Beating Heart by A. M. Jenkins

 
    E van is not impressed when he first walks into the house. There is no electricity; the only light comes in through the open door, and through the windows in rooms on either side of the hall. The wallpaper has been eaten away in patches. The wooden floors are gritty underfoot. Ivy has actually curled its way over a windowsill into the house, through one unevenly fitted sash. At the end of the hall, a wide staircase rises and seems to disappear into gloom.
    Evan’s mother is brimming with quiet satisfaction, and Libby, who is five, prances with excitement. But Evan feels skeptical. “This is it?” he asks.
    Mom nods. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    Libby skips toward the stairs, craning her neck to look up. She runs her fingers along the dusty scrolled banister. “It’s like a castle!”
    Mom smiles, then turns to Evan. “What do youthink?” she asks him.
    Evan looks around at the dirt, the dust, the whole derelict, falling-apart thing. “You want me to be honest?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI think it’s the biggest dump I’ve ever seen.”
    Mom shakes her head. “You’re not looking at the potential.”
    â€œMom.” Evan can’t believe she’s oblivious to what this place looks like. “The walls are peeling off.”
    â€œYes,” she says fondly. “You can see the original wallpaper. Very ornate, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you feel like we’ve traveled back to the 1890s? We’re going to love living here.”
    Evan gives a snort of disbelief.
    â€œWhatever,” he says.
    Â 
    Â 
    a voice
    like a hand
    Â 
    shaking me
    Â 
    out of sleep
    Â 
    Â 
    deep
    raw
    young
    male
    Â 
    Â 
    Has he come back?
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    the front
    door
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    is
    open
    Â 
    Â 
    the air
    moves
    Â  fresh
    Â  aroused
    Â 
    Â 
    his voice has pricked
    the layers of my peace
    Â 
    now bristles are
    Â  popping the seams
    of my silence
    Â 
    Â 
    sawdust
    paint
    clatters
    metallic
    shoutings
    thuds
    thumps
    bangs
    screeches
    buzzes  
    Â 
    Â 
    my walls,
    faded and friendly,
    are stripped
    ripped and gutted,
    worse than naked.
    I will not look.
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    my floors, my rooms, my companions, are littered with boxes weighted with furniture
    Â 
    Â 
    I am unsettled
    shelves strain under books
    paintings like wounds on my walls
    frames like scars
    rugs smother my floors
    more and more boxes
    opening
    spreading their contents like a stain
    Â 
    Â 
    That voice again.
    He is back.
    Â 
    Upstairs—
    he will come upstairs
    into his
    room.
    Â 
    Â 
    I will wait
    for him here
    where
    floorboards
    recall
    furniture and footsteps
    walls
    remember
    words and breath
    air
    retraces
    sweat
    and
    kisses
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    he belongs here
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    So do I.

 
    O n official moving day the place still seems shabby to Evan, even though repairs have been going on for several months now and the house is supposedly ready. The air smells like paint, but underneath that is the musty odor of old wood, varnish, and neglect. Evan knows they don’t have nearly enough furniture to fill the house, and that many rooms will remain empty. He has a sneaking suspicion that Mom’s burned most of the divorce settlement getting this heap even halfway livable.
    The movers are bringing the last load. Mom, Evan, and Libby come in together. Evan, ever practical, is carrying a box of his own belongings. Mom and Libby, empty-handed, prefer to let the movers do all the work.
    Mom is the happiest Evan can remember. She stops in the hallway, hands on Libby’s shoulders. “Oh,” she says, “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
    She has not been like this in a long time, light and smiling and excited about the future. Evan knows she’s living out her lifetime fantasy of owning a big romantic old house. And the move doesn’t really affect him