Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

“Oh, Clark, just stuff a scone in it and get in here.” I sighed, holding the door open. He set his scones and briefcase down, then inspected the offending piece of marble.

“Oh good, this’ll be a simple repair. You really must be more careful when you—”

“Oh, please, it came off in my hand! I literally just leaned up against it when I was on the phone the other day, and—”

“I’d say you don’t know your own strength, but based on this”—he pointed at his nose—“I know that’s not entirely true.”

He wore his glasses today, in spite of the fact that they must hurt.

Get a grip, Viv.

“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked, interrupting some speech about turn-of-the-century architecture. Which always confused me, frankly, because the century had turned twice since people started saying that phrase . . . so which century? A question that would not be posed at this moment, however.

His mouth hung open in midrant. I leaned in, pushed his chin up and closed his mouth, then turned for the kitchen. “Follow me, Clark. I hope you like it strong.”

He murmured something, but followed me. And for the record? What he murmured?

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

So Caroline was here to back me up, to agree with me, to be on my side and to make sure that Clark didn’t cause too much trouble—right?

Not so much what happened.

What did happen is the two of them bonded over a bottle cap, a ballroom, and a baluhwhozit.

Things started pretty well. We all agreed that the roof was a no-brainer, especially when I began my prepared speech about how rain coming inside would be doing continued damage to the already damaged living room. Clark didn’t disagree, only noting that as long as the original sight lines of the roof were retained, and the copper gutters were replaced, that a new roof was most certainly called for.

We made great strides toward a continued state of détente when we progressed to the front porch, almost re-creating my fall through the floorboards when Caroline pressed a little too hard in her heels. Once again, Clark surprised and impressed me with his ability to compromise. He did put his foot down—and almost through, which couldn’t have happened at a better moment, when I suggested that the railing and the cornice thingies were a little too fussy for my taste. Though I loved this house I wanted to put my own stamp on it, even if just in the tiniest of ways. When Clark began to make a stink, Caroline wisely interjected with a suggestion that was period-specific but slightly less Victorian. And in the end, he agreed the changes would look nice on the new front porch.

Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.

The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.

“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.

“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”

“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked again.

“Did you ever have the Honey Lemonade?”

“Oh, it’s a lemonade company? Like Country Time?” I asked.

“No! I could never find it!” Caroline replied.

The hallway was getting very closed in, and I walked over to stand next to the Legless Knight’s legs.

“You can order it online,” Clark continued.

“Must be a California thing, huh?” I asked, but nobody answered.

Eventually I was able to pry them away from their bottle cap and the dumbwaiter, which I immediately divested of dolls. Because who the hell needed that image in her head, of a bunch of dolls hiding inside the walls of an old house? Which is now ingrained in the membrane, so Merry Christmas, everyone.

But that was just weird. Things really unraveled when we headed downstairs.

Clark began telling us that in the original plans for the home there had indeed been space allocated for an actual ballroom. But whether due to resources, a lack of interest, or simply because the frontier at that time didn’t host too many balls (Clark’s personal theory), the ballroom was scratched. At that time, however, if a family was a member of society, then balls were a part of the social calendar. And ballrooms were constructed. This revelation led us to a grand discussion, mostly between Clark and Caroline, about the golden age of San Francisco and the parties and balls held in the mansions before the Great Earthquake of 1906 and subsequent fire that burned most of the city to the ground. I listened in with some interest, but mainly picked at the chipped paint on the doorjamb I was leaning on. Clark stopped me every time he saw me doing it, and at a certain point it became a game: How many pieces could I chip off before he stopped me? Childish, yes, but more interesting than listening to that crap.

Which brings me to what really chipped my paint.

If you know anything at all about old homes, then you know they’re very compartmentalized. Homeowners in 1890 would never have entertained the idea of “open concept.” Kitchens would be and should be separate from the dining room, and not just in case there were actually servants serving. Even small houses were constructed that way. Women cooked, men read the newspaper, children rode around on things that didn’t require seat belts or helmets, all in separate places within the home. And then they gathered in the dining room, quite removed from the stink and smoke from old-timey cooking. A swinging door between the two rooms created ease of movement, but allowed the mess to be hidden from view.