real estate flyers that Charlotte had forgotten to bring home with her for an open house she was holding the following afternoon.

Paul went down and answered the door to let him in.

“How’s it going?” Paul said.

“Good. Can you give these to Charlotte?”

“No problem. Come on in, have a cold one.”

Bill hesitated, then said, “What the hell.”

Bill was in his early forties, a full head of blond hair morphing into gray. When Paul first met him, back when they both attended UConn — the University of Connecticut — up in Storrs, east of Hartford, Bill was the classic jock and looked the part. Six-foot, lean, one of those classic chiseled jaws. Nearly twenty years later, he wasn’t the athlete he once was but remained trim, keeping himself in shape by running five miles most days.

While always friends, they’d barely kept in touch — Christmas cards, the odd email, maybe meeting up for a drink every couple of years — but had renewed their connection since Charlotte joined the real estate agency where Bill worked. Up until Hoffman’s attack on Paul, there had been a weekly squash game, and whenever Bill had a new girlfriend he wanted them to meet, the four of them would plan a dinner out.

Paul took two beers from the fridge and guided Bill through the living room to the balcony that looked onto Long Island Sound.

“Charlotte’s upstairs, getting ready to head out tonight,” Paul said as they sat down on modern Adirondack chairs. He tossed his bottle cap into an empty coffee can he kept nearby. “This one couple, she’s shown them at least twenty places, but they want to go back one last time and see some house in Devon just off Naugatuck.”

“I know it,” Bill said. “Been on the market thirteen months. Handyman’s dream. Someone should buy it for the lot, tear the place, and start over.”

“Josh and I are gonna watch a movie. How’s your weekend looking? Out with Rachel?”

Bill shook his head. “That’s kind of cooled off. She thinks a guy who’s been married once before is not a good prospect.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Bill grunted.

The glass door slid back and Josh stepped out.

“Hey, pal,” Bill said, gripping the boy’s shoulder and giving him a small shake. He spotted Josh’s finger and said, “What’d you do there?”

“A typewriter bit me,” he said.

Bill raised a puzzled eyebrow. Paul said, “A surprise from Charlotte. An old Underwood. Josh got his finger caught in it.”

Bill nodded. “Okay. Old typewriters are becoming a thing. Not that I’d want to use one. I’m a fan of find-and-replace.”

“We talking about women now?”

Josh chuckled.

The door slid open again and this time it was Charlotte. “Hey, Bill,” she said as Josh scurried back into the house.

Bill turned around in his chair. “Left those flyers for your thing tomorrow on the counter.”