Read The Dwelling: A Novel for Free Online

she finally walked in through her own front door. Weighing most prominently on her mind at that point was her overburdened schedule for the next day. She had another Belisle showing (although she was near sick over that place and so familiar with the spiel that she could have cell phoned it in: Look at the lovely high ceilings in this hall! The floors have been refinished throughout the main level and look! A working fireplace) and she had a good strong feeling about the Vespers and the house on Laughlin.
    A new woman, looking for a place for herself and her young daughter, was interested in a place on Sherber and there was the offer for the Durbin place in; they would hear about that either tonight— oh god not tonight I’m dead on my feet —and she was showing an older couple a condo in Westwood Park. A gated place.
    She put the kettle on to boil for tea and, while waiting for the water, she took cucumber and mayonnaise out of the refrigerator to make a little sandwich for her tea. She added some bean sprouts that looked a day from going bad.
    High heels were dropped beside the big chair in the sitting room and slippers went on. The kettle sang and she poured the water into the teapot, then carried a tray of goodies into the sitting room. She had her tea and a sandwich in the chair and the day suddenly then stopped around her with a nudge, a feeling of something forgotten, a task undone. It plagued her like the slight burning in her tummy. It took only a moment before she understood. Oh no.
    I’m sorry, How. I lost track of you today.
    Time marches on, Miss Glenn.
    It was that house and all the time it was taking up. It was being back with people again. No one mentioned him anymore. For reasons of delicacy or because he was gone; she wasn’t sure why, but there was a loss in there somewhere, as though he was being forgotten by default, forgotten in favor of her.
    Her tummy nudged her. There had been a little ache there all day, which she had attributed to having not eaten. She had assumed that the sandwich and tea would take care of it. It didn’t. In fact, she felt a little nauseous with it. It was a little burn that sat just under her diaphragm, not unlike heartburn, except that it hadn’t really gone away. She rubbed it. There were Tums in the cupboard. She found them and chewed two, the cherry flavor oversweet, making her cheeks pinch in.
    The rest of her sandwich went uneaten and sleep was long in coming.
     
    The Belisle house added a mechanical problem to its list of irritations. Several weeks into the listing, the faucet of the tub—the tub itself had not been as big an attraction as Glenn had supposed it would be; in fact a number of people had commented on the feet of the thing as being “a little scary”—began to drip. Being in and out of the house all the time, it wasn’t very obvious. Glenn would only notice when they went into the bathroom, and on some occasions the shower curtain was drawn. Or not. It looked much better drawn, and whenever she showed the house, she made a point of drawing the plain white curtain around its maw.
    The dripping tap left a little puddle in the bottom of the tub, giving the appearance that the water did not properly drain. Which was true: it didn’t. Although most houses have a lurch or two in their floors, this one had proven difficult enough to unload without the added issue of mechanical breakdown.
    She spoke to Mr. Cassevetes at the insurance company about having a couple of little things taken care of. It was an assortment of small items that needed attention that in the rush of the buyer’s season, somehow, Glenn had simply not gotten around to asking for.
    “In a week or so it may become necessary to discuss another reduction,” Glenn added, in the last seconds of the conversation.
    “A reduction? What?” She had never met Mr. Cassevetes, but he always sounded like he had something in his mouth—a cigar or a sandwich. She pictured him large.
    “In the