Ch.1, Pt 3: Three months later, she owned the little grey stone house.
Three months later, she owned the little grey stone house. Burly movers had just roared off in their truck, leaving her surrounded by boxes and furniture. All her efforts lately had gone to preparing for the move. Now that she was alone in the controlled chaos, she didn’t know what to do, where to start putting her new life together. She wandered from room to room, peering inside boxes and then closing the flaps again. She stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand tapping her jeans-covered thigh, the other hand twirling a strand of her shoulder-length hair. Where to begin? she wondered.
The chairs for the dining table were near the kitchen door where the movers had left them. She knew where they belonged, at least. Picking up two chairs by their backs, she carried them over to the table, scooting them out of the way underneath. Then she did the same with the other two. That felt productive. But then her mind drew a blank and she wandered into the living room. A floorboard creaked and the sound seemed to echo through a vast empty space. She spotted a box marked “bedroom” on the coffee table and, happy to have something else to do, carried it back through the kitchen and placed it on the stairs to be taken up later. Piece by piece, she was thinking. This house will start to feel like home.
She looked inside one of the boxes on the kitchen table. It was full of plastic containers. Not the most important thing to unpack, she realized with a sigh. A sudden tapping noise made her rush to the door, hoping for a visitor. No one was there, and she traced the sound to an overgrown branch that was hitting the living room window. She would have to get some clippers and prune that bush. She supposed she would have to learn how to prune first. Add this to the long list of things she didn’t know about home ownership. If only she weren’t all alone, but was moving in with a competent handyman. She let herself picture Mr. Wonderful. He would break the nerve-wracking silence. Probably the first thing he would do is set up the stereo. None of her previous men had enjoyed silence. Whether in an apartment or a car, they had always had music playing. So something energetic would now be booming through the speakers, he’d be lifting heavy furniture, working up a sweat…He’d have a bottle of beer on the go, maybe an open bag of pretzels. At least there’s beer in the fridge, she thought. Maybe we’d sing along with the songs, grab a kiss as we passed each other. Maybe we’d have a bottle of champagne to toast the first night in our house. Maybe take pictures: here he is in the kitchen, here I am in the living room, here he is putting up the shower curtain in the bathtub…But things had just not worked out that way.
Katherine sighed again and opened the fridge. There was nothing inside but a case of beer. Just like long ago during university, helping friends move, going to housewarming parties, painting parties. She twisted the bottle cap and took a pull, the cold bitter taste filling her mouth. Welcome home. She shook her head. Drinking beer from a bottle, alone, just wasn’t festive. Why hadn’t she thought of champagne or a nice bottle of wine? Even parents or a brother or sister would be something. Somebody else to be excited about the move. This was another time when she felt the pain of the loss of her parents. Why did they both have to die so young? It wasn’t fair to be so alone through all the milestones of her life: graduation, her first job, eventually landing her own radio program at CMIS. But she’d been thinking that for the last 20 years, and there never was a satisfactory explanation.
She set down the bottle of beer and drifted into the dining room just past the stairs, opposite the kitchen. It was empty except for a bureau that she was going to use as a sideboard. The house seemed much larger now that all her furniture was in it. What crams an apartment really doesn’t go far in a house, she thought, and again realized that she would have to buy more furniture. A table and chairs for this room. What have I gotten myself into? she thought in panic for the millionth time.
And just as it always had over the last few months, a wave of calm welled up inside her, and she felt that everything would be all right. She couldn’t explain it, because she had just wiped out what remained of her inheritance, plus her life savings, and signed away the rest of her life to pay for this house, with many more expenses still ahead of her, but somehow deep inside she felt that this was the right thing to do. She opened a box on the sideboard and unwrapped the newspaper from one of the lumps inside. A wineglass. At least this is in the right room, she thought. She set it down, picked up another lump of newspaper, then realized the glasses would need washing before being put away. She drifted into the last room on the main floor. What am I going to do with this room? Katherine wondered again. She passed the never-used front door and was back in the living room. Hunger stabbed her and she realized she hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day. She wanted a cup of coffee and rummaged around the kitchen looking for the kettle but couldn’t find it. She found a box of crackers and put one in her mouth. Saliva rushed from the corners of her mouth. Somewhere she had a jar of peanut butter. She saw the beer bottle and took a swig, the box of crackers in hand. She stared at the empty wall across the room. A big wooden cabinet with glass doors would be perfect there. Maybe there’s one like it in the barn, she thought. Yeah, maybe the handsome groundskeeper is using it. She grinned and bit on a stack of crackers. There was furniture of some kind in there.
She had looked inside the barn during her first viewing of the property with Marjorie. Thin ribbons of daylight streaked through the board walls of the barn, and as her eyes adjusted she could make out mysterious shapes and dark mounds of old cloths. Lifting one, she saw wicker. Poking at another mound, she felt a hard surface. When a pile of small items fell over with a metallic crash and something darted along the floor away from her, she shrieked, causing Marjorie to jump. “What is it?” “A mouse, I think,” said Katherine. “This place needs a little cleaning up. I’ve seen enough in here.”
Ch.1, Pt 4: Car tires crunched on the driveway. » »
Ahh, good. I’ve finished part 3
. Nothing really happens here, I suppose, although at times it seems as if you were narrating every micro movement Katherine makes.
I’ve just realized something - the way you slice your chapter to put them up is nothing short of brilliant. Not too long, not too short. And well organized, at that too!
I once started a short story with the title “Nothing Happens” because I’m not a writer who provides car chases, kidnappings or leaps off skyscrapers (I’m still shaking my head over the boredom I suffered while watching the opening of Casino Royale).
As for your second paragraph, you’re making me blush! But you raise a serious point: deciding where to cut my chapters into parts takes some thinking. I look for a short line that will have “pull” when it’s in the list. And it’s great if the part ends with a bit of a suspenseful moment. These were not at all considerations when I wrote the novel. It’s proof that the medium is the message, or at least that when blogging/blooking a novel, you have different concerns than you do when writing for hard copy.
I agree. And if we’re writing for the blogging format, all the ‘pulls’ and ‘hooks’ might sound strange when reproduced in book form. I’ve yet to try it though.
BTW, your Casino Royale quote was hilarious! Made me chuckle like mad. Heh.