Jac Jemc - The Grip of It

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To Jared,

for your patience, humor, compassion, and grace

410. A person can doubt only if he has learnt certain things; as he can miscalculate only if he has learnt to calculate. In that case it is indeed involuntary.

411. Imagine that a child was quite specially clever, so clever that he could at once be taught the doubtfulness of the existence of all things. So he learns from the beginning: That is probably a chair. And now how does he learn the question: Is it also really a chair?

LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN, Zettel

Maybe we move in and we dont hear the intonation for a few days. Maybe we hear it as soon as we unlock the door. Maybe we drag our friends and family into the house and ask them to hear it and they look into the distance and listen as we try to describe it and fail. You dont hear it? Its like a mouth harp. Deep twang. Like throat singing. Ancient. Glottal. Resonant. Husky and rasping, but underwater. Alone in the house, though, we become less aware of it, like a persistent, dull headache. Deaf to the sound, until the still silence of ownership settles over us. Maybe we decide we will try to like the noise. Maybe we find comfort in it. Maybe an idea insists itself more easily than an action.

Maybe we make eye contact with the elderly neighbor next door. He watches through his window. The moving truck pulls up. We freeze on that odd instant.

Maybe Julies foot breaks through a plank on the front porch when she steps outside to phone her father to let him know weve arrived safely. Maybe the board breaks months later while were enjoying the weather with a glass of lemonade. Maybe we fix it right away. Maybe we ignore it for a few months. Maybe we try to convince ourselves that we should get settled before worrying about any repairs. Maybe I make one of the hidden basement rooms into my darkroom. Maybe I start taking photographs of everything: of the stain on the wall and of Julie putting away the mismatched dishes in the cupboard, and of the neighbor emerging onto his front porch and retreating almost immediately.

Maybe the neighborhood children ring the doorbell. Maybe its some faulty wiring. Maybe that faint chiming is something else entirelya thing we will only recognize later. Maybe something as simple as a doorbell deserves our dread occasionally. Maybe were foolish to stay calm for as long as we do.

Maybe I hear a sound and Julie doesnt. Maybe sometimes Julie cocks her ear and says, What was that?, and I havent heard a thing. Maybe its possible to become deaf to something, to block it out. Maybe its not there for both of us to hear at the same time. Maybe we should remember our fear of the undercurrent when we go to the beach. Maybe we should stay inside and tell each other stories that are further from the truth. Maybe we should share something genuine for once. Stories from the deep, honest pits of us. But what if those buried, fetid stories are the ones that have bubbled to the surface? What if theyre right there, balanced on the edge of our teeth, ready to trip into the world without even our permission?

THE REAL ESTATE AGENT , with his waxy hair and perma-smile, keeps stopping to listen, waving his hand, saying, Thats just the house settling.

We think the house seems more than settled and wonder why hes calling so much attention to the sound and look at the handsome dark wood trim and how many closets are hidden within closets and we stare out the picture window at the woods butted up against the backyard and we probably wouldnt have heard a thing if he hadnt mentioned it.

But we do hear a noise, and now that were listening, it is unsettling how much it sounds like moaning, but not the bellow of someone in pain, more like an incantation, some sort of ritual snarl.

So we look at each bedroom carefully, hoping to be proven wrong about this place, hoping to find something that convinces us the house is not, in fact, exactly what weve been seeking and we ask the agent if we have to worry about crime living so near the woods and he explains that the woods are bounded on the other side by a beach and there is nothing to be afraid of but waves, and we smile politely but, in our minds, we think, A wave can overwhelm and a wave can take away.

We snag on that, but the agent barrels forward, hustling us to the unfinished basement and pretending not to hear the sound in an obvious way and he disappears around a corner and we follow him, only to find him gone.

James and I look at each other, concerned, until a section of the wall spins around, and there stands the agent, face plain, matter-of-fact, saying, Secret compartments. There are several of them in this room alone.

He emerges and squats down, lifting up a three-by-three section of flooring to reveal a small, finished crawl space below us, an empty concrete cube, and he reaches above his head and punches up a drop tile to expose another pocket above, lit well, plaster painted a clean, pale blue, and then I reach high above my head, trying to push against other tiles, but they all stick firmly in place.

Why? I ask.

Well, the previous owner seems to have been a bit of a homebody , he says. Were not sure of the original purpose of the rooms, but they do make for a ton of extra storage space.

I squeeze Jamess hand and he squeezes back because we have this way of feeling the same about the unexpected, and I know, like me, he is excited about the secret passages, this being one of the places where we are seamed together, just one instance where we twist in the same spot, mirroring each other and meshing at once.

A stain stammers on one of the walls, a wet grayish blotch, like new papier-mch edged in black, and I ask the agent about it, and he says, Water damage, from a leak at the top of the foundation, but its been fixed.

Another crush of our hands together, and we wind our way back up the stairs.

The agent asks us what we think and we dont actually need time to decide, but James is doing a great job of remembering my instructions. We will not act too eager. We will hide our excitement until we are alone and can take our time to discuss with reason and measure. Well think about it, I say. But well let you know soon. We know how quickly a place like this can disappear.

Ah, yes. Of course, the agent says. No rush. Youve got my number.

In the car, James says, I dont think that house is going anywhere. No rush? Thats unusual in real estate, right? Especially when its so cheap. People should be crawling all over each other to get this place. I know foreclosures can take some time, but No rush ? That seemed weird.

I had the same thought. I say we make an offer right away, but we lowball it.

Youre speaking my language, he says. Underestimation is my middle name.

I tell myself not to discredit my husbands ability to predict the odds, that Im trusting my own instinct, not his. I tell myself we can win even if he agrees with me.

MONTHS BEFORE, Julie and I sat in our apartment in the city. We sprawled on the couch. She rested her feet across my lap. I gripped her bare kneecap. I watched a baseball game with the sound turned off. Julie read. She shifted her leg away and I startled at the reminder that wed been touching. We fit together effortlessly.