The plumber scratches the back of his beefy neck. “Three fifty.”
Bastard. He quoted me $280 on the phone. Joe pales, and I lean against the bathroom door, seething. I clear my throat, and Joe shoots me a warning look. The truth is, I rang four plumbers to come fix the leak, but as soon as I gave them the address, they either hung up or were suddenly too busy to come.
“Three fifty is fine,” says my husband. The plumber grunts in reply, and I press my lips together before asking brightly, “Would anyone like a coffee?”
They don’t, and neither do I, but I need an excuse to head downstairs and calm down a bit. Truthfully, I can’t stop thinking about those blackbirds. I lean against the faded green kitchen counter, staring at the spaces where the light switches used to be. The electrician worked on them yesterday, and now they’re just holes in the walls, blue and red wires poking out like exposed intestines. It makes me queasy just looking at them.
Slowly, I head back upstairs, gripping the banister because my legs feel oddly hollow. I’m resting at the top, breathing hard, when Joe steps out of the bathroom and gives me a questioning look.
“You all right?” He actually sounds concerned.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, straightening up. “Wanna finish the wallpaper?”
I head to the murder room, and when Joe follows, he places a soft hand on my shoulder. I want to reach for it like a woman drowning, butI don’t. I’m in control, I tell myself. But why does everything feel so wrong? All of it. I just can’t shake the feeling.
I step into the bedroom and stare at the back wall in shock. I freeze at the door, and behind me my husband calls out, “What the heck?”
The lovely cream-and-gold wallpaper we just hung now lies facedown on the bed like a dead person. Silently, I step forward and inspect the paper. A chill creeps down my scalp and settles around my neck like a scarf. I look up. The blackbirds watch me, silent and angry. I step back.
Joe and I hover around the wallpaper uneasily. I stare down the hallway, thinking of the plumber, but Joe shakes his head.
“He was with me the whole time,” Joe says. “We didn’t leave the bathroom.”
I press my hand to my abdomen, and my eyes drift up to the blackbirds.
“Didyoudo this?” Joe finally asks. “Did you take it down?”
The anger in his voice throws me.
“Of course not!” I say too harshly. “WhywouldI?”
He doesn’t answer, but his body radiates anger. Damn it. It was fun wallpapering with him this afternoon. It felt like the start of something brand new.
And now he’s angry at me again.
And those bloody blackbirds glare at me from the wall.
You tried to cover us up. Don’t do that again.
I feel like everything in this room is mad at me. I step back, and someone screams. At first, I think it’s the blackbirds. Or maybe it’s the house. The house is mad at me for trying to change it. But then Joe rushes past me, and I realize the screaming is coming from the bathroom. I stagger out the door, everything feeling unreal, just as the plumber comes bursting out the bathroom door.
“What’s wrong?” Joe calls out. “What’s wrong?”
I see it then. The plumber stops mid-scream and stands, dazed, at the top of the stairs, clutching the back of his head. Blood gushes downboth temples, dripping under his chin.Drip, drip, drip.He wobbles on his feet, his face drained of color, his eyes too wide, pupils too large.
“I knew I shouldn’ta come to this house,” he murmurs, his lips dry and white. “This house…This bloody house…”
Joe catches him as he collapses, and I stand frozen, watching the blood run down the plumber’s forearm and drip from his fingertips.Drip, drip. Drip, drip.Distantly, I hear Joe call my name, but all I can think is that the plumber tried to fix the dripping shower but the house didn’t want him to.
Now the plumber is the one who drips.
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MAY 10
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