He heard a sound from the hall outside the room. A footstep. He turned around and there she was.
"My bed," she said.
Suddenly he was shy about what he had done. "I needed to have your stuff out of the other room before I worked on it."
She stepped into the room and looked at all of it again, turning around once, twice. "I get to sleep in here?"
He nodded.
"I've never had a room like this." She laughed, a low sound, deep mirth; and then another laugh, cascading, the music of delight. "I know, it's only for a little while, but—thank you."
And with that the room was no longer his. He had bestowed it. He smiled at her, tipped his invisible hat, and went away downstairs.
14
Wrecking Bar
Don went to sleep that night feeling better than he had for a long time. Embarrassing as it had been to break down like that in front of Sylvie, he knew that it had been a good thing. A wall inside himself had been broken. He could think of Nellie's name again, say it to himself. Something had been given back to him. And because Sylvie had been part of it, there was something between them now. A bond of loss, if loss could bind. He could share this house with her, for the months ahead, because they were no longer strangers.
In the morning, though, with the emotions of the day before faded, he began to think of other things. Bleaker things. Had the sight of his weeping diminished him in Sylvie's eyes? He remembered standing there watching Cindy weep. Touching her as Sylvie had touched him. It had meant the end of his relationship with Cindy. Not that the situations had been analogous. It was the passion that ended between him and Cindy. There had never been any such feeling between him and Sylvie. On the contrary there had been suspicion and hostility and dread. The transformation could only be for the better.
Yet his suspicion grew as he climbed the stairs, heading for the shower, and glanced at the door to her new room. Closed. Getting her own room—that was a victory he had simply handed to her. Now could he ever get her out of there? Why had he done something so foolish? Yesterday, caught up in emotion, he had felt protective, expansive, even grateful to her for her show of kindness. Today, the emotions spent, he could see that he had only complicated things worse. She was still a stranger. But now she was a stranger who was bound to think she had a hold on him. Loneliness had driven him to do foolish things, and now he would have to face the consequences.
Sooner than he imagined, in fact. For once he was showered, ready for the day, his first task was to look for his wrecking bar. He hadn't needed it since he tore out the walls in the room that was now Sylvie's. Which meant it should have been where he always kept it, in the long green toolbox. It wasn't there.
At first he thought perhaps he had put it away somewhere else. But it didn't take long to eliminate all the possibilities. Don was meticulous about putting his tools away. There was no reason to think he had done anything unusual with the wrecking bar.
He didn't want to suspect Sylvie, but what if she had moved it awhile ago, before their reconciliation? It was still annoying that she might have been doing things like that, but at least it wouldn't be a complete repudiation of the kinder, gentler relationship that was established yesterday. He wouldn't hold such a prank against her. As long as she gave the wrecking bar back to him.
He went upstairs and knocked on her door.
"Yes?" Her voice came only faintly through the closed door.
"Have you seen my wrecking bar?"
"Just a minute."
He waited. After a few moments, she opened the door. Wearing her dress, as usual. He wondered if she slept in it. Probably not; it was faded but not terribly wrinkled. So she must sleep in her underwear or in the buff—on bedding that couldn't have been washed more recently than her dress. "Listen," he said, "I'm going to do a laundry today, you want me to take those sheets?"
Her face brightened. "Sure. Thanks."
"Um, I could... that dress. If you wore your bathrobe while I'm gone, I could take that dress and wash it."
She shook her head. "No thanks. Really. It's all right."
"It wouldn't be any trouble. Or I'd get it dry-cleaned."
"I don't... that's kind of you, but I just... it's not dirty."
He didn't bother to argue. "Whatever," he said. "But anyway, what I actually came up here for, I wondered if you knew where my wrecking bar is."
"Wrecking bar?"
"That black metal prybar I used for popping off wallboard. All-purpose breaking and ripping-up tool."
"I don't remember it."
He drew it in the air. "Shaped like this."
"OK, yes, I think I remember. What about it?"
"Where is it?"
"Where did you put it last?"
"I put it away in my long green toolbox."
She gazed steadily at him for a long moment before answering. "Don, you told me not to touch your tools and I don't touch them."
So much for a more forthright relationship between them. "What was it, killer moths? Fairies? Elves?"
She sighed and leaned her head against the doorpost. "Please," she said. "I thought we were friends now."
"So did I. But I need my wrecking bar. I've got to start on another room. Tearing out a stud wall and stripping the old lath and plaster."
"I'll be glad to help you look, as long as we don't start from the assumption that I know where it is but I'm just not telling you. Because I don't know. If I knew, I'd tell."
Don turned away from her, exasperated, then turned back. "All right, play it how you want. Help me look for it. Just remember that I really need it. This isn't the only room I have to finish."
"Now that my room's done, what do I care?" she said. And then, because he no doubt looked outraged, she reached out and touched him lightly on the arm. "A joke, Don. That was a joke."
"Please, just... help me look."
"OK," she said. "Let me guess. You want to search in my room first."
"Why not?" he said. "We're already here."
She led the way, opening the closet, making a show of looking in ludicrous places, like the light fixtures and the Venetian blinds. "Not here. Not here. Not here."
"OK, so you're offended," Don finally said. "But the wrecking bar didn't just walk off, somebody had to move it."
"Why is that? What makes you so sure of that?"
"So sure of what?" For a moment he had no idea what she was asking him.
"That somebody had to move that wrecking bar?"
"Because objects made of solid metal don't move unless something moves them."
"Something."
Now it dawned on him. "Oh, some supernatural force did it. The house did it."
The sarcasm stung her. "I don't care what you believe. Why should I help you look? If I'm the one who finds it, you'll assume I put it there."
"Put it where?"
"Where I find it. If I find it. Promise you won't accuse me of that."
"I promise."
"I don't believe you." She wasn't joking. But then, neither was he.
"I just want my wrecking bar!"
"And I want to be trusted."
He thought of a lot of rejoinders that would have made him feel a little better while making the situation quite a bit worse. Instead he answered, quietly, "Please help me look for my wrecking bar."