Human Beings Live Here
by Mike Heppner
I.
The little wooden bowl went missing years ago. It might’ve been when they’d moved from the apartment in Winchester to a larger house in Wakefield. She remembers packing in a hurry, often with the baby in a sling around her neck. It would’ve been late in the move, all of the books and tabletop decor already boxed up and only the kitchen and bathroom essentials left out. Not that she ever considered the bowl and its matching spoon “essential.” She can’t recall using it even once. More of a decorative bowl, then, though she kept it in the drawer along with the rest of the kitchen junk.
She misses Winchester, only two towns to the south from her house near the Wakefield town center. Winchester is more upscale than Wakefield; they never could’ve afforded to buy in the well-to-do suburban Fells hamlet known for its boutiques and highly ranked school district. Wakefield’s nice too, but it feels far from her job in the city. If you want affordable housing near Boston, you have to migrate out: north, south, or west. East puts you in the ocean.
The bowl’s missing. Something else is missing too.
She can’t quite remember what the bowl looked like. Small, maybe just decorative. You wouldn’t use it for nuts or olives or crackers, the things you set out for guests. She still has the spoon, though—somehow the bowl got lost but not the spoon.
It’s Sunday, and she’s cleaning out the junk drawer in the kitchen. Mostly it’s batteries, the first twenty-three inches of a torn and coffee-stained measuring tape, broken pencils and random tools, birthday candles out of the box—the drawer jams halfway open, and she adjusts the handle of a Phillips-head screwdriver to pull it out the rest of the way.
The tiny wooden spoon’s handsome enough. Maybe it would look nice on the window ledge above the kitchen sink. We like to put things on window ledges—little spoons and decorative boxes, a pretty stone found on a hike. Leave no surface uncluttered.
With a nostalgic sigh, she puts the spoon on the window ledge, changes her mind and takes it back, then changes her mind again and returns it to the ledge. She wonders how the spoon wound up in the junk drawer. Maybe that’s what it is, then—just junk. Not ledge-worthy.
A child watches from a landing on the second floor. He knows what’s missing too. The house is quiet except for the sound of someone rooting through a junk drawer, and the woman in the kitchen, the boy’s mother, is pretty and disheveled and entirely focused on her work.
Sunday’s an awkward night to invite someone over for dinner; but adults have busy schedules, and you do your best to find a time that works for everyone.
Sometimes she gets on a tear and decides she needs to clean the whole house, or at least the kitchen and bathrooms. It’s more house than she’s ever had to deal with. Owning a house with five bathrooms embarrasses her, especially now. The house was built with a larger family in mind. It’s old and loses heat in the winter. If only she’d known, she would’ve stayed in Winchester where they only had to write one check a month and the landlord handled the rest.
What do you do with a tiny wooden spoon? There’s the temptation to throw it away, though it looks nice on the window ledge next to the polished rock she found on a walk in the Fells. So maybe it makes more sense as a decoration. As an actual spoon, it’s nearly useless. Sometimes things that look practical really aren’t—decorative bowls, a hand-laid cutting board. You’re not meant to use them, you’re just meant to leave them out and admire them.
The boy watching from the landing has big eyes. It’s his job to watch and not make comment, just take it all in.
Cleaning’s emotional for her; she does it when she’s bored or nervous or excited. Today she’s all three. It’s good to clean when you’re full of nervous energy and can’t keep your hands steady. She also likes rearranging the furniture, though it gets on people’s nerves. End tables and loveseats migrate from room to room, up and down the stairs. She doesn’t like it when things get too settled. Someday she’ll get it right, the exact correct arrangement of tables and chairs.
It’s time for the boy’s lunch, and she calls him down. She likes making him sandwiches; every meal could be a sandwich so far as she’s concerned. Lately she finds she doesn’t have much appetite. She doesn’t like the weighed-down feeling of a full stomach. Eating makes her sleepy; some days at work she’ll skip lunch and just power through the afternoon.
The boy’s not eating much either. He’s always been on the small side. She hopes the other mothers don’t look at him and think she’s not feeding him enough. Other mothers judge—they criticize. It’s not a very supportive environment. She does worry about him though. She hopes he doesn’t grow up to be one of those puny boys who has to squeak by to survive childhood.
It’s not just the eating, it’s the sleeping—he won’t sleep in his room anymore. A few months ago he moved his single bed out into the hallway on the second floor. That’s where he sleeps now, in the hallway right outside her room. She asked why.
“Because it’s fun,” he said.
She couldn’t accept this. “No, that’s not why. It’s not because it’s fun.”
“It is. It’s like camping.”
“Once, maybe. Every now and then, as a change of pace. And even then—I don’t see how it’s fun.”
He watched her. “It feels like I’m doing something different. It makes bedtime more interesting.”
She slumped. “Okay, but you can’t stay out there forever. Eventually you’re going to have to go back to your room.”
The boy nodded, his lips thin. Then, in that adult way he had of letting her win, he said, “Eventually.”
It’s been weeks and “eventually” hasn’t happened yet. It’s not just his bed anymore—he’s got a nightstand and a lamp, a stack of books and comic books on the floor. You have to squeeze by all the stuff just to get down the hall. It’s not like he’s afraid to go into his room; he does his homework there, and he still keeps his clothes in his closet and chest of drawers. He just won’t sleep there. There’s something about the in-betweenness of the hallway that appeals.
She asked a friend from work about it, and the friend said, “He’s just feeling insecure. He’ll grow out of it.”
Why would he feel insecure? she wondered, though there’ve been nights when she wouldn’t mind sleeping in the hall herself.
After lunch she asks him to move his bed back to his room, and the lamp and the nightstand and the stack of books and comic books. He flatly refuses.
“But why not? Seriously, it looks terrible in the hall. It clutters up the whole second floor.”
“What difference does it make? I thought this person was just coming for dinner.”
“He is.” Her son’s never met “this person” before. Tonight’s a first. “But he might like to see the upstairs.”
“Why would he want to see the upstairs? It’s just your room and my room and a couple of bathrooms and nothing interesting.”
“Still. Some people want the grand tour. They like to see where people live.”
“That’s weird. Is this person weird? I don’t want this person coming over if he’s weird.”
“He’s not weird—he’s very nice, and you’ll like him.”
But the boy’s unconvinced. His mother’s not very good at putting her foot down. She feels like she owes him these little indulgences.
So the bed stays. And the lamp and the nightstand and the stack of interesting things to read.
II.
They used to go on trips before the kid was born, little two day jaunts to the Cape or out to the Berkshires. They had more disposable income in those days—there wasn’t as much to save for. Her husband liked staying in hotels; they both did. They slept better in hotels, had better sex. Their son was conceived in a hotel. They were staying in Northampton over Thanksgiving weekend, at The Hotel Northampton—sorry the name’s not more interesting—and after dinner they went back to their room with a bottle of red wine, took a bath together, then made love once on the floral print settee and again, more conventionally, in bed. Could’ve been either time.
Her husband had a habit of taking home all the freebies whenever they stayed in a hotel, the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the mouthwash, even the sewing kit. She never could understand that about him—the man didn’t even know how to sew! He was the kind of guy who’d throw out an item of clothing if it got the least little bit stained or torn. And yet now she’s got a junk drawer full of these little sewing kits from all over New England.
All those places where they slept and drank and made love and watched TV.
III.
Jeremy Lang, tall, skinny, head shaved bald. Frameless eyeglasses, a long neck and prominent Adam’s apple. She still hasn’t asked his age, but she’s guessing around forty-five. Divorced, no kids. She wonders why, both about the no kids and the divorce. They’re not on that level yet, the deep sharing level. They’re still hovering around each other, checking each other out. She could probably not see him again and it wouldn’t matter.
They’re maybe one date away from sleeping together. She’s still not sure what she wants.
One thing, though: the boy seems to like him, and that’s a surprise.
They’re on to dessert, cupcakes from Santino’s in Woburn. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she wishes she’d picked something else—cupcakes are for kids’ birthday parties. But Jeremy Lang doesn’t seem to mind. There’s something kid-like about him, or maybe he’s just performing for the boy.
“I might need to eat this with a fork. I don’t want to get frosting all over my face,” he says, and the boy laughs. She’d been expecting a different reaction: stand-offish, aloof. She’s not used to these things working out.
The boy’s full of questions tonight. He wants to know the difference between glue and mucilage, and Jeremy Lang explains, “Oh gosh I’m not sure. I haven’t even thought about mucilage since I was a kid. I think it’s that… it’s that…”
The boy prompts, “There’s a difference.”
“I know there is. I think it has to do with where it comes from, how it’s made. One’s plant-based. Mucilage, I think.”
“Wow, Mr. Lang sure knows a lot of things. Would you like some more wine?” she asks, just to give herself something to do.
Jeremy Lang nods, and the boy asks what his favorite Tom Waits album is. The question rattles her.
“Oh… Tom Waits. Favorite Tom Waits album…”
“And why.”
“And why, of course. I’m not too up on Tom Waits. I do know that one, Rain Dogs.”
“Rain Dogs is good, but I like Swordfishtrombones better. It’s more crazy.”
“Is it? If you like Tom Waits you must like Bob Dylan,” Jeremy Lang says, and the boy looks at him like he’s just guessed his middle name.
“Here you go,” she says, pouring Jeremy’s wine, hoping they’ll change the subject.
The boy asks why you can’t just walk through a door, why you have to open it first.
“Such silly questions tonight!” she says, starting to get annoyed. The boy’s questions have the hint of mischief. She knows him.
Jeremy Lang says, “No, it’s all right. It’s an important question. Why you can’t just walk through a door, why you have to open it first. Hm.” He thinks. “Well, it has something to do with a door being a solid object. Wouldn’t that have something to do with it?”
The boy blinks, but waits; he wants more.
“See, everything in the world—you, me, your mom, this table—is made up of cells and atoms.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Even your shirt?” the boy says, obviously playing with him now.
“Even my shirt—even your shirt.”
“Even Mom’s?”
Jeremy Lang glances over at her, and they share an adult laugh. “Even Mom’s, even every shirt and every pair of pants and… just… everything. Everything in the whole world, including broccoli and fireplace tools and table tennis—made of cells and atoms. And there’s a rule, a law of physics—you probably haven’t had physics yet.” The boy stares; he’s only in the fourth grade. “Yeah, but there’s a law that says no two atoms can occupy the same space at the same time, and that’s why you can’t just walk through a door, you have to open it first. Because that space is already taken.”
Jeremy Lang looks winded and relieved—talking to kids takes work. The boy lets the information settle, then favors him with a smile.
“Mr. Lang’s good at explaining the unexplainable,” she says, and they ignore her.
“Would you like to see my room?” the boy asks.
She swoops in. “Oh no, it’s a mess up there.”
“Mom.”
“We talked about this. I told you to pick up your things.”
“My things are picked up, they’re just…”
“…all in the wrong place, I know.”
Jeremy Lang puts his hands up. “I don’t want to cause a problem.”
The boy insists, “Mom, can I?”
She looks at her hopeful son, who’s been basically good all night. “Oh, fine—but just show him real quick and come right back down. I’m going to put the dessert dishes in the sink.”
The boy leads Jeremy Lang up the stairs, and she brings the dishes to the kitchen and runs liquid soap and water over them. She’s hoping the boy will go to bed early. She wouldn’t mind some time alone with Mr. Jeremy Lang. She hasn’t been kissed, really kissed, in almost a year.
But then after you kiss, what next? The kid’s not going anywhere.
Standing at the sink, she sees the tiny wooden spoon on the window ledge. She’s not a pack rat, not exactly, but she sometimes has trouble throwing things away. You never know when the missing bowl might turn up inside a box of odds and ends. Meanwhile there’s all this clutter she doesn’t know what to do with.
She wants a fresh start. A clean do-over.
Hands wet and sudsy, she takes the spoon and feints toward the kitchen trash, then changes her mind and puts it back in the junk drawer along with the twenty-three inch measuring tape and the sewing kits from all those hotels.
The boy’s eyes are big. His job is to watch you.
Upstairs she finds the boy sitting with Jeremy Lang on his bed. He’s showing off his comic book collection.
“Sorry, I’ve been trying to get him to do something about this for weeks,” she says.
“Jeremy thinks it’s cool—don’t you Jeremy?” the boy asks.
Oh, it’s Jeremy now.
“I think it’s… an interesting choice,” says Jeremy Lang.
“Mom, come sit with us. Jeremy’s into Avengers too.”
“Ages ago. I think I remember some of these,” says Jeremy Lang, looking through the comic books.
“But there’s no room,” she says.
The boy scooches over, swiping a pile of stuffed animals to the floor. He sleeps with dozens of them; even in fourth grade he still likes all his little friends.
She sits. “I don’t see how you get any sleep out here.”
“I like it. Here, lay back. You too, Jeremy.”
The boy tucks his legs and rolls over in bed. The bed’s narrow, barely room for one person. Jeremy Lang smiles at her—he’s on no one’s side.
“I guess we should probably take our shoes off,” he says.
They squeeze into bed with the boy, Jeremy Lang in the middle. It’s cramped but cozy. She supposes it’s fine if he wants to sleep out here for now. He’ll grow out of it.
Besides, she’s the one who’s always moving the furniture.
Jeremy Lang sighs. “Ah… good night.”
She laughs. “It does give you a new perspective.”
He turns his head to her on the pillow, and now he’s a boyfriend, he’s part of her life.
“On what?” he asks.
BIO
Mike Heppner has published three novels in the genre of literary fiction, two with Knopf (The Egg Code, 2002, Pike’s Folly, 2006) and one with Thought Catalog Books (We Came All This Way, 2015); two story collections, one with Another Sky Press (The Man Talking Project, 2012) and one with Thought Catalog Books (This Can Be Easy or Hard, 2014); and a novella with Kindle Singles (Nada, 2013).
