comes out of that cellar—and that’s even after Charley and his pals nearly destroy themselves moving the rich black topsoil from the excavation site to the back of the property ahead of time. Below that is a rocky brown loam, followed by a thick layer of the heavy orange clay common throughout the region. At one point, even Charley despairs of ever being able to complete the excavation. Once they finally break through the clay, though, the digging goes significantly faster.
Finally, on a hot, muggy August day that drapes itself over everything like a wet wool blanket, Charley invites Emma to climb down the ladder into the ten-foot-deep rectangular hole that is now flat, smooth, and hard-packed. She navigates the ladder with some trepidation, but once on solid earth at the bottom, she breathes in the earthy smell and feels the delicious coolness of the space. Being here reminds her of a crisp autumn day amid damp leaves—more like the end of October than the middle of August. Charley tells her, “The cellar will always be the coolest place in the house in the hot weather, but also won’t be freezing in the winter. Being underground moderates the temperature.”
She touches the walls, fascinated by the distinct layers of sediment that make her think of a vast sliced petit four. “And next is...?”
“We’ll pour the floor and then start the brickwork. That will take some time, but after that things should go quickly.”
Quickly, of course, is a relative concept. The floor is poured and has time to cure, but then a long rainy stretch moves in that delays the masonry work into autumn. George and his men are putting up a commercial building downtown that competes with the Flint Street project. Nonetheless, George is determined to get the house under roof before the first snow. That way, his men are able to work inside when they have time over the winter.
cd
Joe and Charley are in McCreary’s after work, and Charley is closely narrating the saga of the roof installation, which is just finishing up. It is a week or so after Thanksgiving, which Charley spends with Emma, Mary, and the boarder, Mrs. Klingelhoffer. Joe, meanwhile, has the rare opportunity to go home to spend some time with his family and boyhood friends, and to sleep in his old bed, which he finds blessedly peaceful. Charley is a fine roommate, but snores to rattle the cotter pins. It is this thought that puts a comical but indelicate image into his head of a Mrs. Emma Beck sitting up in bed next to a gap-mouthed, unconscious Charley, her eyes aghast and her hands clapped over her ears. The image makes Joe snort beer out of his nose, which, while painful, strikes him as even funnier, so he ends up spewing beer out of his mouth also.
“What the hell...?” Charley demands as he mops himself off.
“Charley, you talk about that house all the time. When are you going to talk about a wedding?”
Charley cups his palm behind his ear, “What? What’s that you say? Oh, wait.” He makes a production of cocking his head to one side and hopping on one leg while he knocks on his other ear. “Oh, that’s got it. Yep, I think it’s draining out now.” He sits back on his stool. “Lummox.”
“Priss.”
“So tell me how the thought of a wedding makes you spew beer all over me.”
“I’m just wondering who gets to warn your Emma that she’ll never have another minute’s sleep once she finds she’s stuck with you and your snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You snore like a tornado kicks up wind.”
“That’s not me; that’s the mouse in my pocket.” They both have a good laugh at this, knowing it is Charley’s standing excuse for any socially unacceptable noises he makes. “And at least he doesn’t spit his beer all over me.” It’s Charley’s turn to be tickled by the image in his head and Joe has to wait for him to stop chortling to himself.
“So it’s the mouse in your pocket that’s keeping you from getting married?”
Charley takes a drink and considers the inside of his glass seriously. “It’s a hard thing, Joe. I’m trying to do the calculations in my head of when I think the house will be done. I need to propose a date that overshoots the finishing, but not so much that feelings are hurt.”
Joe nods sagely at him. “I see. And are you factoring in distance and windage to figure how far to lead the target? Good Lord, man, you’re getting married, not hunting geese!” Joe rolls his eyes. “Calculations. What a piece of work.”
Charley fixes him with a look. “Imagine for a minute, against all possible odds, that some girl ever agrees to marry you.”
Joe does imagine for a moment—a girl with long golden curls, fetching blue eyes, a pert nose, and a light, tinkling laugh—and almost sighs out loud.
“Yes, well, you hold onto that picture, for all the good it will do you. Now, consider—you and she, freshly pronounced husband and wife, arm in arm, gazing stupidly at each other—how far you would go to avoid moving in with your in-laws.” Joe’s image of his twinkling angel shatters in front of him at the horror of such an idea. He even turns a little pale. “Right. So now you’re not above running a few calculations of your own, are you? Windage! If only it was that easy!”
Joe’s beautiful vision now wrecked beyond repair, he gestures to the bartender. “I need another beer.”
cd
“We thank you, Lord, for the food upon this table and for the family who is gathered here in your name. Amen.” As Mary Miller finishes saying grace, she, Charley, and Emma make the sign of the cross before they pick up silverware. Mrs. Klingelhoffer is already eating. She is a Lutheran, and the prayer is not hers. She doesn’t typically participate during meals anyway; the others have learned simply to talk over or around her.
When Charley follows Emma into the house this afternoon, Mary looks at him shaking out his coat in the entry and remarks, “Anymore, I don’t need to look outside to know the weather, I just need to see Mr. Beck come through my door.” It is true that Charley has taken to staying for dinner only when the weather makes it impractical to go out and work the new property. But she and Charley have developed an easy camaraderie, and Mary looks forward to the rainy days.
“Well, old Grim stepped in it today,” Charley starts, in between bites of pot roast. Mary makes his favorite dishes when the weather foretells his visits, and the meals grease his storytelling machinery into a high hum. “He was supposed to order two gross of shearing collars, but he ordered twenty gross. The two would have lasted us most of next year as it is, but we figure that since he’s got no idea what a shearing collar is, he just thought he should get a bunch.” Another big bite of potato. “So here comes dolly after dolly of crates, and the delivery boys wanting to know where to put it all. Well, you should have heard old Grim howling. He’s got us all lined up, figuring on how to make one of us the goat.” Charley imitates Mr. Grimsley’s bug-eyed, open-mouthed rage, which makes them all laugh. “Then here comes Mr. Graves into the shop, standing with his fists balled up on his hips just a few feet behind Grim, and more crates just keep getting stacked around them. So here’s his face,” Charley demonstrates, “eyes all squinchy and his mouth in a tight white line, and he’s boring a hole into the back of Grim’s head. And all the while, Grim’s still snarling and snapping at us, just as clueless as a coonhound with a head cold.”
Replaying the scene in his head, Charley can no longer eat, and tears bead at the corner of his eyes, he’s laughing so hard. Emma and Mary lean in, anticipating the story’s climax. Even Mrs. Klingelhoffer blinks into engagement. “So here’s all of us, stuck standing there watching, and trying for all our lives to keep from dropping to the floor in hysterics. Smitty even let out a big old toot just from the back pressure.” Charley pauses to drink in some air and wipe his eyes. “Oh, but then! Here’s Mr. Graves: ‘Mis-ter Grims-ley!’” the four syllables spoken like individual words, and then,”—a sharp snap of Charley’s fingers—“instant silence. We’re standing there staring at each other, us and Grim, and you could almost see him shrivel up. ‘I will see you in my office. Now.’ Icy. To watch him slink after Mr. Graves, why we almost felt sorry for him.” The