Tom Barbash - Stay Up With Me

We could steal everything in this house if we wanted and they probably wouldn’t notice.

In the bathroom I pick up crystal and silver perfume bottles, a magnifying glass with a mother-of-pearl handle that rests atop a pile of ancient Life magazines. I pocket one of the perfume bottles, covering it with tissues taken from their nightstand.

On my way back, I hear Eddie laughing too loud and saying, “You’re exactly right. You’re a hundred percent on the mark.”

Eddie gives them his card before we go, and he holds Mrs. Berner’s hand in his. “If you decide you need a change, give Randall here a call. I think we can work a nice deal for all of us.”

He turns to me. “I’ll wait for you in the car,” he says. He wants me to establish myself here. It will be my sale.

It will be easy. They’re already leaning our way. They even like us, for God’s sake. On my way out the door, I pull the perfume bottle out from the tissues and I hold it at my side, right there for them to see. Eddie’s out in the car waiting. I stand in the doorway.

“Is there anything else I can answer for you?” I say.

She sees nothing.

“No,” she says. “But I’m feeling sure there will be.”

Eddie has me going it on my own so that he can move to other properties. In the last year, he’s managed to buy two thousand acres of woodlands and waterfront in the Adirondacks, and our company has bought around seven times that. And these people really need the money from the looks of them. Ninety thousand dollars buys a new car, flat-screen TV, stereo and disc player, medicine and food for the next three years and a house on Collins Street, a block from the general store. Eddie’s girlfriend says it’s the Adirondacks. It’s a special part of the country. And it is. Six million acres. Almost half of it unmarked, not even a logging road or snowmobile trail. The Hudson River starts up not too far from here in Lake Tear-of-the-Clouds. It’s a lake almost a mile high, and I’ve been swimming there.

It’s not as if we’re building factories or a toxic waste dump. The houses and cabins we build are beautiful, state of the art: high ceilings, fireplaces, wraparound porches. And the outsides are left their natural wood color, or painted brown or grass green so they blend in with the earth. The way Eddie tells it, we’re giving people their retirement and we are, but we’re also making some coin. Like the Berners’ three hundred acres. We’ll split it into eight lots, each with a calendar picture of unspoiled Adirondack riverfront, and each selling for about four times what we’ll pay the Berners. Our company places ads in the New York Times with pictures of the Oswegatchie, of the triple falls, the water dropping into spruce green eddies. “Five hours from the city and you’re in God’s backyard.” People can’t afford to buy beachfront anymore. They’re sick of the suburbs, the shopping malls. We’re giving them what they’ve been missing their whole lives. There’s an interview process for the people who want to buy. “We want people who will respect the land,” Eddie says, “who love the outdoors; people who will be good neighbors.” I’ve never seen him turn down a buyer because he thought he’d be a bad neighbor. But people like to be interviewed. They want to think they’ve passed a test.

“Where’d you go?” he asks on the drive from the Berners’.

“I wasn’t feeling that well.”

“I think they’re very interested. You need to get to know them. It’s like I’ve been saying, low pressure. No one wants some salesman breathing down their neck. They don’t trust that. Call them up in a few days just to talk. Don’t ask her anything except how she’s doing, the weather, Mr. Berner, and things like that and she’ll invite you in for pie — I guarantee. And tell her about yourself a little. Ask her advice on something. I swear, it changes everything. Get them involved in your life a little. The sale has got to be secondary. You push too fast, like you were starting to in there, and people smell a rat.”

We pass through rugged forest on our way into town.

“What kind of things do I tell her about myself?”

“Tell her about your family, about your mom and dad and how you worry about them from time to time. Tell her about visiting them. What that does is it makes you into a son . You’re a salesman here, but you’re also somebody’s son. See what I’m saying?”

I am renting a three-room apartment directly above Latrell’s General Store and across Collins Street from the post office. In the mornings I buy a cup of coffee and I sit in the back with the regulars, a bunch of old guys in baseball caps who smell like cigarettes. Vern Latrell knows me by my name now on most mornings, though once he called me Andy and another time Patrick. I corrected him both times because I want him to remember me. I want everyone around here to remember me because I will be here for a while. Eddie introduced me around my first week here. They all like Eddie. A couple of them have gone fishing with him. One old guy took him hunting. Eddie Callahan from Westchester County gumming around the woods hunting for deer. I tried to talk the way Eddie talked with them, loose and comfortable, one of the gang, but the words always came out wrong, stiff and unnatural, or else exaggerated, as though I were mimicking them. Now Eddie’s moved away to meet another town full of homeowners, and he’s left me behind as the new Eddie. No one has asked to take me hunting.

In a few days I call Mrs. Berner. She knows my voice before I identify myself.

“I was hoping you’d call, Randall,” she says. “Have you gotten settled in yet?”

“All settled in at Eddie’s old place. On top of Latrell’s,” I say. “Right there in the middle of town.”

“You must be a little restless, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Not much for a young man like you to do around there, especially a young man whose roots are downstate.”

“I like it. I’m getting to know everyone. All the regulars at Latrell’s.”

“That’s a lazy bunch of do-nothings.”

Weather, I think. “Days have been beautiful, huh? For October? I can’t believe it. Is it always that beautiful?” Sunshine glazes my window.

“It’s usually colder. But it’s always beautiful.”

“I think you’re right,” I say.

She says nothing. I say nothing. I can’t think of anything else. She suspects me, I think. She knows about the perfume bottles. Good for her. Good for them. I’ll say good-bye, I decide.

“Randall?” her voice creaks. “Do you like grilled cheese sandwiches with Virginia ham and tomato?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, I do too. I would like you to come over to the house and have a sandwich with me.”

Mr. Berner is in bed with the flu, she says. From time to time we hear a frightening cough from the other room. She brings him his sandwich. I wave from the doorway. He waves back pathetically. “Hello, Randall,” he calls out. “Nice to see someone so young and healthy.”

The rooms are so large I can’t imagine how they heat the place in the winter. I can imagine old Mr. Berner sick all winter in that cold house.

In the living room Mrs. Berner and I sit across from each other, me on the blue couch, her on the cloth-lined rocker.

“We’ve been discussing what you and Eddie brought up the other day. I’m starting to think it might make a whole world of sense.”

Too fast, I think. Hold back. “But you’ve been here so long,” I say. “It’s got to be hard to think of moving from here.”

“We’ll go broke living here. And we don’t get out that much to appreciate it that much anyhow.”