and more important, Magnolia Hall is a dump.
Clay thumbs through papers on his clipboard then searches in his back pocket, finds a white handkerchief and mops his forehead.
“If you plan on selling your house anytime soon you can forget it.”
“Look, can’t you just sign off? The green line is barely there.” I move closer to the wall. “I swear it’s so small you—”
“Underneath there’s trouble. Doesn’t seem like much from the outside. Can’t give you the okay until the wall’s cleaned up. You’re darned fortunate that’s all that’s wrong, the way this place has been let go.”
Resolved, I step back. “How do you fix something like that?”
“The way the town’s growing, it’ll take you a month of Sundays to get someone out here. Does that air conditioner work?” Clay nods to the old unit clinging to the windowsill.
“I don’t know.” I walk over, find the On switch and push it in. Nothing. I look at Clay. His lips press together.
“Preventative maintenance, that’s the key to these old houses.”
“I inherited this place. That wall,” I say, “sounds like a major expense. I have less than zero money.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, for God’s sake. What does he care?
Clay taps the checklist. “Depends on what you consider major. Some of those new construction companies charge a lot. First thing with mildew is you gotta get to the problem. From what I can tell, it’s coming from the window.” He walks over to the window, three feet from the mildew, runs his hand over the sill. “I’m surprised the one with the air-conditioning unit isn’t leaking. Best thing to do is seal all the way around, that’ll stop more damage, then when the wall’s replaced make sure they seal it up real tight.”
“Wall replaced?”
“Gotta take down part of the plasterboard.” Clay taps one of the dull white-and-green magnolias that make up the wallpaper.
“Christ! I don’t have the time or money for this.”
“You aren’t a Southern gal, are you?”
“No.”
Clay looks at me like he’s about to take pity on me. “You can buy caulk at Home Depot. Probably only take half a tube.” He shakes his head. “After the drywall’s taken down, they’ll wash the wood to get rid of the mildew then put up new drywall, tape, paint or wallpaper.”
“Right,” I say, but feel overwhelmed. “How much do you think this is gonna cost?”
“’Bout eight hundred dollars.”
“Oh, God!”
A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead into my right eye, and I blink, wipe at it, know I’m smearing my mascara.
“Plaster dust gets into everything and there’s nothing you can do about that. Make sure whoever does the job puts Visqueen up.”
“Are you sure I can’t buy some Lysol and wipe down the wall? I’ll seal the window.”
“No. When it’s gone this far, you can’t. It’s like the silent killer of walls.”
“Shit. The silent killer, ha-ha.”
“Just sign on the line.”
I take the blue pen and clipboard that says Guilford County and look at the small-print form. It’s smudged with Clay’s sweat, now mine. “There’s no other way?”
Clay looks at me like I might be trying to bribe him. I laugh.
“Something funny?”
I study the paper. “Am I signing my life away?”
He straightens a little. His face is red, more sweaty than mine. I changed into shorts and T-shirt after Ron left, thank God, but now they’re sticking to my skin. As soon as Clay is gone I’m going to open windows, drink some water.
“Your signature acknowledges you’re aware of this infraction and that you’ll be in compliance before you sell.”
“Right. And what if I’m not?”
His eyebrow rises. “County can sue you.”
“Guess I won’t go there.” I write my name, wish I would have asked the judge who granted me my quickie divorce to change my name back to one I can stand.
“Okay, that’s about all. When you get the repairs done, give me a call.” He hands me a copy of the paper I’ve just signed, takes back his pen and points to a phone number in the right-hand corner. “If I’m not there just leave a message.”
I nod, walk to the edge of the doorway and look back. Clay is still writing. The room is empty except for a four-poster bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket. I look at the wall and realize I could easily begin to hate this house. He finishes, clips his pen in his shirt pocket, holds the clipboard like a football and walks toward the door.
“Don’t feel bad about the mildew. Lots of folks have problems and don’t even know about them.”
“Lucky them.”
Hemsley House
Greensville, NC
March 1861
I am to marry James Alexander in three days!
Father insists we not wait. He stated clearly he believes Mr. Alexander to be the right choice. Thankfully, Father didn’t mention I have not had any other proposals and that is why I am expected to marry James Alexander.
When my father announced what he wanted for me, I stamped my foot and fussed. Mama ushered me to my room, and informed me I will behave like a lady and a dutiful daughter. I did not tell her I don’t want a “lord and master” to honor and obey, for I knew then as I know now, my words would not change her or Father’s mind.
More than anything my parents want their only daughter to be a wife. As my father clearly stated, he and my brother do not need an old maid in this house and on their hands.
Months back, when I arrived at the age of eighteen, I heard my parents discussing with much trepidation that their eldest would not find a husband if she remained so quiet.
I am not quiet! I am just not very social. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I do not like to go to parties like other girls. I have always liked to read, write letters, write in my diary. My parents do not believe this behavior is good for their aging daughter.
“Who will marry her?” they whispered to each other in not so gentle whispers.
Then, three days ago after Mr. Alexander asked for my hand, they decided I should accept his proposal. The next day, when neither would listen to me, I started sobbing. I ran up to my room, stood by the window and thought about leaping to the ground. Maybe my bones would break, then they would listen.
I
