Dismantled

Mom, do you see that?

         See what honey?

         There, across the road…

         It’s 8 am and the late bell rings at 8:10. If I am extremely lucky I can have her to school before they close the doors and I’m forced to endure another condescending email on the importance of attendance and tardiness. I worked the late shift again last night. Everyone on the closing shift is new, which means they’re all still learning and what should be a shift that has me home by 2:30-3am instead has me crawling through the door closer to 5am. Just in time for my husband to leave for his shift.

         The alarm sounds at 7am on the dot and I cuddle her and hit snooze until we are late. Every day. Same routine. They say life gets better. I’m still waiting. I’m sipping on cheap coffee and rubbing the sleep from my eyes as she points to the house across the road.

         Now, across the road is not an accurate description. Because it isn’t just across the road. It’s across two roads that intersect at a sharp angle, the kind where they bolt an oversized mirror to a pole so you can see if traffic is coming from behind you on the other road. And if you’re not bearing left, you better be right with the lord before you attempt the 160 degree turn right.

         Behind the pole with the reflector mirror is a creek and on the other side of that sits a house. We noticed it a couple months ago when the leaves started falling from the trees. I had never noticed it before. It sat nestled next to the creek and in the dense woods. There was a whole neighborhood on the other side of the hill. But, I couldn’t figure out how you’d get to this house without any road access to see.

         Look. There’s a truck, my daughter points again.

         Next to the house sits an old pickup truck. It’s that 70’s color blue and looks like it’s been loved on and in for the last 50 years. At the far right corner of the property some fresh gravel has been put down creating a makeshift driveway down the hill that leads to the house. From the pickup truck emerges a man dressed in overalls and work boots.

         Maybe someone bought it, I say. As the car behind me beeps to remind me it’s just a stop sign, and people have places to be. Shit! You’re totally getting a pink slip this morning. So sorry kid.

         It’s fine she says. It’s nearly 8:15 as I drop her at the now closed doors and watch the security guard let her in. I grab my cell phone and ask my friend if she’s hungry. Pancakes sound like a fabulous choice, the lack of sleep and stomach full of coffee has made me feel woozy and nauseous.

         So, how’s work? Maria asks. Maria and I have been friends since the 6th grade. I’m pretty sure we started out as enemies, though the details are all fuzzy to me now. In either case, we both found ourselves in hot water with our social studies teacher and were forced to sit at the front of the class. Not like, in the front row so we could participate. We had to push our desks up against the chalk board, and he gave his lectures from behind us to the rest of the class. I’m sure this would have been humiliating had it just been one of us on our own. But together we had fun with it. Writing notes to each other on the chalkboard and talking through the shelves of the rolling cart tv he’d placed between us. I have no memory of what we did to force the change. But we quickly became best friends, and we both aced his class.

         Twenty years later she’s sitting across from me in our hometown diner making small talk, because neither of us want to talk about what’s really going on in our lives. Our homes. Our marriages.

         Meh. Work is work. I don’t dislike it, I’m just not sure how to have a life and a kid and a job. The highlight of my day is the iced coffee I get every day on my way in to close, Dunkin has an afternoon special- $3 for a large.

         That’s sad.

         Listen, I told everyone this is how it would be for a while when I took this job. I told him and his mother. The money is good. But I will live at work and be on call and my time will no longer be my own. I told them. Now everyone is acting like I’m choosing this instead of my family and I only did this FOR my family.

         Wow. Way to answer my next question, she laughs and takes a sip of coffee. I smile despite myself.

         Married life is good, I laugh. How about you? Are things better now that all of the girls are in school?

         If by better you mean the same, but now I go to work sans the kiddo. He continues to do whatever it is that he does. And then on Sundays we have a dozen of his buddies over for the Steelers game and I smile and refill the dip.

         Ugh!!! How did we get here? Maybe we should just leave them and start a commune?

         Count me in!

         After breakfast Maria walks next door to her office, and I head back across town to try and nap before I head back to work. On my drive back I try to catch a glimpse of the house and the man in the truck across the way but it’s too hard from this angle. I find myself wondering what they’re doing to the house. Maybe it’s an addition. I swear, every house in this town is a two bedroom with one bath and a Pittsburgh shitter in the basement. It’s like it never occurred to the builders that anyone would want more than one kid. Sigh. More than one kid.

         Once upon a time she had wanted more than one kid. Had tried. And almost succeeded. She remembered how her husband had sat her down six months after the second loss and offered to get a vasectomy. Maybe we just stop trying he’d said. She’d known that it was wearing her down and taking a toll on her mentally. The repeated disappointment month after month. She just hadn’t realized how bad it really was til he sat there pleading with her to give it up. Just be happy with what we already have.

         For a while she was. Or thought she could be. But once there was no baby to focus on. No timed intimacy in the hopes of getting pregnant, their lovemaking became less and less frequent. Eventually she’d gotten the call from her old boss and decided to take the job. She couldn’t give their daughter a sibling, the least she could do is give her a better life financially.

         Same time. Same drive. Different day. Mommy look. What’s that man doing?

         I look towards the house across the way and can see him driving a small bulldozer down the graveled drive. From our vantage point it looks almost toy-sized. Not like the ones on the side of the highway from the new gas station going in.

         Huh. I don’t know sweetie. Maybe they’re just clearing the way for something. It’s kind fun though, guessing, right?

         It feels like overnight that the temperatures go from sixty to thirty. The trees are all but bare and we have a pretty good view now of the house. At some point over the last few weeks the man has acquired a pile of bricks. We still can’t figure out what it is he’s building. Or how you get to the house. We drove around one day trying to figure it out. But far as we can tell, you can’t get there from here. Or anywhere.

         I’m being promoted and transferred to a new store. Hopefully no more late nights. Or at least way less, now that I’ll be the boss. It feels like we are finally getting ahead when he tells me he wants to switch careers. Oh, I say. Now? To what? And how?

         The hours will be better. The pay will be better. And our quality of life will be better. I won’t be so tired on my days off because I’ll work a normal shift. No more 24-hour shifts or overnights. But you’ll have to cover us til I complete training… training pay is crap.

         I agree, happily. Maybe this is what we need. Maybe now things will get better.

         The old man has been at it for months now. It turns out that pile of bricks wasn’t for a new addition. The pile has only grown. Day after day he shows up and by nightfall he is gone, and the pile has grown in size. I’m embarrassed to say we truly didn’t see what he was doing until we could literally see into the house. I haven’t seen a ladder of any sorts. My imagination places him in the old master bedroom removing the bricks, one by one.

         My husband has just accepted the role of president at the fire department. It’s a volunteered position. Now instead of working crazy hours at his job, he works normal hours then comes home and heads to the firehall. In April, I tell him that I’m unhappy. Something has to change. Or end.

         I’ve stopped counting the days it’s been since he held me and focus on the old man and his pile of bricks. He’s always alone. I make up stories to go with the scene. Maybe he tried to sell the land. Maybe he inherited it. Maybe he wants to build a bigger, better house. Something in me knows this isn’t true. I can see it on his stoic and determined face. His sullen disposition. This house is all that remains of a life he would rather forget.

         I wonder if its healing or cathartic for him. Dismantling the hearth. Tearing down every memory that ever lived inside those walls. I imagine his wife left him or died. I’m not sure which version is sadder. But, I watch as spring gives way to summer and he begins clearing the bricks away. Pile by pile. Brick by brick. What was once a two story brick house has been leveled. The only thing remaining is a concrete square. The foundation. It looks too small to have held a house.