Marie-Helene Bertino - Safe as Houses

“No,” he said. “Black.”

I frowned. “I’m normally good at that.”

“Please.” He spread his arms, inviting me to my own table. I stirred sugar into my coffee and waited for him to begin.

“What do I call you?” I said.

He extended his hand. “Foster Grass.”

“I’m Elaine Hemphill.” We shook. “Foster Grass,” I said. “Is that because your eyes are as green as grass?”

His eyes were brown. I was making a joke. I know you can’t control your last name.

Foster switched to a cooler, more professional tone, as if getting ready to take stage. “Elaine, I’m here today with a special proposition.”

“Lay it on me, Foster.”

He pulled a small wooden box out of his suitcase and placed it in front of me. He felt around the sides until he found a lever. The top jackknifed open, revealing a plastic man with a large head. I took a closer look. He wore the same suit as the salesman. His face was painted in intricate detail. Same eyes, same downturned mouth.

“Who’s this little guy?” I said.

The salesman didn’t speak but felt along the velvet for something else that elicited a clicking sound, at which point the figurine’s mouth unhinged and a big voice came out:

The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours

My father placed the two-by-four on my shoulder, held it with one hand, and asked if I thought I could handle it. I was nine, and enjoyed the weight of the beam on my shoulder. I wanted him to think he had made a good decision when he asked for my help. My father, still searching my face for any signs of insecurity, took his hand away, and I stood unassisted in the morning sun, balancing the two-by-four. I reorganized my spine to be as tall as possible. My father gave my effort a nod before moving back to the pile to take his lot, four of the long beams on each of his shoulders. We moved down the street, each of us carrying our share, his arm held out toward me in case I should fall or find myself, under the weight of my one precious beam, lacking .

With that, the little man’s mouth snapped shut and he went back to jostling almost imperceptibly on his spring.

The salesman looked at me for a reaction.

“Is this a jewelry box?” I said.

“You can hold jewelry in it if you want. It would have to be small though. Maybe only rings.”

“What is it, then?”

He said, “This is my sob story.”

The telephone in the kitchen rang.

“Excuse me,” I said.

I have an old phone, connected to its base by a long cord, snarled with time. I picked up the receiver, waited for a moment, and placed it back down.

I rejoined the salesman, who seemed uncomfortable. His index finger was balanced on the head of the figurine. They regarded each other.

He said, “Do you want to buy my sob story?”

I did not want to buy his sob story, but I didn’t want him to feel rebuked.

“You know, Foster,” I said, “I have a sob story of my own.”

He nodded. Then he glanced at the bandages on my wrists. I had been wondering if he would mention them.

“Yes,” I held them up. “These are a big part of it. Or rather, the manifestation of it.”

“But,” I said, “I don’t want to cheapen your sob story. I appreciated listening to it. In fact, yours doesn’t seem like a sob story. It seems like a retelling of a good moment. Mine is much worse, I’m afraid.”

His lip curled into a sneer, signaling a mean streak I hadn’t intuited. “Worse than the happiest day of your life being a walk down a road with a worthless piece of wood?”

“I’m not judging you, Foster. It’s not a contest.”

He regained his salesman composure, embarrassed to have allowed an unprofessional remark.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time.” His voice was tin. “And I know a nonbeliever when I see one. I will have to roll up my sleeves with you.”

We stared at each other, presumably both thinking about my wrists.

“Why are you speaking so loudly?” I said.

His smile flickered. “Am I speaking loudly?”

“You are. You’re speaking like you’re trying to reach the back of an auditorium. No one’s deaf here and I’ve agreed to listen to you. There is no need to yell. Yes, I am a nonbeliever. But I’m willing to give a man a chance. I don’t want to buy your sob story, so what else have you got?”

He pulled something slim from his suit jacket. It was shiny and blue, like those packets of bath crystals nicer hotels offer. “Do you know what this is?” he said.

“Bath crystals?”

“This is your will to live.”

Then the phone rang again.

He motioned toward it, giving me permission with no words.

I walked into the kitchen. Again I held the receiver for a moment in my hands, I heard a faraway voice ask, Hello? and then I hung up.

Returning to the room, I said, “Now then. Where were we?”

He held up the packet again. “This is your will to live.”

“Looks like bath salts, Foster.” I was getting depressed. I rubbed my forehead.

He handed them to me. “Take a closer look. There are crystals in there, but they won’t do anything in the bath. They have activating agents and herbs that respond to particular needs.”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be a magic show.”

“A pinch of these in your morning water or coffee and you will feel a renewed sense of purpose. Each packet holds enough for two weeks or so, depending on the size of the person and that person’s existing condition. I use one a week. Put a pinch in your coffee. You’ll see.” He sliced the packet open cleanly with a pair of scissors and handed it to me.

I looked at it warily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t?” I tipped the packet over and let some of the crystals fall into my palm. They were a blue, unnatural-looking color, sesame seed — sized. I held them to my ear. They were silent.

“I’ll bite,” I said. “Who sent you here. My mother?”

He looked confused. “Pardon?”

“If it’s some kind of intervention, I wish you would cut to the chase. A person comes to another person’s house to sell stories and smelling salts; he could at least be honest. You’re honest, then I’m honest, then we both feel better about the entire proposition. This is how we connect. This is how we build relationship.” I held up one of my wrists. “As you can see, it’s a moot point. Maybe you should have come a few days ago.”

“How do you know I didn’t?” he said.

“This is not the right time to be playing g—”

“No, Elaine.” He leaned in, revealing a softer version of his sneer. When he wanted to, he could really look you in the eye. “This is exactly the right time. You haven’t made any decisions yet, and you still have a chance.”

“Is this the beginning of the hard sell?”

He refused to let go of my gaze. “I know your sob story. I know there’s a father, and a boyfriend, and one really cold mother. I know you were on your way to the bathroom to chop up your wrists when you heard the doorbell and you debated with yourself for five minutes whether to answer it while I stood outside. I know you think you are the only one who ever felt pain, and I know those bandages hide nothing, so how about you try being goddamned honest with me?”

He sat back, smoothed a piece of hair that had come undone, and released me from his stare. He tapped his fingers on the table.

I said, “Alright, Foster. You got me.” I unwound the gauze from my right wrist, exposing uninterrupted veins. Then the other, which also had no bruising or cuts. I felt exposed, called out. “This was a safeguard,” I admitted. “Like freezing your credit card before a big purchase. Gives you time to think.”