My daughters run across the hard-packed sand, their blonde hair—Maureen's hair—streaming out behind them. They are three little replicas of my wife. As always, the worry grips my heart with icy ... [+]
Corrie Haldane has a number of online and print anthology publications. Most recently, her work can be found in the anthologies “What We Talk About When We Talk About It Vol. 2” and “Branching Out”. Corrie lives in Holland Landing, Ontario, Canada with her husband and an assortment of their mostly-grown children. She finds inspiration in nature, bubble baths, and carefully curated playlists. "Good Bones" is in Short Circuit #14, Short Édition's quarterly review.
The realtor moves from room to room in silence. Charlotte and I follow, anxiously awaiting his verdict.
Through the kitchen, the living room, the study. Upstairs, in and out of bedrooms. He peers into closets. He tests each creaky stair. He's thorough, I'll give him that.
Back at the front door, he shrugs. "It's got good bones, but it needs work," he says, turning the knob and letting himself out.
Charlotte follows; she nods agreement but says nothing. It's not like her. Through forty-seven years of marriage, my wife has never been what you'd call a quiet woman and I've always loved her for that. I hate seeing her so defeated now.
I stand in the doorway, shake my head. "You're damn right it has good bones. We raised a family here. We had a life."
"The front porch sags, could be wood rot," the realtor says, like that somehow cancels out the joy we felt when Christopher took his first wobbly steps across these very same planks. "And I'll be honest with you, there isn't much demand for old Victorians these days."
"What are you saying?" Charlotte asks. "You don't think it'll sell?"
The realtor sighs. "I'm saying we're going to have to price it aggressively. And if you're the praying sort, that might not hurt, either."
He hurries away, down the steps and across the patchy lawn. When he reaches his car, he looks back. "I'll be in touch when the paperwork is drawn up."
I stand aside; Charlotte slips by me and shuts the door. She slumps against the wall, raises a hand, and covers her eyes.
All I want to do is pull her into my arms, hold her, and tell her everything will be alright. Instead, I say, "I know it's hard right now."
She takes a shaky breath, lowers her hand. Her face is wet with tears. Peering at her reflection in the mirror beside the door, she wipes her wrinkled cheeks.
"Pull yourself together, old girl," she tells herself.
"Oh, sweetheart." I reach for her, even though I know better. She can't see me, doesn't even know I'm here, but she blinks as I pass through, and stands a little straighter after.
She's strong. She's going to be okay.
When I look at our house, I see through the years to what's true. It's the same when I look at my wife.
Good bones.