Christopher Ransom: The Birthing House

He didn't mean to say it. Most people would have found it rude. Gail laughed like he'd told a terrific joke.

'A Hobbit! Maybe I am!'

Gail was five feet tall when standing on a phone book, a fifty-year-old in better shape than Conrad at seventeen. Her smile was warm and toothy. As she spoke her hands never stopped moving, waving like three fawning members of a welcome committee. He found it impossible to be abrupt with her. She was wearing the same gear as when they'd first met four weeks ago: a tank top that revealed her strong, tanned arms, green cargo shorts with a pair of cotton gloves hanging from one pocket, and yellow rubber gardening clogs with no socks.

The dogs broke out and clobbered Gail with affection.

'Okay, Luther, Alice, stop that.'

Gail only encouraged them. 'Look at them go. Upsy-daisy! Oh, how sweet! They're beautiful. Oh, they must be so happy in their new home! Joanna said you rescued them - they must love you soooo much.'

It was this immediate taking to his dogs that warmed Conrad to Gail Grum. 'I'm sorry, you're just standing there. Would you like to come in? I have iced tea.'

Gail flapped her hands. 'Oh, no. Listen, I saw you run inside and I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.'

'I was up late unpacking and didn't sleep well, been a mess all morning, and . . .' he trailed off, taken by the motherly look in her eyes. She wasn't just listening to him; she was hanging on every word. Without meaning to, he blurted it out. 'Jo left me.'

'Oh no!'

'Oh, not like that,' he said. 'She took a job. She's in Detroit for eight weeks of something they call intensive consultative sales training.'

'But you just got here. Eight weeks? What are you going to do? I'd just go crazy if John left me!'

'Ah, yeah, well,' he said. 'It's a great job. Just kind of sudden.'

He stood there in the doorway for another ten minutes, filling Gail in on all the details. He told her how he was already looking forward to Jo's first trip home at the three-week break, and added, 'but hey, at least I have the dogs'.

'We're having the Bartholomews over for roast beef, even though it's summer, I know, we like our hearty meals, ha-ha-ha. Have you met the Bartholomews, across the street?'

'I haven't met anybody.'

'Oh, you have to come over, Conrad. It'll be so much fun!'

'That sounds great, but don't wait for me. I might have to finish this . . . thing.' He didn't have a thing, but he wanted an out. 'You're very kind.'

She slapped his hands. 'I'm not kind. This is what we do. You don't know it yet, but you now live next to some of the best people you'll ever know. Anytime after seven is fine. See you tonight, Conrad!'

Conrad watched her goofy garden clogs flapping across the yard. When she had popped back into her house, he closed the door and dropped the album on the coffee table.

It's not that I'm afraid of it , he told himself, heading up the stairs to check his email. It's simply that there is no possible way the woman in the photo could be my wife and I've got better things to do than stare at a bunch of memories that belong to someone else. So fuck that, okay?

Right.

It was after seven when the phone rang. That made it past eight in Detroit, but she was still all kinds of excited from her big first day, which irritated him.

'Is Detroit everything you dreamed it would be?'

'Actually, it's nice. The offices are in Troy, not really Detroit, and it's pleasant in a Midwest corporate way. Sort of like the Long Beach of Detroit, without the ocean. My suite is a dump, but kinda cozy.'

'The Residence thing?'

'It's like going back to school. Everyone eats at the buffet in the clubhouse every night and there's a sand volleyball court and a pool. I met a nice girl named Shirley. She's twenty-three, two kids. She was crying all day because she misses them so much. But then I was thinking, well, if little Shirley from Akron can make it here, then I can definitely make it, right?'

'Of course, Baby. You're brilliant. You'll do fine.'

But what about me? What am I going to do?

'What have you been up to?'

'I've been invited to dinner.'

'Really?' The way she perked up, he knew she had been hoping for this.

'Gail came by earlier.'

'Oh, sweetie, please go. I don't want them thinking we're rude.'

'Well, she knows you're gone, so she can't think you're rude. But I told her I was tired, and I am.' He was inching toward the album on the coffee table.

'We need to get off on the right foot.'

'I can see them rolling out the Pictionary now.'

Jo sighed. 'Conrad.'

'I know.'

They said goodbye. Then, before he could chicken out, he flipped the cover open and stared at the photo of the women in black. It was night and the lighting was dim in the living room. He had to squint to make out their faces. At first he couldn't find her and he was sure he had imagined the whole thing. His eyes darted and then he locked on her, saw her teeth and her scar--

'Fuck you!' Conrad threw the album across the room. He had not imagined seeing her the first time. He had not imagined seeing her now.

It was Jo.

The dogs darted to the couch, swerving wide of his path. He felt like an asshole for losing it like that. But he couldn't ignore her now whether he tossed the album in the garbage or set it on fire and danced on the ashes.

What if there are more? What if she's in a whole bunch of them? What will you do then, 'Rad? What if she's on every page staring back at you with those glossy black eyes, smiling into the camera so close you can see into her soul?

No, impossible. With six billion people on the planet (not even counting the dead) there had to be an explanation. It simply could not be his wife.

And he was not crazy. Lonely, yes. Recovering from a very stressful exit from the City of Angels, yes. But not insane. He needed to investigate the house's history, these women, but where would he begin? Who else besides Leon Laski would know about the house? People who lived here. People who--

'The neighbors.'

He hopped off the couch and ran upstairs to get ready for dinner. A few laughs, some human company. Jo would be pleased with the effort.

8

The House of Grum was another Victorian, barn-red with creme and robin's egg trim, pillars slim as dancers, with bursts of filigree on top. The front porch was narrow, wrapping around and widening on one side. Inside, the decor was somewhere between antiquarian and mid-twentieth-century frugal farmer's wife. The dinner table would seat twelve, but tonight was attended by only two couples - Gail and John Grum, and the neighbors, Steve and Bailey Bartholomew - plus Conrad. Both couples were comfortably attired in Lands' End (worldwide headquarters was just two towns over, people kept telling him): cargo shorts, untucked shirts with button-down collars, slip-on shoes. Canvas shades of ecru, loden, heather abound.

This is us in ten years, Conrad thought. But if this was the Game of Life, he was missing his pink peg. If Jo were here, she would do all the talking, knowing what to reveal and what to hold back. As it stood, he felt like a fraud and kept waiting for one of them to call him out on it. What do you do? Is it true you paid cash for that house? What the hell are you doing in Wisconsin, Conrad?

Hiding? Or running?

But they didn't call him on anything. Instead, they fed him and watched him like the polite stranger he was, and spoke kindly, even when he began to pry.

'So what's the story with the guy used to live in my new house,' Conrad said, pushing his roast beef aside to dig into Gail's peach cobbler.

'What about Leon Laski is it you want to know?' Gail Grum said, a spoonful of vanilla ice cream hovering under her nose.