shifty-looking bank manager, who certainly could have done something to help, with his equally suspicious partner, who may be an Arab or an Indian, it’s impossible to tell, but who seems to be home all the time with the little girl, pretending to be a normal family. No one is fooled.
Paul paces the axis connecting the living room bay on the north side of the house to the dining room bay on the south, then spends ten minutes circling the central hallway, gazing at the main staircase before he can bring himself to go up to the second floor, where he inspects the four empty bedrooms, each with its own adjoining bath. Without the furniture that once filled these rooms, it is difficult to conjure memories of the ways he and Amanda and the boys inhabited them. He remembers laughter at first, a kind of raucous joy, and then, as months and years passed and the business began to fail, raised voices and tears, the adults always shouting, the boys either pouting or crying.
The top floor of the house, high in the front gable, is a single room, lit by the French window with its pointed arch that opens onto the balcony and has views over the front yard, the whole neighborhood, the woods and fields and suburbs beyond, all the way to the broad flat river west of the city. When the boys were still here, toys packed the room. There was an old-fashioned rocking horse and solid wooden blocks passed down from Amanda’s childhood, and, from Paul’s mother, bright plastic machines full of electronic noise: action figures and gray space ships, a purple ray gun firing sparks in an enclosed plastic chamber, a laughing white skeleton with sparkling black eyes.
Paul opens the window and steps onto the balcony. At this time of evening no one will be looking. Televisions flash, lights flare on and off, but the blinds and curtains of the neighboring houses are closed. After their house was finished, Amanda stood on the balcony, her hair blowing in a cold late autumn wind, and said she felt like Juliet, or Rapunzel.
“Will we be okay?” she said, turning to him. The crash had already come. Houses were no longer selling.
“Come on, Mandy,” he said, embracing her. “Don’t you believe in me?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But I also believe the world is unforgiving. Tell me we’ll be all right.”
“You have to trust me. I’m not gonna let you down,” he said, and lifted her up off the balcony, holding her in the air, leaning out over the railing. He felt her grow tense in his hands, her eyes staring into his own. “You do trust me, don’t you, Amanda?” Her lip quivered, she nodded, and Carson started to cry from the floor of the playroom.
Now, alone on the balcony, it takes no effort for Paul to imagine casting his body into the air, being caught by thermals and borne aloft over the land. As a boy he often saw himself rising out of his chair at school and hovering up near the ceiling, looking down on his awestruck teacher and classmates, who would at last recognize and respect him for what he was: born to lead the world. Just as easily, bending over the railing, he can see himself dropping down, bouncing off the porch roof, and how his impact against the flagstone path between the driveway and front door might result in his immediate death. Lifting his feet in the air, he holds on to the railing to see if it will give under his weight: swinging, shifting his center of gravity, he senses the dizzy pull, how it would feel to plummet over the edge, letting the house itself be the agent of his death. The house is not just a part of him: he is the house. The house is the way he sees himself: the peaks and wings, the hard, undulant lines and disproportionate scale. If he must die, the house should kill him. Momentum tilts him forward: he nearly goes too far, at the last moment throwing his torso back and coming to land on the balcony, its beams shuddering under the sudden jolt of his weight. A solid house would not shudder. A house
Paul paces the axis connecting the living room bay on the north side of the house to the dining room bay on the south, then spends ten minutes circling the central hallway, gazing at the main staircase before he can bring himself to go up to the second floor, where he inspects the four empty bedrooms, each with its own adjoining bath. Without the furniture that once filled these rooms, it is difficult to conjure memories of the ways he and Amanda and the boys inhabited them. He remembers laughter at first, a kind of raucous joy, and then, as months and years passed and the business began to fail, raised voices and tears, the adults always shouting, the boys either pouting or crying.
The top floor of the house, high in the front gable, is a single room, lit by the French window with its pointed arch that opens onto the balcony and has views over the front yard, the whole neighborhood, the woods and fields and suburbs beyond, all the way to the broad flat river west of the city. When the boys were still here, toys packed the room. There was an old-fashioned rocking horse and solid wooden blocks passed down from Amanda’s childhood, and, from Paul’s mother, bright plastic machines full of electronic noise: action figures and gray space ships, a purple ray gun firing sparks in an enclosed plastic chamber, a laughing white skeleton with sparkling black eyes.
Paul opens the window and steps onto the balcony. At this time of evening no one will be looking. Televisions flash, lights flare on and off, but the blinds and curtains of the neighboring houses are closed. After their house was finished, Amanda stood on the balcony, her hair blowing in a cold late autumn wind, and said she felt like Juliet, or Rapunzel.
“Will we be okay?” she said, turning to him. The crash had already come. Houses were no longer selling.
“Come on, Mandy,” he said, embracing her. “Don’t you believe in me?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But I also believe the world is unforgiving. Tell me we’ll be all right.”
“You have to trust me. I’m not gonna let you down,” he said, and lifted her up off the balcony, holding her in the air, leaning out over the railing. He felt her grow tense in his hands, her eyes staring into his own. “You do trust me, don’t you, Amanda?” Her lip quivered, she nodded, and Carson started to cry from the floor of the playroom.
Now, alone on the balcony, it takes no effort for Paul to imagine casting his body into the air, being caught by thermals and borne aloft over the land. As a boy he often saw himself rising out of his chair at school and hovering up near the ceiling, looking down on his awestruck teacher and classmates, who would at last recognize and respect him for what he was: born to lead the world. Just as easily, bending over the railing, he can see himself dropping down, bouncing off the porch roof, and how his impact against the flagstone path between the driveway and front door might result in his immediate death. Lifting his feet in the air, he holds on to the railing to see if it will give under his weight: swinging, shifting his center of gravity, he senses the dizzy pull, how it would feel to plummet over the edge, letting the house itself be the agent of his death. The house is not just a part of him: he is the house. The house is the way he sees himself: the peaks and wings, the hard, undulant lines and disproportionate scale. If he must die, the house should kill him. Momentum tilts him forward: he nearly goes too far, at the last moment throwing his torso back and coming to land on the balcony, its beams shuddering under the sudden jolt of his weight. A solid house would not shudder. A house
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