Safe as Houses

This Is Your Will to Live

This salesman came to my house. He was my age, thirty or so, but seemed to have had a better life, a life that led him into pressed pants and a sharp-looking button-down, or at least a job.

I said, “What’s up?”

“I’m a salesman.” He held a plaid suitcase the size of a turkey.

“That I can see. What are you selling?”

“Something very special indeed.”

“Oh yeah?” I leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Let’s see it.”

“I need a table to set up.”

“I don’t know if I should let you into my house,” I said. “I’m alone in here and a woman.”

He stared at me. He seemed to want me to take the opportunity to process his unmuscular forearms, his unassuming chin.

“Are you going to murder me?” I said.

“Not today.”

We laughed.

“Did you go to my high school?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“We’re all just passing through,” I said. “You can come in,” I said. “But the place is a mess.”

The front room of my house has a table and not much else. The large bay windows invite nature in; it was the major selling point when I bought this house, but it’s not much for privacy. Now, as I held the door open for the salesman, I was glad for it. If he planned to murder me, he would have to do it in front of these large windows, in front of nature and the neighbors.

He looked at the bare table, the blank bookshelves. There was a dead geranium I hadn’t gotten around to throwing out. It hung its head, a dehydrated ghoul. I had just taken my sweater off before he came and had thrown it on one of the couches.

“What a beautiful space,” he said.

I was fond of him immediately, in the way we feel kinship to those who compliment us.

“Coffee?” I said.

“If you have some made.”

“I don’t but it’s no trouble.” I walked toward the kitchen. “Anyway, you can use the time to set up, can’t you?”

I know when people want to be alone to do their own thing.

In the kitchen, I hummed and heated water. I was happy for an opportunity to use my French press. I heard his suitcase land with a thump on the table and two sharp clicks of the locks opening.

“Okay in there?” I called, in between humming. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m fine,” he said, sounding like he was wrenching the lid from an old jar.

I walked back into the room. I held a tray with coffee, sugar, cream, and a plate of gingerbread cookies. He sat in front of the suitcase, his head near its open mouth. Nothing was displayed on the table.

“I only have gingerbread cookies,” I said. “I guessed that you liked sugar. Was I right?”

“No,” he said. “Black.”

I frowned. “I’m normally good at that.”

“Please.” He spread his arms, inviting me to my own table. I stirred sugar into my coffee and waited for him to begin.

“What do I call you?” I said.

He extended his hand. “Foster Grass.”

“I’m Elaine Hemphill.” We shook. “Foster Grass,” I said. “Is that because your eyes are as green as grass?”

His eyes were brown. I was making a joke. I know you can’t control your last name.

Foster switched to a cooler, more professional tone, as if getting ready to take stage. “Elaine, I’m here today with a special proposition.”

“Lay it on me, Foster.”

He pulled a small wooden box out of his suitcase and placed it in front of me. He felt around the sides until he found a lever. The top jackknifed open, revealing a plastic man with a large head. I took a closer look. He wore the same suit as the salesman. His face was painted in intricate detail. Same eyes, same downturned mouth.

“Who’s this little guy?” I said.

The salesman didn’t speak but felt along the velvet for something else that elicited a clicking sound, at which point the figurine’s mouth unhinged and a big voice came out:

The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours

My father placed the two-by-four on my shoulder, held it with one hand, and asked if I thought I could handle it. I was nine, and enjoyed the weight of the beam on my shoulder. I wanted him to think he had made a good decision when he asked for my help. My father, still searching my face for any signs of insecurity, took his hand away, and I stood unassisted in the morning sun, balancing the two-by-four. I reorganized my spine to be as tall as possible. My father gave my effort a nod before moving back to the pile to take his lot, four of the long beams on each of his shoulders. We moved down the street, each of us carrying our share, his arm held out toward me in case I should fall or find myself, under the weight of my one precious beam, lacking.

With that, the little man’s mouth snapped shut and he went back to jostling almost imperceptibly on his spring.

The salesman looked at me for a reaction.

“Is this a jewelry box?” I said.

“You can hold jewelry in it if you want. It would have to be small though. Maybe only rings.”

“What is it, then?”

He said, “This is my sob story.”

The telephone in the kitchen rang.

“Excuse me,” I said.

I have an old phone, connected to its base by a long cord, snarled with time. I picked up the receiver, waited for a moment, and placed it back down.

I rejoined the salesman, who seemed uncomfortable. His index finger was balanced on the head of the figurine. They regarded each other.

He said, “Do you want to buy my sob story?”

I did not want to buy his sob story, but I didn’t want him to feel rebuked.

“You know, Foster,” I said, “I have a sob story of my own.”

He nodded. Then he glanced at the bandages on my wrists. I had been wondering if he would mention them.

“Yes,” I held them up. “These are a big part of it. Or rather, the manifestation of it.”

“But,” I said, “I don’t want to cheapen your sob story. I appreciated listening to it. In fact, yours doesn’t seem like a sob story. It seems like a retelling of a good moment. Mine is much worse, I’m afraid.”

His lip curled into a sneer, signaling a mean streak I hadn’t intuited. “Worse than the happiest day of your life being a walk down a road with a worthless piece of wood?”

“I’m not judging you, Foster. It’s not a contest.”

He regained his salesman composure, embarrassed to have allowed an unprofessional remark.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time.” His voice was tin. “And I know a nonbeliever when I see one. I will have to roll up my sleeves with you.”

We stared at each other, presumably both thinking about my wrists.

“Why are you speaking so loudly?” I said.

His smile flickered. “Am I speaking loudly?”

“You are. You’re speaking like you’re trying to reach the back of an auditorium. No one’s deaf here and I’ve agreed to listen to you. There is no need to yell. Yes, I am a nonbeliever. But I’m willing to give a man a chance. I don’t want to buy your sob story, so what else have you got?”

He pulled something slim from his suit jacket. It was shiny and blue, like those packets of bath crystals nicer hotels offer. “Do you know what this is?” he said.

“Bath crystals?”

“This is your will to live.”

Then the phone rang again.

He motioned toward it, giving me permission with no words.

I walked into the kitchen. Again I held the receiver for a moment in my hands, I heard a faraway voice ask, Hello? and then I hung up.

Returning to the room, I said, “Now then. Where were we?”

He held up the packet again. “This is your will to live.”

“Looks like bath salts, Foster.” I was getting depressed. I rubbed my forehead.

He handed them to me. “Take a closer look. There are crystals in there, but they won’t do anything in the bath. They have activating agents and herbs that respond to particular needs.”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be a magic show.”

“A pinch of these in your morning water or coffee and you will feel a renewed sense of purpose. Each packet holds enough for two weeks or so, depending on the size of the person and that person’s existing condition. I use one a week. Put a pinch in your coffee. You’ll see.” He sliced the packet open cleanly with a pair of scissors and handed it to me.

I looked at it warily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t?” I tipped the packet over and let some of the crystals fall into my palm. They were a blue, unnatural-looking color, sesame seed — sized. I held them to my ear. They were silent.

“I’ll bite,” I said. “Who sent you here. My mother?”

He looked confused. “Pardon?”

“If it’s some kind of intervention, I wish you would cut to the chase. A person comes to another person’s house to sell stories and smelling salts; he could at least be honest. You’re honest, then I’m honest, then we both feel better about the entire proposition. This is how we connect. This is how we build relationship.” I held up one of my wrists. “As you can see, it’s a moot point. Maybe you should have come a few days ago.”

“How do you know I didn’t?” he said.

“This is not the right time to be playing g—”

“No, Elaine.” He leaned in, revealing a softer version of his sneer. When he wanted to, he could really look you in the eye. “This is exactly the right time. You haven’t made any decisions yet, and you still have a chance.”

“Is this the beginning of the hard sell?”

He refused to let go of my gaze. “I know your sob story. I know there’s a father, and a boyfriend, and one really cold mother. I know you were on your way to the bathroom to chop up your wrists when you heard the doorbell and you debated with yourself for five minutes whether to answer it while I stood outside. I know you think you are the only one who ever felt pain, and I know those bandages hide nothing, so how about you try being goddamned honest with me?”

He sat back, smoothed a piece of hair that had come undone, and released me from his stare. He tapped his fingers on the table.

I said, “Alright, Foster. You got me.” I unwound the gauze from my right wrist, exposing uninterrupted veins. Then the other, which also had no bruising or cuts. I felt exposed, called out. “This was a safeguard,” I admitted. “Like freezing your credit card before a big purchase. Gives you time to think.”

“I’ve seen it before,” he said. “In my particular line of work, I see people like you all the time.”

His tone annoyed me and I was beginning to feel light-headed. “What am I, your fifth girl this week?”

“No.” His voice was earnest. “More like twenty-fifth.”

“I liked you better when you were sweet, Foster. Then I could project my own feelings on you and you could never be wrong. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I want to think you are showing me things you don’t normally show people because you have an innate sense that I am special.” I can be a real snake when I’m angry.

He said, “Calm down.”

“Even if you’re not showing me anything you wouldn’t show Jane Smith down the street, you’ve got to make me believe you are. I give you permission to snow me. Only, do a good job, will you?”

On the last word, I slammed my hand down on the table, making everything on it shake. The jaw of the miniature salesman unhinged. The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours, it said. The salesman reached for it and tried to close the lid. But it was stuck and went on saying, The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours, The day I helped my…

“Understood,” he said.

“I’m going to ask you again. Think before you answer. Am I your fifth girl this week?”

The figurine said, The day I helped my father carry two-by-fours — I helped my father carry two-by-fours — my father carry two-by-fours—

“No,” the salesman said, struggling with the jewelry box, looking scared. “This is my first time.”

He got the lid to stay down, and the voice stopped.

“Good.” I knew he was lying, but I felt more peaceful. “Better. Now, I don’t believe your crystals, so let’s move on.”

He took a long time finishing the last cookie, keeping his eyes on me as he swallowed. Then he asked if he could use the plate. I knew whatever was next was going to be a real firework. Salesmen save the best for last.

“By all means,” I said. “I feel like this is about to get good.” He took the plate and for a moment held it in the mouth of the suitcase, a place I couldn’t see. When he put it back on the table, there was something on it.

“Is that what I think it is?” I said.

He sounded sad. “Yes.”

“I’m only going to ask you this once,” I said, not looking down. “Do you offer this to everyone?”

“No.” His tone was soft again, little-boy sweet. “Promise.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Everyone needs different things, Elaine. I adjust my pitch accordingly.”

He used my name, so I believed him. I looked.

He said, “This is my heart.”

If it wasn’t a heart, it certainly looked like one, or pictures I had seen on grade school science walls. A bruised-looking, swollen red apple that moved in increments across the plate. I could make out each ventricle, pulsing with pride or strain. The connecting arteries and veins were snipped and grasped at the air like tiny hands.

“How are you breathing without your heart?” I said.

“I get by.”

“We’re quite a pair. Mr. No Heart and Miss Ribbon Wrists.”

He didn’t laugh. His heart was on a plate, after all. He pushed it toward me, for my review.

“Your heart seems to have blackened here and there (I pointed with a pencil); are those blockages?”

“I am not a healthy man,” he said. “I smoke. I eat terribly. I don’t exercise. I am pessimistic. When an old woman needs directions on the train, I don’t help. I want to, but I’m shy. By the time I gather courage, someone else is already helping.”

“You’re betting on a maternal instinct,” I said. “Why would I want to buy an unhealthy heart?”

“I’m not betting on anything, Elaine. I’m just making an offer.”

We sat for a moment, his heart between us, beating.

I thought of my own heart, which had always been a traitor. Abandoning me at night to lay bets on cockfights and smoke filterless cigarettes. Hoisting me up the legs of whatever man was nearby. Holding in itself dangerous canals and thruways. Clogged or pessimistic, his heart would be trading up.

He must have sensed the tenuousness of my decision. “I think you need it,” he said, to kick it toward yes.

“I probably do,” I said. “Is this really your heart?”

“Are you really going to kill yourself?”

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Now his face was betraying him. He leaned forward and stared at me, willing me to be a normal person. “Don’t,” he said.

I said, “Are you in love with me yet?”

He pushed himself back in his chair, disgusted.

The phone rang. I went into the kitchen, yanked the cord from the wall, and threw it like a snake into the corner.

When I returned, he was standing to leave.

“Are we done?” I said. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

He took out one packet of bath salts, my will to live, and showed it to me. Then he laid it where his suitcase had been. “This is free with consultation.”

“This was a consultation? Who was consulting who?”

He took his sob story and his heart, the jewelry box, the plate, and placed each delicately back into the compartments of his suitcase. He snapped the lid shut and crossed to the door.

“Nice flower,” he said, pointing to the geranium.

“Hey,” I said. “How did you do that? Hey,” I said. “Hang on. Foster.”

He turned around and we regarded each other. I wanted to give him something — an insult or an apology. I felt he had come for one thing and was leaving with another. I am used to doing that to people.

He extended his hand and I shook it: true equals.

“Where will you go next?” I said. “Be honest.”

He said he had a list of people.

“That’s so sad,” I said. “So damn sad.”

He shook his head, “It’s important.”

“You can come back and visit if you want.”

He gave me a sorrowful look.

“We could be friends.” My voice sounded desperate.

He said, “You should get that. You can’t cut people off forever.”

“Get what?” I said.

“Your phone.”

I listened. Nothing.

I said, “That would be a fancy trick, considering I just unplug—”

Then the sound of the phone ringing.

“Good-bye, Elaine.” he said. “Try to get outside. You deserve part of this beautiful day.”

He walked down the path and turned on his heel. Behind me the phone rang, possessed. Each time it did, I felt more lonely. In front of me, I watched Foster Grass stop to let a little girl on a tricycle ride by. As she passed, he gave her an approving nod. She looked back at him to accept this nod and reward him with her full face. Then Foster straightened and continued down the sidewalk. He had long legs but walked in slow, shuddering steps. For a moment, I was filled with a sense of deep regret and thought of calling him back. But I know how that goes. You can scream until your throat is bloody. You can never call anyone back.