Whatever is upstairs has reached the landing again. There are two small creaks, close together, then nothing. I keep my thumb beneath the page I was about to turn. It does this sometimes. Comes out of the bedroom, gets halfway down, apparently changes its mind.
I look at my grandfather’s clock. It doesn’t chime anymore. The hands say ten.
I’d been looking forward to reading. Earlier, I moved the ladder along the bookshelf on the landing halfway up the stairs and climbed up to get this particular book, which seemed a reasonable amount of commitment to an evening. I stood on the ladder reading the back of it, then the first page, one foot a rung higher than the other. I stayed there until the rungs started to hurt my feet, then came down and found somewhere more sensible to do exactly the same thing.
There was still light coming through the stained-glass piece above the upright piano when I brought the book downstairs. A little colour lay across the keys. I stopped beside it long enough to lose my place.
Now the glass is dark. The lamp beside my chair lights the book and not much else. Beyond that, the room is mostly shapes I know.
I’ve called this place a tomb. It doesn’t stop me being particular about where I put the lamp.
For the first few pages, I was properly in the book. Then something shifted overhead and I looked up. Now I’m listening through the words, which is irritating because I like this part and will have to read it again.
Another board sounds.
“Are you coming down or not?”
I regret saying it almost immediately. I don’t particularly want it downstairs. Still, I lower the book so I can see the doorway properly.
Nothing follows. I wait until I begin to wonder whether it heard me, then draw breath to call again. I let it out through my nose and go back to the sentence.
There are noises I can account for. The furnace. Whatever happens inside the wall after I turn off the hot water. I have stood in various parts of this house listening to things long enough to develop opinions about them. This has not made them stop.
But the pause on the landing bothers me. Earlier, I stood in the kitchen holding a cupboard open. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted anything, but I kept standing there as though another minute might help.
I turn the page, realize I’ve turned it too soon, and go back.
For a while the house leaves me alone. I settle deeper into the chair. There’s a position where the cushion supports my neck without pushing my head forward, and once I find it I’m reluctant to disturb anything. My shoulders come down. I read through one page and into the next. When my foot begins to go numb beneath me, I move it without lifting my eyes.
Then something upstairs shifts its weight.
I put the book against my chest. The open pages settle around my fingers. I can feel myself breathing against the cover, and for a moment I try to do less of it so I can hear.
It isn’t a heavy sound. If it were a heavy sound, I could get up with some conviction. Instead, I sit there considering whether it was enough of a sound to require anything of me. By the time I decide it wasn’t, I’m no longer reading.
“Right.”
I put both feet on the floor and stay bent over my knees for a moment, the book in my hands. It has become an entire procedure, standing up. I push myself upright and leave the book facedown on the seat.
Passing the piano, I rest a hand on the wood beside the keys. I leave it there while I listen. The wood is cool beneath my palm, smoother where my fingers reach the edge. I press one key and feel a little of the note through my wrist.
The sound goes into the hall. I let the key rise, take my hand away, and stay beside the piano until I can’t hear it anymore.
At the foot of the stairs, I look up. Nothing moves. I climb past the bookshelf, keeping my feet near the edges of the steps. There are places to put them that don’t make much noise.
The bedroom door is open. In the dark, the shirt draped over my fan has a shoulder and a long, empty arm. I know what it is. I cross to the bedside table and switch on the lamp anyway.
One sleeve has slipped almost to the floor. I lift it and lay it over the top of the fan, where it stays for a moment before sliding back. I catch it this time.
“Oh, damn it.”
I take the shirt off altogether and stand holding it. Then I fold it badly and put it away.
The glass I left on the bedside table still has a little whiskey in it. I take the last mouthful, looking around a room that hasn’t changed since I was last in it. The ice slides against my lip. I put the glass back beside the lamp, and the two remaining pieces knock together.
I could get into bed. There’s nothing stopping me. I pull back a corner of the covers and stand there with my hand on them.
It’s only ten.
It was only ten downstairs, too. I let the covers fall and turn off the lamp.
On the landing, beside the bookshelf, I stop with one hand on the banister. There’s a small sound from downstairs. A brief rustle, a pause, then nothing.
I take some of my weight off the board beneath my heel.
“Are you coming down or not?”
It’s my voice, coming up the stairs. It sounds more impatient from here.
“In a—”
I close my mouth. For a while I stand with my heel barely touching the floor. My calf begins to shake, but I keep my weight on the other leg.
Nothing follows. I could put my foot down. Instead, I tighten my hand around the banister and wait a little longer.
Then I lower my heel harder than I need to.
The board creaks. I shift onto my other foot, and the one beside it answers.
There it is.
For a moment I’m annoyed with the floor for being so ordinary.
I start down the remaining stairs. The living room comes into view a little at a time. The lamp, the piano, my chair. Another step, and I can see the book lying facedown in the hollow of the seat.
I stop again. Nothing moves. The light falls across the chair exactly as I arranged it. I should go down and pick the book up before I damage its spine.
I look back towards the landing.
I’ve left the glass in the bedroom.
I turn around and go back up. In the bedroom, I switch the lamp on again. The fan is just a fan without the shirt on it. The glass stands where I put it. I pick it up and turn off the lamp.
At least I can take that downstairs.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the silence has become something I’m listening to. I tip the ice into the sink and turn on the tap a little farther than necessary. Water breaks over the glass and splashes onto my wrist. I rinse it, then rinse it again before turning the tap down.
I fill the glass and stand at the counter drinking some of it.
From here I can see the lamp in the next room. Everything I wanted for the evening is within a few steps. I’m beginning to get angry about how much effort I’m making to have it.
I put the glass down.
Then I pick it up and take it with me.
I set it beside the chair and lift the book out of the way. The seat is still warm when I sit. I smooth the pages against my thigh. One corner has folded beneath the cover. I work along it with my thumbnail, first one way, then the other, until it lies almost flat.
There’s a small sound upstairs.
I stop with my thumb against the paper. I look towards the hall, then adjust the lamp. Its light slides off the page and onto my wrist. I move it back.
This time I keep reading. A passage carries me far enough that I forget to listen. I bring the book closer, draw my knees up, shift until my shoulder finds the comfortable part of the chair. For a few minutes, I don’t look towards the doorway.
The corner of a page catches beneath my thumb. I rub it loose from the paper underneath, hold it for a moment, then let it fall.
A brief rustle, a pause, then the page settles.
I keep my hand where it is.
I turn my head towards the hall before looking back at my hand. I can see where the corner has begun to curl again, and I press it flat with the side of my thumb.
There’s a sentence near the top that I haven’t read yet. I start there.
Something on the landing gives a long, reluctant creak.
“Can you give it a fucking minute?”
My voice travels into the hall. I hadn’t meant it to sound like that. The chair makes a small sound beneath me and I stop moving. One hand is tight around the arm. I loosen it without lifting my palm.
Nothing comes down.
I lower my eyes and find the paragraph. Before I’ve reached the end of it, I’ve put one foot on the floor. I leave it there. The book rests against my raised knee, and I read with one finger under the line.
