the streets laid out, even something amiss in the neighborhood’s landscaping: the sidewalks are too narrow, the parkways too broad, the berms designed to deaden the sound of traffic from the main road too angular, too steep, too high. The neighborhood looks expansive and yet insubstantial, the jerrybuilt back lot of a movie studio where houses exist only as façades, the gardens and parkways too immaculate to feel as though any of it grew up organically, one house at a time.
The main stairs lead him back down to the foyer. He built the two sets of stairs believing that one day he and Amanda might have a live-in maid who would be restricted to the steep narrow “service stairs” while the family used the broad front staircase. It was a selling point for the development and a full half of the houses completed have this added feature, though as far as Paul knows not one of the families in Dolores Woods has any live-in help.
As he opens the door, sniffing the warm air for signs of other people, he catches grass cuttings, pesticides, and the ozone exhaust of air conditioning units, the smell of a late evening barbecue, but no bodies. Leaving the door ajar, he walks down the path to the driveway and mailbox, itself a handcrafted miniature of the house, mounted on a brick pillar. Inside he finds several pieces of mail, all for the new owners, Nathaniel and Julia Noailles. How is the name pronounced? No-ales? No-els? No-ills? It sounds foreign. Taking the envelopes back up the driveway, Paul opens the lid of the shed that holds the garbage cans and throws the mail inside. People have to learn to be more responsible. They must be taught.
Back behind the locked door he slumps to the floor. Beside him he sees a spot where he tracked in dirt, but when he tries to wipe it away with the cuff of his shirt the stain spreads—tar rather than dirt—and in the light coming in from the street he sees it expand, sharp lines of black breaking against the grain of the wood. He spits and rubs but the stain only gets larger and as he works at the mark tears erupt from deep in his viscera. By the time the stain has spread across the width of the hall he gives up. It is no longer his responsibility; the new owners can deal with the mess.
In the basement Paul turns on all the lights over the recreation area to read the engraved brass plaque mounted in the wall: PAUL KROVIK BUILT THIS HOUSE . He feels the sharp indentations of the letters. Except for a low buzz the house is silent, and then, somewhere more distant, on the other side of the foundation walls, there is an irregular vibration, a scuffling sound he has not noticed in the past.
Turning off the lights and dropping to his knees, crawling back across the floor and into the pantry, under the shelf at the back, through the open hatch, following the pinkish glow that comes from inside the bunker, fluorescent light reflecting off its deep red walls, pulling the hatch shut behind him, Paul throws its flimsy lock, then stands, heaves closed the containment door in a single movement, and engages its own lock. Listening to the bolts slide into place as he spins the combination dial, he rests his head against the cold metal surface. Breath comes in a pant; his hands are shaky, legs calf-wobbly.
When the new family arrives he will have to come and go through the storm cellar at the back of his bunker, entering and exiting his home through the woods. It will take time and determination to turn things around, to rebuild his business and fight for his family. Apart from his truck, everything he now owns is in the bunker’s two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen and living space, all of the rooms opening off the long hallway. The distance from one containment door to the other is nearly two hundred feet, long enough that he can run back and forth to keep in shape. He has mounted a bar in the door of the second bedroom and does chin-ups every morning before going out through the back entrance to look for
The main stairs lead him back down to the foyer. He built the two sets of stairs believing that one day he and Amanda might have a live-in maid who would be restricted to the steep narrow “service stairs” while the family used the broad front staircase. It was a selling point for the development and a full half of the houses completed have this added feature, though as far as Paul knows not one of the families in Dolores Woods has any live-in help.
As he opens the door, sniffing the warm air for signs of other people, he catches grass cuttings, pesticides, and the ozone exhaust of air conditioning units, the smell of a late evening barbecue, but no bodies. Leaving the door ajar, he walks down the path to the driveway and mailbox, itself a handcrafted miniature of the house, mounted on a brick pillar. Inside he finds several pieces of mail, all for the new owners, Nathaniel and Julia Noailles. How is the name pronounced? No-ales? No-els? No-ills? It sounds foreign. Taking the envelopes back up the driveway, Paul opens the lid of the shed that holds the garbage cans and throws the mail inside. People have to learn to be more responsible. They must be taught.
Back behind the locked door he slumps to the floor. Beside him he sees a spot where he tracked in dirt, but when he tries to wipe it away with the cuff of his shirt the stain spreads—tar rather than dirt—and in the light coming in from the street he sees it expand, sharp lines of black breaking against the grain of the wood. He spits and rubs but the stain only gets larger and as he works at the mark tears erupt from deep in his viscera. By the time the stain has spread across the width of the hall he gives up. It is no longer his responsibility; the new owners can deal with the mess.
In the basement Paul turns on all the lights over the recreation area to read the engraved brass plaque mounted in the wall: PAUL KROVIK BUILT THIS HOUSE . He feels the sharp indentations of the letters. Except for a low buzz the house is silent, and then, somewhere more distant, on the other side of the foundation walls, there is an irregular vibration, a scuffling sound he has not noticed in the past.
Turning off the lights and dropping to his knees, crawling back across the floor and into the pantry, under the shelf at the back, through the open hatch, following the pinkish glow that comes from inside the bunker, fluorescent light reflecting off its deep red walls, pulling the hatch shut behind him, Paul throws its flimsy lock, then stands, heaves closed the containment door in a single movement, and engages its own lock. Listening to the bolts slide into place as he spins the combination dial, he rests his head against the cold metal surface. Breath comes in a pant; his hands are shaky, legs calf-wobbly.
When the new family arrives he will have to come and go through the storm cellar at the back of his bunker, entering and exiting his home through the woods. It will take time and determination to turn things around, to rebuild his business and fight for his family. Apart from his truck, everything he now owns is in the bunker’s two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen and living space, all of the rooms opening off the long hallway. The distance from one containment door to the other is nearly two hundred feet, long enough that he can run back and forth to keep in shape. He has mounted a bar in the door of the second bedroom and does chin-ups every morning before going out through the back entrance to look for
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