Chapter 8 Jasper #3
Since I wanted to get in and out long before Linden arrived home, I dropped the notepad and headed toward the basement.
Unlike mine, it smelled clean and dry. A metal shelving structure running the length of the far wall held tidy rows of boxes and tools.
Everything was so precise and not at all fungal.
I loved it, not because I harbored a deep need for organization (I did not) but because it was so vividly Linden.
Everything in its spot, everything the way it should be.
Order and structure and utility. Nothing fouling the system.
It was another one of the many reasons why Linden and I would never work, even on a short-term, fling basis. He craved that structure and I excelled in structure's fault lines.
Last night was a mistake. Talking on the porch and sharing memories of Midge was good but the rest of it was another strike in my poor judgment column.
It was strange to keep fucking up. This wasn't how I existed.
Aside from getting married to someone I didn't love the right way, I'd never made such significant mistakes—and so many of them.
What was wrong with me? Why was I wrecking my career and throwing myself at a man who was all wrong for me? Not to mention doing it while my marriage was still on the books.
It was like I wanted my life to implode. That was ridiculous, of course. "Completely ridiculous," I murmured as I loaded my clothes into the washer. "Completely."
I chewed on this as I climbed the stairs, carried my tote into the bathroom, and turned on the taps. I had no reason to torpedo my life. It didn't make sense. I didn't actually want any of this to happen.
I was thirty-five and steering the direction of major campaigns. I was well-known and highly regarded in some of Washington's most powerful circles.
I had a cozy apartment in Georgetown and enough friends with summer homes up and down the eastern seaboard to have my pick of summertime destinations. What more could I ever want?
Yes, my primary purpose for those in power was inventing ways to keep them in power and extinguishing any challenge to that power. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun but it was the task I'd accepted.
And yes, the apartment was unspeakably expensive for its dime-sized space but that was Beltway real estate for you.
I didn't get any time for summer getaways to the shore either but that was the price I paid for being successful. The reward for hard work was more hard work, not a trip to the Hamptons.
As for friends, they were scarce these days. I'd expected more from them but that was my fault. I knew better than to expect anything from anyone. They'd always let you down.
All of this at thirty-five didn't resemble much of an achievement these days. Those years didn't add up to much when I looked back on them. I had an absentee marriage and hardly any reliable family to speak of.
There was a time when I told myself my turn would come. That everything would fall into place for me. My marriage would right itself, the work would slow down enough for me to breathe, and I'd find all the things I craved but never let myself need.
I'd find my place and my people, and then things would begin for me.
Now, with thirty-five slipping out of my grasp, I wasn't sure about my turn anymore. I was going back to square one with everything. If I had to spend five or ten years rebuilding, where did that leave me?
I knew little of hobbies, and my entire personal network was a product of my profession, and none of that seemed like a problem until now. If anything, it had been a badge of honor. Look, I'm so deep into this, I can't recognize myself without it!
My life was my work but I didn't have my work anymore and I didn't know what to do with myself except keep going.
Replace some stairs, bake a pie, kiss a neighbor. Just keep going—and don't think too hard about it.
Once I was bathed and dressed, my hair twisted into a low bun that would dry into loose curls, I tossed my wash into the dryer.
Linden's high-end machines were a big improvement over the industrial whales at the laundromat.
His entire house was a big improvement with its amazing river rock shower and the bold blue walls.
I couldn't stop thinking about the precision of it all.
The basement, the colors, the décor. Precise.
"That's why he hated my banana bread," I sang to myself on the walk across our yards. "And everything else I've brought his way."
When I returned to Linden's house with the cooled pies, I tore off his note and wrote one in response.
Linden,
Poisoning might not be neighborly but pecan pie is. Please enjoy these treats as a small thanks for allowing me into your enormous shower. I'd ask who designed it but you're very sensitive about these things. Enjoy my pie.
~ Jasper
I gathered up my basket and bag, and crossed through the backyard, a grin warm on my face.
When I stepped into Linden's house the next morning, there was another note waiting for me. In truth, I was relieved to see it. Even if he hated the pies, a note meant he had something to say to me. I liked that.
Jasper.
I'm concerned that you thought you'd baked pies. They tasted like hot rubber. Those were nutty hockey pucks. Did you chop up real hockey pucks and blend them with the nuts? I'm forwarding my dentist bill to you.
Yes, my shower is big. Nothing about me is small.
I'm heading up to Swampscott tomorrow so I'll be on the road by nine. I'm meeting up with my sister for dinner in the city so I won't be back until later. The place is all yours.
–L
I smiled all the way through my shower. I didn't even care that he'd hated the pies. Chances were high he'd hate the cupcakes I had for him today too. The only thing on my mind was my response since I had to keep this exchange going. It was the only thing keeping me going.
I paced Linden's living room for ten minutes, coiling my hair into a twist and then shaking it out and starting over several times.
I couldn't get it right but that was due to the fact I was busy studying the knickknacks and photos on Linden's bookshelves.
And the books, of course. Allllll the books.
I couldn't get the twist right but I knew Linden's family was adorable, his beautiful sister was recently married, and he was a massive Lord of the Rings fan. Massive didn't even cut it.
I'd lost track of all the different editions he had of the same books. Hardcover, paperback, movie tie-in covers, specialty covers, illustrated, annotated, translated.
When I refocused on the wall beside the bookshelves, I realized the quartet of framed watercolors weren't random landscapes but scenes from the books.
This guy adored Lord of the Rings and it was a revelation because he seemed like the type of person who made a point of not going hog wild over anything.
He had interests, sure, but nothing bordering on fanaticism.
I tore off his note and grabbed the pen he'd left nearby.
Linden,
Nothing about you is small but yet you choose to live in this cozy bungalow. Are you secretly living out a Hobbit fantasy? Is this your Shire, Bilbo Baggins?
As for your commentary on my pies, I'm concerned you don't know much about baked goods. The cupcakes in your fridge will change your mind.
How's your sister?
Thanks for the water.
~J
Jasper.
Those were not cupcakes. They weren't cake of any kind.
Are you using some kind of WWII-era cookbook where the ordinary ingredients are replaced with the things they didn't need to ration?
Or is it a dietary thing? Is this stuff gluten-free?
Or vegan? That frosting had the disappointing flavor of carob.
Not sure if I've mentioned this enough but you don't have to bake anything. I would appreciate fewer treats to choke down.
It should come as no surprise I enjoy putting big things in small, tight places. If I wanted a Hobbit fantasy, I would've installed a round door. Good catch though.
My sister is pregnant with twins and happily miserable about it. Apparently she misses beer, not that I remember her drinking much of it before the pregnancy.
I have residential appointments in town all day. I'll head out around nine or nine thirty at the latest, and be back around five.
–L
Linden,
Pregnant with twins allows her to be happily miserable. Is this your first time around as an uncle?
Is it possible you don't have a taste for sweets? Could that be it? Because everything I bake cannot be dreadful. While you have said the baked goods aren't strictly necessary, I am honor bound to recognize your hospitality. You'll have to put up with the molasses cookies I've made for you today.
Also, please don't feel obligated to give me your hours. If I don't see your truck in the drive during the workday, I'll assume you're out for a bit.
I am curious, however, about your thinly veiled commentary about big things in small places. Seems like an intentional choice, no? Is there something specific you're getting at?
~ J
Jasper.
Did I hear you running a saw this morning? What are you building now?
The cookies had no sugar in them. Not a single grain. Can you tell me if this is an alternative lifestyle thing? Are you still cooking everything in a crockpot? Because that's not helping matters.
Is there a way for you to work out your honor without leaving "treats" in my refrigerator every day? It's really starting to remind me of the birds and mice Sinatra leaves at the door whenever he's around. Thank you but please make it stop.
I'm going to keep telling you my schedule because it forces me to figure out where I'm going before I hit the road in the morning. You shouldn't have to keep watch. I'll be out from ten to six tomorrow.
Last thing—you know what I'm getting at. You know you're living rent-free in my head too. Enjoy that shower. –L
Linden,
Yep, that was a saw! I'm tackling the porch now. It was getting on my nerves and I needed a break from painting.
Here's the thing: you don't like the birds I murder for you—or treats, as I call them—but I'm using your shower and laundry and I need to drag something dead to your door as a show of my appreciation.
Should I chop your wood instead?
While you mull that over, enjoy some authentic homemade southern biscuits.
Also, the crockpot is not up for conversation. Please accept that it's an important part of my life.
Why do I get the impression you'd wander in the woods all day if you didn't check that schedule in the morning?
~J
Jasper.
Three things.
1. Don't even think about chopping wood. I've seen the way you wield a crowbar. An axe is out of the question.
2. The biscuits weren't terrible. They were burnt on the bottom and undercooked in the middle but they weren't terrible. I'm not sure if I've grown accustomed to your baking and anything edible seems like a blue-ribbon biscuit or these are somewhat good.
3. Why isn't your husband rebuilding that deck for you?
–L
Linden,
Because he lives in Northern Ireland with his fiancée.
~J
Jasper.
Why the hell is he in Northern Ireland?
–L
Linden,
My husband moved because his boss was appointed Special Envoy to Northern Ireland. It's a plum gig and being asked to join a new envoy as chief of staff is an offer you don't refuse.
I stayed because my work is here. More than that, there was no reason for me to join him. There's nothing for me there.
~J
Jasper.
None of this makes sense. I'll be home around three or four today. You can explain it to me then. Stay away from that axe.
–L