“This is it,” Gillian said to me, trying to meld with her Adirondack chair. “We’ve earned this, sweetheart, we’ve earned this,” she sighed, her blue eyes shimmering in the sunset. “It’s perfect.”
I followed her eyes down the field in which our former city mutt, Joe, meandered like a senior citizen. I had no idea of how many years he had left, but those remaining would be just where I would want him to be, chasing any bird that had the temerity to intrude on his territory. Beyond Joe was a small inlet of the St. George River that meandered into Muscongus Bay. One small spit of land, porcupined with pine trees and there the Atlantic Ocean loomed. Behind us was our dream house—three bedrooms, two baths and gleaming maple throughout. Being thoughtfully situated on the peninsula, nearly every window had a view of water. Often Gillian and I would lose each other when a short errand was cut off by a spectacular view that wouldn’t release us.
After more than twenty of years of teaching in the Chicago Public Schools, this house seemed to be the gift of a benevolent God, with an asking price south of $250,000. Yes, it was being sold as is, but, judging from the pictures, any renovations were not regarded as burdens but rather as empowering challenges.
The house needed no major work or any work at all. But when Gillian called it perfect, I could not disagree more. Inevitably, something would happen to bring her back to earth like the asteroid that destroyed the dinosaurs.
Our asteroid was named Stan. He lived in the basement and would continue until the day he breathed his last onion-scented breath. Stan was the “as-is” clause. Whatever he had on the two previous owners was lost to history. But he clearly had an air-tight lease that gave him the exclusive right to live in the basement for the sum of $179.75 a month. He was to have access to one shelf in the refrigerator and two shelves in the pantry. He had his own pot and frying pan, but could request use of our cooking utensils with at least two hours notice. He could have guests until 10 pm and one overnight guest who would have access to the guest bathroom. He or she would be entitled to one bath towel, one hand towel and one washcloth that we were required to wash and replace within 24 hours of his or her departure. The Ancient Mariner was less burdened.
Like the inevitability of rain on a picnic, we heard Stan’s tuneless off-key whistle. He pushed open the doors with a force that threatened to knock them off their hinges. Of course, he did not have the decency to wear a shirt. His torso was a maze of moles, bristled hair, sagging breasts and a distinct hump growing out of his right shoulder. Of course, he could have used the towel he carried to cover his deformity, but, as he was fond of saying, “I am the way the Lord made me, if he ain’t got a problem with it, why should I?”
“Jesus,” Gillian said, watching his ill-fitting self-made denim shorts undulate like the tide. Even Joe, who was fond of leaving dead animals at our feet, gave Stan wide berth. Stan descended into the water, dropped his shorts and began to lather himself with a bar of soap. Even from this distance, we could see the tide carrying Stan effluent into the bay. “I’m going in,” Gillian announced, slamming the door. I waited in vain for the Coast Guard to come screaming up the river to arrest him. Unfortunately, our lawyer said neither indecency nor polluting was cause to break the lease.
While Stan was a horrific sight, his appearance was his most redeeming quality. If he was a dog, Stan would make an excellent doubt hound, sniffing out our insecurities or misgivings. In the morning after which Gillian and I had clumsily engaged in coupling two floors above his head, I was greeted by the sight of Stan messily eating cornflakes. “Maybe you should try Viagra,” he said.
One afternoon, after I received a disturbing email, Stan mentioned a former student of mine who was an incredible poet and a lousy judge of people. The choice presented to him was one of creativity or death at an early age. He chose the latter. “Lose some, he said, eating the last peach, “lose some. If only you tried harder.”
After Jillian’s sister left with her three adorable kids, Stan looked at Jillian and announced: “some people aren’t destined to be mothers. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
Initially, we fought back. Told him he was rude. Told him we would be speaking to our attorney. Told him he was not welcome in our part of the house. Everything, but he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.
During one of Stan’s rare trips to town, I went down to retrieve a roll of paper towels. It was always a good day to get supplies whenever Stan was out. God knew what insecure scab Stan would pick. Gillian was in the kitchen with her friend Lani.
In the pantry, I heard muffled voices that grew clearer as I neared Stan’s bed. It always struck me that odd Stan placed his bed against the wall in the middle of what was his small sitting room. Whenever anyone visited him, had the choice of standing or sitting on his sour mattress.
Apparently, the air conditioner ducts wound through the house like cancer before coming together as a tumor in the adjacent room, separated by only two panels of drywall. Despite the roiling nausea bubbling in my throat, I laid my head on Stan’s pillow. I could hear Gillian and Lani’s voice as clear as if they were standing next to me. So that’s how he knew our secrets. The one’s we admitted to each other and the one’s we muttered to ourselves when we were alone.
At first, I felt the thrill of discovery, which quickly dissipated. So what if he had no superpower? Did that make it anything he said less true?
I must have been pale when I came back into the kitchen. Both Gillian and Lani stopped speaking and Gillian stretched to catch me. I whispered not to speak. He could hear everything.
“Who can hear everything,” she asked, before I whipped my finger to my lips. I motioned with my eyes to the floor.
“Him,” I hiss. The next day I called my lawyer. Surely, this was enough to break the lease. Stan was spying on us. He sighed for the umpteenth time and told me the lease was explicit and snooping was not cause for breaking it.
This evening’s respite was disturbed by Stan’s naked frolicking in the sudsy surf. I looked at Gillian who set her jaw to rigid. “Not tonight,” she said from between clenched teeth. “I am not going to let him drive me in. This is my house. I worked too hard to let him ruin these golden years.” I placed my hand in her steely grip and we watched as Stan began his moist return up the hill.
He steered towards us and stood so our faces were level. “Notice anything different about me?” he asked. He was still repulsive, so that hadn’t changed. His hair always looked like a heavily used Brill-o pad so that could not be it. I had no idea how many moles covered his body so I could be excused for not noticing a malignancy.
“My eyes, my eyes,” he said, nearly poking them out.
We leaned forward. He leaned forward. Maybe it was the sunset reflected in his eyes, but I thought they looked a bit off.
“They’re yellow! My eyes are yellow! I went to the doctor yesterday and he tells me my liver is rotten with cancer. And it’s spread to my spine and my brain. He said if they had caught is sooner maybe.” Didn’t you notice? I swear I have never met two people so involved with themselves that you couldn’t bother to look at me. Now I have like six months tops.”
Gillian, being the kinder of the two of us, muttered a string of apologies and promises to do anything to make his remaining time easy. I, being the less kind of the two of us, did the math in my head. By Christmas, he would be buried and I could turn his room into a woodshop.
Gillian, helped him up the stairs. “By the way, I saw my lawyer after the doctor,” he said. “The lease is part of my estate. I’m gonna will my room to my nephew, Laird. Strange boy. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to his screaming. Just accept him as-is.”