She is sitting in the passenger seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, pulling them close to her chest. Her eyes are set on the peaceful afternoon outside but her mind is storming with the events that led to this moment. Little has been said since she and her husband entered the vehicle and drove away, leaving behind the red-brick realtor’s office. The couple had spent months pursuing a house that had seemed to be the one. There had been many arguments between the two of them. But now, neither cared to figure out who had been right or wrong, for they had both hoped for, and lost, the same thing--a home. They had argued more recently than ever before, and this unified search for the same end had only brought out the drastic differences between them. It is as though passion and reason themselves had been wed and sought to become one.
No, nothing has been said since they drove away from the red-brick building, but nothing needs to be said; the thoughts and emotions are simply shared by the mutual silence, and to speak the feelings would be too difficult. Instead, the husband takes a detour from the reality that waits at their destination, and draws out the ride with the long way home. Together they reflect, in their silent conversation, on the disappointment of not getting the house they counted on; together they feel the dread and anxiety of starting over after months were lost in this rejection. They watch through the car windows all the passing houses and cars and kids in the yard; all the little kids playing with their toys. Her eyes begin to well up and blur as they catch the mail boxes streaming by: a red barn with white trim; a rainbow trout with a movable fin that tells the mailman that there is mail inside; a simple black cylinder mailbox with white flowers and, “The Denham Home,” painted on the side . . . home. Finally, the tears start to roll down her cheek. The husband, hearing her cry, places his hand on her shoulder, seeking to relieve whatever pain he can. He calmly says, "It will all work out. As they say, there are plenty of fish in the sea." He tries to grin at the use of the cliché but it only makes her whimpers worse; his words were like cold hands reaching out to a warm heart.
“Stop the car!” She quickly twists her body to look at the sign they just passed, “Honey, turn around…go back.”
After parking the car, they get out and meet at the end of the sidewalk, instinctively clasping hands. Their eyes move from the “For Sale” sign to each other and smile as their eyes meet. This house is a familiar one; five years ago, when they were only dating, they had spent a few weekends caring for an old woman that lived here. She had recently lost her husband and mostly just needed company. She died only a couple months after her husband.
They reach the door and ring the bell. No answer. The husband looks through the window. “The house is empty,” he says and begins to turn, as if to go back to the car. The wife, filled with some impassioned call to action, grabs the door knob and turns it. The door swings open and they both stare at each other with startled grins. She steps across the threshold, carefully watching her husband’s face; his grin fades as he realizes the inevitable. She grabs his hand and pulls him from his planted stance. Suddenly, as if logic and consequence no longer exist, they both enter the house.
They are standing in the entry, facing a large open staircase, framed with a dark mahogany banister and covered with a plush white carpet. Their eyes follow the steps to the upstairs balcony; the beauty and overwhelming size of the home forces their eyes to open wider. At first she pauses, taking in the smell, her eyes steadily browsing the vacant house. But there is little time before she is running her fingers through the dust on the oak mantle in the living room and skimming the titles of the old ragged books left on the shelves in the den. Her pace quickens as she wanders through the large, elegant white kitchen, illuminated by the afternoon light coming from the window above the sink. By the time she returns to her husband at the foot of the stairs, she is nearly running. He watches her dash up the stairs with childish excitement. As a sort of response to her irrational display, he calmly follows behind and yet forced to smile at his wife's elation. Reaching the top of the stairs, he looks down the second-story hallway and sees his wife darting from room to room and calling out various ideas she has about where her parents could stay when they visit for the holidays, and how, when they have children, the kids can share their own bathroom. Thoughts of infants and in-laws swirl in his mind as he desperately tries to keep up. Abruptly, the spinning madness comes to a still calm, and his once frantic wife stands before him with a tranquil gaze. She gently takes his hands in hers and smiles. She leans in very close, so that her breath touches his ear as she whispers. "Honey," she says, "I want this to be our home."
With a sobering, matter-of-fact tone, he replies, "This would make a beautiful home. I will call the realtor tomorrow and see if we can afford it."
They both returned to the vehicle straight-faced and fully exhausted. The day had finally drained them of everything. In the car there was silence again but not of the same sort. Their eyes were glazed and gave the appearance of deep thought. But the blank stare into the distance did not focus on anything, for the effort to see what lies ahead required energy they did not have. Instead, they rested in resolute surrender and there was peace in their sleep that night.
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