Crawlspace (8 page)

In the next moment I saw a small gray spot appear at the bottom of the garden. It stood out clearly in the white snow with the moon pouring light down upon it. Alice saw it at the same moment that I did, and as we watched it, I felt her hand tighten around mine and squeeze. Breathlessly we followed the spot as it stole across the garden, moving toward the door beneath the window, our hearts beating madly in our chests.

The following morning I drove the car to town along an icy road. Driving conditions were hazardous. The roads had been slicked over by icy rains the night before. It was like traveling down a narrow strip of glass in roller skates. You could feel no bottom beneath you. There was nothing to hold on to. I had no chains, only snow tires that spun and whined sickeningly as I crept up hills.

Knowing my general condition, I wondered why on earth I was making such a trip. But the answer was quite simple. I had a mission. Alice and I, walking around the house a week or two earlier, had found a wide fissure in the foundation surrounding the crawlspace. It was not new but apparently had been there for several months and gone undetected. It now appeared to be widening. That afternoon we went down to the cellar, and standing at the square we peered into the crawl. I spotted the chink immediately. It was at the far end of the crawl, light pouring through it. A narrow stream of air moving at a high velocity swept through the chink making the sound of a thin, shrill whistle. When I reported this to Alice she was horrified—not because of the danger to the foundation, but rather, the danger to Richard.

My mission on that icy morning was to plaster up the chink so as to spare Richard the discomfort of icy drafts pouring through the crawl at night.

Reaching town, late in the morning, I went quickly to the local hardware store and bought a bag of cement, a mixing basin, and a trowel, which was all carried out of the store by a clerk and loaded into my car.

I wasn’t eager to get back on the icy roads, so I delayed it by driving over to my service station to get gas and have the oil checked.

The service station I went to was the one I had suggested Richard apply to for a job. It was the only service station in town and run by a gloomy, taciturn man by the name of Washburn, whom I had grown strangely fond of, chiefly, I suppose, for his frankly antisocial ways. Talking to Washburn was like conversing with a block of ice.

When I drove up that day and gave a light punch to my horn, I could see him through the long windows of the repair shop, stretching his arms upward beneath a car hoisted on a hydraulic lift. For a moment he looked curiously like a man in an attitude of worship.

I punched my horn lightly again. This time he looked at me through the glass windows, then went back to the underparts of the car. He took his time coming out, primarily because I’d punched my horn two times and he simply had to put me in my place.

When he finally came out he was dressed in a mackinaw and a peaked leather cap, with the ear laps of it flapping foolishly about his stormy temples. Coming up to the car, he scarcely nodded at me, although he knew me quite well and had serviced the car on numerous occasions. But that was Washburn. He simply felt he had to put everyone in their place, particularly rude, city-bred types who were always in a rush. He specialized in city-bred types, and he had long ago fixed his sights on me. I rather admired his rudeness. It had a noble honesty about it. He was not the least bit interested in me, and he was not about to expend the effort of my idle chitchat trying to give the impression that he was.

“Good morning, Mr. Washburn,” I said, rolling down my window.

“Fill ’er up?” he asked, disregarding my greeting.

“Yes, please.”

Through the windshield I watched him crank the pump impassively while a few desultory snowflakes whirled about his leather cap.

“Road coming up from the bog was pretty bad,” I said.

“Ayuh,” said Washburn. That was his expression-of agreement.

“Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas—”

“Ayuh—”

I listened to the small bell of the pump, ticking off the gallons.

“You find a boy for that job you had here a few weeks back?” I went on undaunted.

“Nope.”

“I sent a boy over to apply for it about two weeks ago. Has he been in yet?”

“Nope.”

“I see,” I said, suddenly irritated.

“Can’t get young folks to work nowadays,” said Washburn. “Ain’t interested in it.”

The pump tolled its final bell and came to a halt. When I paid Mr. Washburn and drove away, I was very angry.

Arriving home, I recounted to Alice my conversation with Washburn. I told it to her over a cup of cocoa and when I was finished, she looked at me reproachfully. “I’m surprised at you, Albert. That’s no work for the boy. He’s got a brain. He’s sensitive. Imagine having to spend every day in the company of that Washburn creature.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “I’m frankly surprised at you, Albert.”

“I assure you I had the boy’s interest at heart.”

“Interest?” She gave me a scathing, derisive little laugh. “And you threw him on the mercy of Ezra Washburn. Imagine. A gasoline station attendant.”

“You find that disgraceful?”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t. Not at all.”

“Well, if you don’t then I’m sorry for you. I was under the impression you wanted something better for the boy.”

“I do, Alice,” I spoke through clenched teeth. “But I don’t feel he’s quite ready for the local bank presidency. Perhaps next week—”

“Don’t be sarcastic.” She rose and swept my cocoa cup away.

“I’m not finished with that yet.” I rose and trailed after her.

“I hope you didn’t forget the plaster for that chink,” she went right on, not having heard me.

I had a sudden vision of my hair-raising journey over icy roads. In my mind I saw the car skid out of control and plunge down an embankment. It rolled over several times and landed upside down, its tires spinning in the air.

I caught up with her at the sink just as she was about to pour out the remaining cocoa.

“No, Alice. I didn’t forget the plaster,” I said and snatched my cup back.

There must have been something ominous in my voice, because she was suddenly conciliatory. “Well, dear—You really ought to plaster up that hole before the weather turns, so that he has a warm place for tonight.”

I gazed at her for what must have been an unnaturally long time. Then I rose and started from the kitchen. When I reached the door, I turned again and faced her. “I hardly recognize you, Alice. You’re like a damned brood hen.”

She turned an astonished glance on me.

“You know,” I went on. “It’s just possible I’m even fonder of him than you are. But I am disappointed that he hasn’t at least gone over to see Washburn. I’m not saying Washburn is the right place for him. I only intended that he stay there a little while until he got on his feet.” She was suddenly quite tender. “He’ll get on his feet, Albert. Don’t worry. When the right job comes, just watch him snatch it.”

I sighed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I am, dear’. You’ll see. Now just go and patch up that hole down there, while I fix some nice hot soup for tonight’s supper. Richard loves split pea.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent out of doors, laboring over the chink in the crawl. It was located along the northern exposure of the house, showing clearly through the cement foundation. Here the wind whistled sharply around and rattled the gutters just below the porch roof.

I spent several minutes inspecting the damage. It was a wide fissure with unnumerable tiny breaks along its main fine, the sort of thing caused by excessive dampness and improperly mixed cement.

I set to work at once mixing cement in a large basin. Not long after, I was applying it with a trowel. I had never cemented before, and of course the workmanship was clumsy. Several times I had to undo what I’d done, chipping away with a mattock at the cement, which hardened quickly in that freezing weather.

All the while I labored there that afternoon, hunched over with the wind whipping at my back, I brooded over Richard’s failure to follow up on my suggestion to see Washburn. I had a good sulk for a while and made a few decisions about firmness that I immediately abandoned. Soon I reasoned that although he hadn’t bothered to see Washburn, he must undoubtedly be seeing other people about a job and would continue to do so. And I had to admit, there was some truth to what Alice said. As much as I enjoyed Washburn, I knew my fondness for the man amounted to no more than a quaint eccentricity. To have to spend day after day as an employee of Ezra Washburn would be a form of cruel and unnatural punishment. And the work was not terribly challenging or rewarding, either. Richard would have been unhappy at it, and he had the good sense, even if I didn’t, to foresee that.

Finally, along about dusk, the chink was filled to my satisfaction, and I went back into the house assuaged by my thoughts.

Darkness came swiftly in that season. One moment you’d be in daylight, and the next moment you’d turn around and darkness had fallen.

When I entered the house I found the parlor lights lit, the Christmas tree aglow, and a cheery fire crackling on the hearth. My back ached from having worked stooped over all afternoon, and my hands and feet were numb from the cold. But there was the savory smell of Alice’s pea soup, thick and blistering hot in a pot on the stove. And though I was cold and weary and unsure of how I felt about anything, I was at least pleased with my day’s work.

One morning just before Christmas I came down for breakfast and found Alice waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “Albert—Come quickly.”

I followed her into the kitchen. “What is it?”

“Albert—”

“Yes.”

She looked at me. “Can’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?” I sniffed, but aside from a variety of cooking odors, I could smell nothing unusual.

“Come over here.” She was standing at a corner of the kitchen at a point farthest from the stove. “Smell it now.” There was an urgency in her voice.

I pointed my nose upwards and sniffed around in several directions.

“I smell cocoa and bacon.”

“Oh, Albert.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s—” and then it hit me full in the face. She must’ve seen my expression change.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“Horrible,” I sniffed again. “It’s only over here. You can’t smell it over by the stove.”

“What do you suppose it is?”

I shrugged but offered no answer.

“Smells like a public toilet,” she went on. “You think a pipe’s burst?”

“Perfectly possible in this kind of weather.”

I walked over to the sink and gave the spigots a full twist. The water drained freely. Next I went to the little powder room right off the kitchen and flushed the toilet. There was no back-up. I walked slowly back to Alice.

“Well, it’s not the pipes of the septic tank, thank heavens.”

She was staring own at the floor, pawing it with her feet. “It’s right here.”

“What?”

“Right under us.”

We looked down at the wide bare planks of the kitchen floor. They were a varnished, wormy chestnut, nailed down with studs and set in with widish spaces between them. It was the original floor and extremely handsome. Just below it, of course, was the crawl.

“Oh, it’s just that cat smell down there,” I said.

“No. It’s not that. I know that smell. This is different—it’s awful,” she went on. “Isn’t it?”

By then I’d put the whole thing together in my mind. I knew exactly what the source of the odor was, but I was determined to minimize it to Alice.

“It’s really not too bad.”

“Not too bad?” There was a look of disbelief in her face. “It’s vile. It’s unholy. And it’s coming from the crawl, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Suddenly a look of alarm crossed her face. “You think he’s all right?”

“I’m sure he is. I heard him go out this morning.”

“Well, if it’s a pipe, we have to get a plumber.”

“A plumber? Two days before Christmas? You must be joking.”

“Well, someone’s got to come, Albert. We can’t live like this. And I won’t permit him to stay down there in that—”

“I’ll go down and have a look,” I said. I wanted to get her off the subject of plumbers.

“When?”

“After I’ve had some breakfast.”

Her eyes widened and she put her hands on her hips. “You’re not really going to eat breakfast with that wafting around you?”

She had a point there. I looked at the area of the kitchen over which the smell had settled like a haze.

“Here,” I said, yanking her by the hand. “Let’s get out of this. We’ll have breakfast in the library.”

Later I went down to the basement. The stench was overpowering. I had to cover my nose with a handkerchief and grope my way in. It was fairly obvious that Richard was using part of the crawl as a latrine. Now that I’d sealed up the chink in the crawl, whatever air had ventilated the place before was cut off. The stench in several days’ time had simply built up to the point where it was an evil, choking vapor that had swelled and backed out of the crawl until it had filled the whole basement.

There was a dehumidifier down there that we used in the hot, humid months in order to keep the cellar cool and dry. It was also very effective in removing the kind of dank musky odors that are so common to cellars. I didn’t know how it would stack up against human excrement, but gasping for breath in that foulness, I tugged the machine out of the corner, plugged it in and flicked it on. When I’d done that and it had been running for a few moments, I dragged it over and started to set it directly in front of the crawl entrance when suddenly a voice boomed out at me from the black square. “What do you want?”

I nearly toppled backwards with fright. It was Richard, of course, but I’d assumed he was out. When I regained my composure, I tried to speak.

“Richard?”

“Yes—”

Gaping at the square speechlessly, I could sense him staring out at me from its other side.

“Didn’t you go out this morning? I was sure I heard the door slam.”