to make sure he appreciates the importance of business and economic growth. How the hell does he think we pay for affordable housing? We have enough people working on behalf of the poor in this town. Now we need some momentum behind job creation, building the tax base, increasing prosperity for everybody. You can talk about this stuff from a business perspective without all of that Chamber of Commerce chest-beating that turns off the liberals. Plus, you stand for home. I need the coalition’s support. Tell them they don’t have ten years to end homelessness. Our future is now.”
Eve replaced the lid on her cup, noted the berry-red print and applied a fresh gloss for the trip back to the shop. “Oh, and the tour. Lew’s from Michigan so nothing too deserty. You know how our summer can be a shock to those lake people. Sorry for all the paper but I don’t want emails in the system. We land Betterment and school children will sing our names after we’re gone.”
The mayor swept out, misting the cafe with waves of regret that she had no time to chat. Eve wasn’t heartless. She played a toughie because the good old boys always tried to discount her as a matron who ran a bead shop. Eve tended to spew emotive bullet points but Meg had never seen her this hyper. She peeped inside the Mariposa bag and riffled through the top layer of paper. An analyst report on healthcare IT services; business stories about Rochester, Minnesota’s plans to raise its profile as a destination medical city; a plastic-bound presentation from the local economic development board; and printouts from Betterment Health’s website. She looked for something about the exec who was coming out for the home tour. The corporate leadership page offered only short bios and no photos.
Chairman and CEO: Lew Hungerman? Meg pictured a dwarfish Edward Gorey character in an ankle-length fur coat, clutching a mutton leg—the sort of man who existed only in black and white. Of course he was single. What a fun day that was going to be.
She stepped onto the sidewalk with her homework in hand. A miniature forest of folded sugar packets sprouted from the grate of Yoga Man’s vacant table.
On the other side of the iron gate, a million-plus foreclosure loomed like a cruise ship run aground on a sandbar. Former owner Kip Reiner had also lost his car dealership, a coke dealership and his passport. Now he was in home detention in his girlfriend’s house, with the feds, the builder, two banks, the automakers and possibly a Colombian cartel after his hide. Everything about this place was off-kilter. Tuscan towers with red tile roofs flanked a Versailles staircase leading to a second-floor entry framed by a Corinthian-columned portico. A luxury builder’s greatest hits on steroids, not remotely marketable in this state. Trailered boats, storage containers and construction dumpsters accentuated its state of abandonment.
The remote wasn’t working. Meg pressed the button, waited, pressed again, waited, hoping the electronics were only slumbering and would eventually come back to life. Somewhere a software developer had surely targeted the real estate industry with a mobile app that would automate market studies, deliver virtual home showings and handle the ponderous paperwork. Managing repetition was easy. That’s why real estate was such a popular second career. But selling houses was still about appealing to emotions and irrational judgments and dealing with unpredictable little failures like this one before they sent the entire deal off the rails.
She located the security code.
“Let’s try the touch pad,” Meg said to Vaughn Hobart. She’d brought him along to help her spot any issues with the construction. Vaughn had worked with her enough to know let’s meant him. He unscrewed himself from the passenger seat, a move that required an extra rotation due to the long-ago collision that had fused his spine a quarter turn to the left.
The gate slid open. They entered through the triple garage in back. The rest of the windowless ground level consisted of concrete compartments intended as a home theater and a wine cellar with a walk-in humidor. Upstairs, custom kitchen cabinets awaited exotic wood doors that would never come. Fixtures had not been installed in the exposed electrical boxes. Blobs of plaster, nails and wire clippings littered the subflooring. The imprint of a table saw could still be seen in the sawdust where it had trimmed a stack of finish boards. Color samples had been dabbed on walls. None had been painted.
Meg snapped photos and jotted notes as Vaughn pointed out problems she didn’t see. They made an odd team, smooth and rough, detailed and sketchy, long view and one day at a time. She’d found him when she needed a property man to mow lawns, clean pools and spruce up dinged corners and peeling paint. At the interview, he shuffled like a man on a ledge afraid to take his eyes off his feet. A jackass of all trades, he called himself, a self-deprecating joke wrung of its originality in too many AA meetings. She was looking for someone younger, but Vaughn had a new-found and palpable thirst to make more of himself and she took the chance. His indifference to fine details sometimes collided with her insistence on perfection, but he showed up, did what she asked and made steady progress. As he rose closer to her expectations, she doled out symbols of her growing trust: a company cellphone, the keys to the pickup, the code to her lockboxes.
The housing market turned suddenly. Meg asked Vaughn to wait for his final paycheck. He not only waited, he came by to wash her truck and noticed things about her house she’d been meaning to repair. He penciled out a punch list in his grade school hand and insisted on working it down. I want to keep busy, he said, now that I know how good busy can feel. With her encouragement, he studied his way through guidebooks on home inspection. She helped him compose a company sell sheet, the bulletpoints summarizing his qualities punctuated with tears.
The bank would not like her report. Reiner’s property was too far along to knock down and would not sell as-is. People with manor-house money wanted to put their own imprint on a home, even if their taste was worse than a cokehead car dealer’s.
After completing a circuit outside, Vaughn came hitching over, his expression grave. She considered the owner’s ruined reputation. Surely Reiner wouldn’t have buried bodies here.
“Looks like scroungers,” Vaughn said.
He led her to two boat trailers parked at the back of the lot. One was empty and the other held a Lake Powell-sized power cruiser. On the ground between them a rumpled blue tarp appeared to have blown off the boat. Vaughn tugged on a rope threaded through one trailer’s side guard. The tarp drew up and formed a tent-like peak, its edges weighed and staked at the corners. He threw a knot to secure the rope. She leaned in. Light leaked through worn patches in the sun-struck fabric onto a brown and orange sleeping bag. She reeled from the musk of foot, rotted vegetation and overheated air.
“What’s this doing here?” she said.
Vaughn let the tarp drop. “Probably lookin’ for copper and such on the scrap pile. It’s been picked through. I expect they read the paper about Reiner, came by and saw the work stopped, decided to squat while they shopped.”
“They’re trespassing,” she said. “The bank doesn’t want any more trouble over this house.”
Vaughn studied the western sky as if it held vital information. He rolled his head from one shoulder to the other. She heard his neck bones grind. “Look at them starlings up there.”
The flock swirled and folded upon itself, transmuting from granular to solid and back again. A hillside of fluttering aspen leaves became a ribbon tying itself in a slipknot.
“It’s called a murmuration.” The beautiful word felt strange on her lips. Starlings were aliens here, like the tamarisk, like the white man.
Vaughn grunted, as if she’d offered him a tea cake. “There’s a big raven in the cloud. You can see it when they divide.”
The larger bird beat a slow circle through the maelstrom, disappearing
