Chapter 9 Arthur Buy My First House
Arthur: Buy My First House
Arthur stared at the slip of paper in disbelief.
It was his own handwriting, that much was for sure.
What shocked him was that there was ever a time he was naive enough to believe it would be possible.
Own a home outright. As an English major.
In a time when making scrambled eggs in his own kitchen was considered a luxury.
“As great as this would be, I don’t think it’s realistic.” He sighed, handing the bucket-list slip to Wren, as if officially resigning it. She pushed it back toward him, refusing to accept it.
“Why not?”
“Because we only have a few weeks left, max? It’s not the kind of decision you rush. And besides, I doubt we can afford anything half-decent.” He pushed the paper back to her.
“We have savings.” She returned the volley.
“Some.”
“What about that special account you labeled Do Not Touch, Ever, and then in parentheses, Yes, You, Wren.”
“It’s not enough.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I just know. I watch the news.”
“So, what, you’re just going to let Jake Tapper or whoever decide the rest of our life? We should at least go see what’s out there.”
Arthur sighed again. “I don’t know.”
Frankly, he didn’t need the heartbreak. He’d heard enough stories from the other teachers at school of dream homes getting snatched out from under them for 150 percent of the list price with a full cash offer.
He didn’t need to go looking at places they couldn’t afford, or worse, at places they could.
He didn’t need another reminder of what a failure he was.
“Are you declaring Rumpelstiltskin already? Because you’re being a total chicken right now. I may not be able to free-fall into a volcano, but there’s absolutely no reason we can’t give this a fair shot.”
“A chicken? Really?”
“At the very least, you’re being a silly goose. You’re definitely some kind of cowardly bird.”
“All for being fiscally responsible, for wanting a secure financial future for our family, for not wanting to make rash, impulsive, poorly thought-out decisions that could jeopardize our entire life together.”
“Yes, exactly.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. He hated that he’d agreed to play along with her twisted little game.
While he and Wren had never openly talked about names together, he had a major preference for traditional names.
Strong names for a boy, something like Jack or Ben.
He’d always lamented that Arthur was an old-man name he’d spend his whole life growing into.
It sounded frail, like a name that came pre-bundled with suspenders and a walking cane.
He never had a chance. For girls he liked simple, like Emma, or something short and boyish, like Alex.
God knows what Wren was thinking. Moonflower or Ziggy or Natasha, probably. He couldn’t afford not to have a vote when the day came.
But more than that, he’d hated the look in Wren’s eyes the other day at the skydiving joint. The searing, palpable disappointment was too much for him. He couldn’t bring himself to let her down again.
“OK,” Arthur finally said. “OK, OK, OK. We’ll go see some houses. But I need your help,” he added. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas.”
Arthur craned his neck to take in the entire structure.
All three levels. The sun, peeking over the ornate, castle-like crest of the home, was blinding.
A crystal chandelier hanging inside, and the impossibly sparkling windows, only reflected even more light.
It physically hurt to try to take it all in at once, the feeling not unlike trying to comprehend the limits of the universe and the implications of your own insignificance in the grand scheme: pain.
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” he said.
Wren said something, but it was hard to hear her over the burbling cherub fountain, which was placed delicately in the center of a beautiful circular driveway.
A hot yellow Porsche would be right at home here, or a fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows.
Their gray beater sedan, parked awkwardly near a palm tree, looked horribly out of place and temporary.
Like the pizza guy was going to drive it out of eyeline posthaste.
“I said, ‘I think it suits us,’ ” she repeated as she ambled closer.
He decided to play along. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, of course.
Wrong part of town, a little stuffy. Oh, and the seven-figure price tag.
But it was just like Wren to bring him someplace like this, try to get a laugh out of him.
He couldn’t deny her that after she’d gone to all this trouble.
“I don’t know.” He tsked. “It is a little dated. Look at the columns. A little second century AD for my taste.”
“That’s fair.”
“Plus, I’m afraid we’ll outgrow it. I don’t want the children being forced to share a wing.”
“No, of course. They’ll be teased mercilessly at school. Won’t make any friends. Unless…”
He snapped his fingers, as if struck with a genius idea. “We buy them friends.”
“I’ll make the call, then.”
He laughed.
“Right.” Shifting back to business. “Well, this has been a great use of time. Now we know in no uncertain terms what we can’t afford. So we’re basically looking for something between this and a rotten shack in the woods.”
He appreciated the gesture of Wren cheering him up. She knew it would be hard for him to look at the homes that were just out of their reach, or worse, to get his heart set on one of them. So she brought him here: the former home of Pitbull, probably. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm.
“Where are you off to?” she said, looking up from her phone. “Sorry, I got a text from Charlie.”
“Everything OK?”
She read it aloud: “I could really use your help at the cake tasting next week. Need your legendary sweet tooth. What do you say?” Then: “And then there’s a GIF of that guy from Cake Island yelling ‘I love cake!’ and falling over backward in his chair. See?” She showed Arthur.
“Why do you look…perturbed?” Arthur asked. He knew how much it had been weighing on Wren, the strain between her and Charlie. It was written all over her face.
“Eh, we had a weird thing the other night. This is the olive branch.”
“A fight?”
“Just girl stuff. Nothing a pillow fight in our underwear couldn’t solve.”
“Wren…”
“I’m kidding! Jeez,” Wren said. “Since when did comedy become illegal?” She deepened her voice here, doing her best sarcastic impression of a conservative pundit.
“Are you gonna go?”
“Please, you think I’d even consider missing free cake?
In my condition?” She tapped out an emphatic reply, then put her phone away.
Arthur wasn’t convinced the issue was dead and buried, and he hated that he couldn’t fix it for her—he, the master of keeping the peace, an expert at placating all parties involved.
But he couldn’t help, and even if he could, she would be too stubborn to let him.
“You ready to go, then?” Arthur asked.
“Go where?”
“The next stop,” he said. She stared, blank-faced. “Reality,” he clarified.
“But we haven’t even had the tour yet.”
“You arranged a tour?”
Wren hung her head sheepishly. “All I did was fill out the little form saying I might be interested, and then all of a sudden my phone was ringing.”
“Oh no, what did you do?”
“I don’t know!” Wren was suddenly flustered. “The lady was just so nice, she insisted on dropping everything to show us around.”
Arthur went beet red. What had she gotten them into?
“She probably thinks we can actually afford this place. That we’re mega-loaded. Did you correct her?”
“I was going to get around to it.”
“Wren…”
The sweet hum of an electric golf cart floated into their ears, and a shiny black one rolled to a stop near the fountain. Out stepped a pantsuited woman, the Realtor, clutching the necks of two sweating bottles of sparkling water between her fingers.
“I’m sorry I’m late! Had a showing all the way on the other side of the community.” The gated community, situated on the outskirts of a shared golf course, Arthur reminded himself. “Anyone thirsty?”
This was the part where Wren would come clean and they would apologize for the misunderstanding slash colossal waste of this professional’s time, and they would run off with their tails between their legs.
Instead, the mother of his child said, “Absolutely,” grabbed one of the Perriers, and brought it to her lips with a near sexual lip smack. “God, that’s good.”
“Mr. Peterson,” the agent said, extending a hand to shake his.
“Doctor,” Wren incorrectly corrected. “He likes people to call him doctor.”
“Of course.” The poor woman looked genuinely embarrassed to have made such an error. “Dr. Peterson. A pleasure. Let me just grab the key and we’ll head inside.”
The Realtor walked up the gargantuan steps to the similarly gargantuan front door and began fiddling with the lockbox. Arthur pulled Wren aside for a word.
“What are you doing? I don’t like the side of you that lies so easily.”
“I didn’t say you were a doctor, I said you like it when people call you doctor. And, to be fair, you’ve never once told me that you don’t.”
“Wren—”
“OK, look,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get us into a whole situation. But you should have heard the way she talked to me on the phone. So deferential and respectful and just…kind. She rearranged her whole day to help us because she thinks we’re important.”
“What she thinks is she can make a juicy commission off of us. Don’t you think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out?
” Not only could they not remotely afford this house; Arthur realized he probably wouldn’t even be qualified to work for the kind of person who could, even as their lowly assistant. How sad was that?
“I just, argh,” Wren grunted, some pent-up frustration leaking out of her. “Arthur, I’m sick of being coupon people.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like the way waiters roll their eyes at us and do that impatient little sigh when we pull out our coupons. I hate that.”
“So? I don’t get it.”