Something Didn't Smell Right

Something didn't smell right.

The dog was very suspicious as he followed me around the different rooms and floors of the house he had been guarding for most of the night.

We started in the basement and went right through the whole thing.

It was a great old house, built by a first generation of a middle class that had now largely fled. For its time, it was a decadent expression of new money. It had high ceilings, hardwoods and plaster decorations: all of which had been largely neglected by subsequent owners.

There was a grand, sweeping staircase that seemed to have been purpose-built for photos of the bride from a particular era. The detail in its railings and newel post spoke to patient, careful, painstaking craftsmanship that now has to be purchased overseas.

Like a Russian matryoshka, the second floor had a series of ever-smaller bedrooms. They were like precious time capsules capturing a very specific aesthetic from a very particular time. It was clear that many of these rooms had gone unused long before the house became unoccupied. Paint colors and and paper patterns told the story of the most recent owners and a house that got bigger as their world got smaller.

The third floor was largely undecorated. There were a series of bedrooms here too, but they were utilitarian in nature. I started to explore them, but one foot on the dried out wooden floor set off a groan that I was certain would bring down the delicate tracery of paint layers that had separated from the ceiling around the skylight.

I would confine myself to the lower, carpeted floors.

From the basement, I found an old black and yellow Chock Full o'Nuts coffee can and a Tupperware salad bowl—treasures that must have gone overlooked in a yard sale—so it was breakfast for me and the dog. Ramen and Ralston-Purina: it wasn't how I had planned to start today, but, absent additional intel, it would have to do.

The dog sniffed the air around the unfamiliar bowl and looked at me in that same, disappointed way that people do when they realize they are out of choices. He took what I can only describe as a courtesy lick, sighed and then went over to lie in front of the sliding glass door.

Next order of business: rack time. Until I knew what I was up against, the daylight was not going to be my friend.

In one of the bedrooms on the second floor, I found a surprisingly spacious closet. In the back of it was a smaller door, that opened into what I think must have been a seasonal closet where warm weather clothes spent the winter and where heavy coats went on summer vacation.

In the back of the closet, I found some ratty old drapes that had long ago returned from a visit to the dry cleaner, but had never made it off the hanger.

This was ideal. I had a place to sleep and something to sleep on. This would be our base of operations, our nest in which to hatch our plans.

I brought the dog up to check it out. He was not impressed.

Try as I might, he would not come into our panic room.

We compromised which is to say I let him have his way: he stayed in the outer closet.

The sun was not long up and it was already getting warm in this uninsulated space. I stripped down, curled up and tried to get some sleep.

That was much more easily said than done.

It was a new space to the dog and me and full of unfamiliar sounds and every time there was a new click, or pop, or whir, or creak, the dog startled and that startled me.

There were outside noises to learn as well: heavy trucks, light trucks, cars, lawnmowers and leaf blowers. And there were even a surprising number of cars the drivers of which were so self-important that they had to announce their presence by leaning on their horns.

There was only one sound that really mattered and that was if a car pulled into the shared driveway that separated this house from the neighbors. Just because the place hadn't sold, didn't mean it couldn't and we had to be ready.

No, sleep was not going to be deep, or restful.

And, as if reading my mind, the dog took in a deep chest full of air and let out a long, mournful sigh.