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Authors: Bettye Griffin

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BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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“Will we be able to swim in the lake?” Mitchell asked.
“You have to learn to swim first,” Reuben teased. “Actually, this lake isn't for swimming. They have it stocked with fish, and maybe we'll get a rowboat and some fishing poles and see if we can catch anything.”
“Cool!”
“But you'll still be able to swim,” Camille added. “There's a nice big pool on the property. There's also a playground. We'll drive you past there so you can see it before we leave.”
Shayla pulled at Camille's sleeve. “The terrorists won't crash a plane here, will they, Mommy?”
She knelt to be face-to-face with the eight-year-old. Things had changed so much already this century, Camille thought with a touch of sadness. When she was Shayla's age she had no idea what a terrorist was. “Shayla, we never know what's going to happen five minutes from now. None of us is immune, or really safe. But Daddy and I will always do whatever we can to protect you and Mitchell from any harm. All right?”
Shayla nodded. “Mommy, this is even better than Disney World, because we'll be here every day.”
The children ran toward the lake, and Reuben and Camille stood with their arms around each other. “Well, I think it's safe to say that the kids are pleased,” she said.
“And why not? This is a dream come true for people like us who live on an ugly street in the Bronx.” He chuckled. “You know, every time I talk to Saul or my sisters they keep asking if we're still moving.”
The thought of her in-laws put a halt to Camille's charitable feelings. “It figures. They probably hope something will go wrong. Honestly, Reuben, your family is like crabs in a barrel, all trying to pull the one who manages to get out back in.”
“Actually, Saul is asking if he can rent our apartment when we leave. The landlord will probably go for it. Saul used to work for him, and he left on good terms.”
“Why does Saul want a two-bedroom apartment all of a sudden?”
“He wants to get a place with his girlfriend, and she's got a little boy. She lives in a tenement around Tinton Avenue, and he wants to get her out of there. He's actually talking about settling down. Hell, he's avoided it all these years. I guess it's about time.” Saul, a year older than Reuben, was nearly forty.
“You know, I confess, I was a little worried when we signed those papers for the larger house, especially since we sprung for a lakeside lot,” Camille said. “But now that I can start to picture it, it's going to be just wonderful.”
Chapter 11
The Lees
December 2001
“O
kay, here's what I figure,” Norman said as he and Veronica sat having a discussion at their butcher-block dining table. “You'll probably get hired on at the hospital before me.”
“Oh, I don't know about that,” Veronica said. “Orthopedics is just as active as surgery.” Both she and Norman worked as RNs, she in the postsurgical unit, he in orthopedics.
“We'll see. But I think we should request to work twelve-hour shifts three days a week instead of what we're doing now so that we can manage to have one of us at home. It's going to make for a very long workday with such a long commute, and we won't get many chances to sit down to dinner together, but we can't have Lorinda and Simone at home by themselves from before dawn until seven or eight o'clock at night.”
“Oh, that's right,” Veronica said. She hadn't thought of that. Norman was so smart. She felt lucky to have him to put her faith in. He knew all the questions to ask: taxes, school systems, and the like. At his insistence they'd even attended a free seminar for home buyers given by their bank. They needed all the help they could get, he said.
No doubt about it, she'd made a good decision when she chose him to be her husband and the father of her children.
“Working different days will stretch our commuting dollars as well,” Norman continued. “We can use the same pass instead of us both having to buy one. I know they say they're nontransferable, but as long as it doesn't have our picture we're okay.”
“But Norman, do you think the buses run long enough to accommodate a twelve-hour workday?”
“Ah, good point. They probably don't. We probably need to think about doing ten hours, four days a week. That'll give us forty hours.”
Veronica frowned. “But we can't get in forty hours each in a seven-day week, Norman, without having an overlapping day. And then what about the kids?”
“I'll work forty hours. That will keep our benefits going. You'll have to cut down to part-time, three days a week. That'll give you thirty hours.”
“Well . . .” She couldn't deny how nice that sounded to her ears, making that long trip into the city just three times a week. “I guess I can let the hospital in East Stroudsburg know that I'm available for part-time work as well.”
“If they offer you something that's at least thirty hours, you take it. It's the same as you'd be doing at Presbyterian without a two-hour bus ride to get there.” He paused. “I'm sorry about the delay, Veronica. I know you really liked that house.”
“It's not your fault, Norman.” She meant it, but she couldn't deny being sad over the way things had worked out.
“I just can't see getting stuck paying 8 1/2 percent interest when we can pay 5 1/2 if we slow down a little bit and do what we're supposed to,” he explained. “Over thirty years three percentage points adds up to a lot of money. But I promise you that every dime I make from this part-time job will go toward paying off the bills so we can get a good mortgage rate. We'll get our house, probably by the summer. It just won't be the one we looked at. I doubt it'll still be on the market by then.”
She'd been terribly disappointed when all the lenders they tried said they didn't qualify for the lower interest rates because of the combined effects of high credit card balances and a few late payments. She'd even suggested to Norman that they go ahead with the higher rate and refinance after a few years, an idea he promptly vetoed. “It costs money to refinance, Veronica. Plus we have to plan on higher expenses while we're commuting. There might not be any extra left over to pay down the bills. We have to do this right from the jump. And we definitely have to pay close attention to our bills. Credit is getting more and more important these days. We can't afford to miss any payments. Credit card companies are starting to charge extra if you pay even one day late, and if you're late paying one bill the others can raise your interest rate.”
He'd been right, of course, and now she sought to reassure him. “You're working awfully hard, Norman. Forty at Presbyterian plus another twenty at the nursing home. I think it might be too much for you.”
“It's only temporary, and it'll be worth it in the long run. We're talking about our future, and the future of our daughters.”
Chapter 12
The Youngs
January 2002
D
awn turned her upper body so she could see her son in the backseat. “So, what do you think, Zach? Would you like living here?”
“We're really going to live here?”
“Absolutely,” Milo replied, his eyes on the road.
Dawn loved the look of wonder in her son's eyes. “I take it you approve.”
“Can I have a dog?”
Dawn laughed. “Well, not a pure breed, you understand, but we'll bring you down to the local pound and see what they've got.”
“Awright!”
“I always wanted a dog when I was a kid, Zach,” Milo said. “We couldn't have one because our apartment house didn't allow them, just like the one we have now doesn't, either. But it's especially nice to have a dog when you have a house. Their barking will let you know if someone is lurking around outside or even approaching.”
“I heard a rumor the other day that the Mitchell-Lama agreements for moderate rents on the buildings is set to expire in a couple of years,” Dawn remarked.
“What happens then? Surely they can't just throw all their old tenants out.”
“No, but each time someone moves out, or dies, they'll rent the apartment at the market rate. I heard they'll start allowing dogs then. I'll bet you that after a certain percentage of tenants are paying market rates it'll go co-op. And that's when they'll start fixing them up.”
“Well, by then we'll be long gone,” Milo said, “so it doesn't matter to me if they make the tenants buy their apartments or not.”
Zach piped up from the backseat. “Where's our house gonna be, Daddy?”
“We'll be in the next phase of construction, which is down the main road and to the right. But right now there isn't anything there. They're knocking down a lot of trees and leveling the land, but they won't start building on it until the spring.”
“Oh.”
“Don't be disappointed, Zach,” Dawn said. “Instead we're going to show you a house here in Phase One that's just like the one we picked out, and in the same type of location.”
Milo pulled over in front of a neat ranch house. “There we are. But Zach, you can't get too close to it, because there are people living here. They might think you're a burglar and shoot you.”
“Shoot me?”
“Yes. And they'd be within their rights. You don't walk up and peek in someone's windows. It's called trespassing, and it's a criminal act.”
“The house next to this one is just going up, Milo,” Dawn said. “Let's get out and pretend we're looking at it, and then Zach can get a better look.”
“We can always go to the model. This house has just been started, and it's a lot bigger than ours.”
“Later. I do want him to see the inside, but I also want him to get the full effect.” Holding her head where only Milo could see, she mouthed the words “the lake.”
“All right.” He backed up so that they were in front of the skeleton of the partially constructed house next door.
Zach hopped out of the backseat of the Volvo and ran toward the incomplete two-story house, his gaze fixed on the ranch house next door. “Where's my room gonna be?” he asked his parents when they caught up to him.
“Your room is the one with the window on the right front, plus the window on the side.”
“Which one is y'all's room?”
“On the other side of the house,” Milo told him.
Dawn smiled discreetly. They had opted for the larger ranch house with its split bedroom arrangement rather than the smallest model that had been advertised on the TV commercial, where the master bedroom shared a common wall with one of the other bedrooms. This arrangement would give them the privacy they had become accustomed to with their apartment layout, even if that privilege plus the extra square footage came with a price tag several thousand dollars higher. They both felt good about their decision. After all, they weren't building a house so they could have a lessappealing layout than their apartment had.
“So I'll have my own section. But you'll have to come over here to use the bathroom.”
Milo patted Zach's back. “Nope. We've got our own bathroom right there in our bedroom.”
“Your own bathroom? Wow!” Zach stared at the sparkling water just beyond the backyard. “Is our house gonna be on the river?”
“It's a lake,” Milo corrected. “And we thought you'd never notice.”
“Wow! A lake in our backyard!”
“Just think how nice it'll be in the summertime,” Dawn said. “You'll meet lots of kids here, and you'll be able to have a birthday party in the backyard, with balloons tied to the trees. Maybe we'll even buy a canoe or something, and we can take boat rides.”
“Cool!” Zach ran off to see the water close up.
Dawn peeked into the wood-frame house through one of the openings for windows. “What's that in the walls, Milo, insulation?” She pointed to the fuzzy yellow material tucked in between the rafters of the walls. It reminded her of cotton candy.
Milo looked inside. “Yes, that's what it looks like.” He frowned. “But they certainly didn't use much of it.”
“Maybe they ran out and plan to finish up next week.”
“I hope so. Or else the owners of this house are going to freeze come winter. Come on, let's drive over and show Zach the model.” He whistled to catch Zach's eye, then gestured for him to come to them.
They got into their car and drove off, passing two signs in front of the house in progress with the poor insulation. One had instructions for the builders, and the other proclaimed, “Future home of The Currys.”
Chapter 13
The Currys
April 2002
R
euben got behind the wheel of the U-Haul truck, where Mitchell already sat next to him. “Again, Camille, don't worry about trying to stay behind me. It's tricky to follow someone when you're driving on the highway, especially in heavy traffic. But you do know how to get there, right?”
“Are you kidding? Of course I know. Reuben, we've been going out there every week for the last four months.” They drove out to the site every Saturday once construction had started, sometimes disappointed to see little or no progress, sometimes thrilled to see their home edging closer to completion. The structure didn't look like much at the beginning, with just the foundation, wood frame, and unfinished roof, but then windows were placed, the drywall went up, the stairs to the basement and the second floor were built and the house took on the shape of the model it mirrored. As it neared completion even Mitchell and Shayla got excited.
“Call my cell if you have any problem,” Camille said.
“Will do. Drive carefully, honey.”
“I will.” Reuben leaned out the window to give her a quick kiss. He patted the large steering wheel. “I'm not looking forward to driving this big ol' thing all the way to Tobyhanna, I've got to tell you.”
“It's gonna be fun!” Mitchell exclaimed.
“That's what you say now, Mitch, but wait til we start hitting all those bumps on the turnpike and your butt is bouncing all over the place.” Reuben turned back to Camille. “I'll see you in a couple of hours. We'll have lunch in our new house.”
Those last three words made Camille's toes tingle. Our new house. Their own house. God, just thinking of it gave her that same rush she got during sex. “I can't wait.”
“Bye, Daddy. Bye, Mitchell,” Shayla said.
“Bye!”
Camille and Shayla got into the family's white Malibu and drove off. Camille allowed Shayla to insert her
Winnie the Pooh
CD and sing along. Normally she found cutesy songs like that “Christopher Robin” one overly cheerful, but today she didn't care what they listened to. She felt too keyed up. Besides, better
Winnie the Pooh
than hip-hop.
After waiting so many months for construction to be complete, suddenly everything fell smack dab into place. She and Reuben went for a final inspection Thursday morning, closed Thursday afternoon, and now they had the keys to their front and back doors, plus a bottle of champagne, courtesy of the builder. This was it. Instead of looking at their future home and longing for the day when they would at last live in it and then heading back to the Bronx, the future had finally arrived; and they were going to their new home for good.
The moment seemed almost anticlimactic. There was no one to wave good-bye to; Saul and the others who had helped carry their belongings down the stairs had already said their farewells and gone on their way. The sheet metal shop was closed today, so all was quiet for a change. Camille thought it ironic that the banging and slamming that often disturbed her Saturday mornings didn't happen this last morning in their apartment. But a roaring train pulled into the 161st Street station as she headed for the Major Deegan Expressway, a fitting ending to the life they were leaving behind. Now it would be Saul's turn to cope with those damn El trains every ten minutes.
The landlord was happy to offer a lease to Reuben's brother, his former employee, when he learned they would be moving out. It still incensed Camille whenever she recalled telling the landlord that she and Reuben would be giving up their apartment to live in their new house in Pennsylvania. He hadn't bothered to even try to conceal his astonishment. He clearly expected them to remain in the apartment for years and years, raising their rent annually, even though he knew it was too small for them. She'd wanted to ask him,
Do you think you're the only one who wants to improve their life?
They crossed the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. Camille felt like they'd gotten away with an extra four dollars, because the toll booths were on the other side, for those entering New York. Of course, she and Reuben would be coming back to the city to work a week from Monday, but on a commuter bus, so they wouldn't have to pay the toll themselves.
To her pleasant surprise, their new neighbors welcomed them as they unloaded the truck, coming over to say hello and introducing themselves. Two of the men, the one next door and the one across the street, actually helped them move in the heavier pieces. One of them took over for her as she and Reuben attempted to place their entertainment center on a wheeled lift, telling her she had no business trying to lift anything so heavy. Imagine getting a complete stranger to help you move your furniture if you were in New York! If they offered, you could be sure they would make careful note of what they saw so they could come back and rip you off, she thought matter-of-factly.
It amazed her that the help they received came from white folks. She'd never lived near white people before; the South Bronx was nearly exclusively black and Hispanic. Their new neighbors seemed like genuinely nice people. To show their gratitude, she and Reuben invited both men and their spouses over for dinner on Tuesday. She wanted a few days to get the house in shape, unpacking and hanging the new drapes and curtains they'd bought, before they entertained their first guests. Besides, the new dining room furniture they ordered wouldn't be delivered until the weekend.
Camille insisted they buy a formal dining room table because their white laminate-top table and Windsor chairs looked way too casual for a separate formal dining room. They placed the existing set in the corner of the eat-in kitchen. She wanted to get the matching china cabinet as well to go with their new table, but Reuben pointed out that they had no china and put his foot down about buying any, so she settled for a buffet server.
Camille knew that as long as she lived she would never forget their first week in the new house. It had been heavenly, just perfect. The knowledge that they had a home of their own still hadn't completely sunk in. Several times a day she walked through it, sniffing the walls, loving the way the fresh paint smelled. She walked barefoot over the beige wall-to-wall carpet they had chosen, loving its thick, lush feel. She'd lived in apartments where there'd been new paint, but never in her dreams did she ever believe she'd live in a house with a rug so light it was practically white.
Finally, she walked up the staircase, letting her hand trail along the pecan-wood banister, telling herself over and over that this was their home, where they would live from now on. She'd never been a stay-at-home mom, except for a brief period after both Mitchell and Shayla's births when she took off for two months. Now she played the housewife role with vigor, unpacking their belongings while Reuben got the children registered in school. Late April was awfully late in the semester to make a transfer, but they saw no point in paying rent in the city for another two months just so the kids could finish out the year. Besides, this way she could get an idea of how far ahead the Tobyhanna schools were compared to the Bronx—she had no doubt they were ahead—and maybe give the kids some tutoring to help them prepare. She wanted to limit any difficulty they might have to the last weeks of the current semester. By the time the fall semester rolled around Shayla would be ready for the third grade and Mitchell the sixth.
As Camille lined the shelves with contact paper and helped Reuben paint, she wished she could be at home like this all the time.
But she knew she had to work, and she wanted to. Money brought good things, and she wanted good things. Heading her wish list was more new furniture. Their stuff was far from ratty, but it did look a bit tired, and a little chintzy as well, in their brand-new home. She kept thinking of how nice that furnished model looked, everything brand-spanking new and expensive-looking; no assembly-required tables. Ah, but they had plenty of time to redecorate. They'd be here the rest of their lives. When they retired they would sit out back in the proverbial rocking chairs and watch the sun set in the evenings. Mitchell and Shayla would send their children to Grandma and Grandpa's for the summers....
The first prick in Camille's bubble came when, Tuesday evening at dinner, she asked her female neighbors about day care options for the children of New York commuters.
“I don't think anyone stays open past six,” Linda Tillman said. She turned to Marianne Willis. “Do you know of any place, Marianne?”
“Actually, I don't.” She shrugged apologetically. “Our oldest was fourteen when we moved here, so Jeff and I managed without day care. And now that I have a real estate license in Pennsylvania, I work pretty close by.”
“I work from home doing medical insurance coding,” Linda said, “so we had no need for day care, either. But I'm sure there has to be someplace.”
“Oh, I'm sure there is,” Camille replied confidently.
But her subsequent research proved there wasn't, and she began to panic. She hadn't expected to encounter problems in finding day care; she just assumed that since people from New York were pouring into the area that extended day care would be readily available. Was everyone who lived here like Linda and Marianne, with older offspring or work-at-home positions that didn't require them to need child care?
Once she and Reuben returned to work in another week they would be away from home most of the day. They would have to catch the 5:40 AM bus into the city, and take the 5:30 PM bus back, which would put them in Tobyhanna at around 7:30 in the evening. That made for a frighteningly long time for the children to be alone. Not only would they have to get themselves up and off to school each morning, but they would have to get their own dinner upon returning from school. They could hardly have dinner at 8:00 or 8:30 at night. They couldn't avoid the commute, but the schedule bordered on neglect for children as young as theirs.
She talked to Reuben about it. “We'll have to get someone to watch them,” he said.
“That'll be expensive, Reuben. I'm not sure we can afford it, especially after what we've already spent.” The cost of window fashions alone ran over two hundred dollars, and the dining room another twelve hundred. And Reuben, anxious to start barbecuing in the warm spring and summer weather, had bought a shiny new gas grill from Lowe's; another two hundred gone.
“What choice do we have?”
This seemed like a good time for her to tell Reuben what was on her mind, even though the want ads in Sunday's paper revealed dismal pickings. “I thought I'd try to find a job around here.”
“And make, what, eight bucks an hour? You saw the paper the other day. You can't bring home those kinds of wages in the twenty-first century. It won't be enough for us to make it, Camille.”
“But if I can find something that pays reasonably well, when you factor in the cost of bus passes and babysitters, wouldn't you want me to change jobs?”
“Yes, but that's a pretty strong
if
. In the meantime we've got to protect Mitchell and Shayla. Maybe get some local kid to sit with them until at least six. By that time they'll have to go home and have dinner themselves, but at least we'll be home within another ninety minutes. Mitchell is almost eleven. I know that's young to be responsible for your little sister and yourself when it's getting dark outside, but I think he can manage for an hour and a half. We'll coach them.”
BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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