To Build a Home

3 | Full of Ledges

In all the years I had known him, I never thought I'd be soaking wet on a bathroom floor with Darren Reynolds. And if I had thought that was in the realm of possibility, I never would have imagined it would be to bathe a toddler together. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After our romp on the lawn, all dirt and limbs and animal sounds, we were dripping in mud, our t-shirts heavy with water. We tried to hose down under the sprinklers, but Noah continued to dive into the grass after each soak, not ready for the game to be over, and then we would have to start again. He threw his head back with an enormous giggle each time, as if a drunk middle-aged man was hiding in his belly. We couldn't help but laugh with him.

Finally, after several rounds of soak and slide, he exhausted himself and we were able to turn off the hose. We sat on the front porch steps to sun-dry a little before going inside. I stared at the three casseroles lined up perfectly on the sidewalk in the distance and wondered if they would start to bake if we left them out long enough.

Suddenly, in a single moment of silence, the joy that we had wrapped ourselves up in on the grass seemed to disappear. Like a wave in reverse, like the tide pulling quickly away from the shore. We were reminded by the warm sun and the quiet, invisible breeze that there were only three of us on the porch steps when there should have been five.

Even Noah, who climbed and crawled between us, over and through and between our bodies like jungle gyms, remained quiet, only occasionally muttering sounds in his own language as he swung from limb to limb.

"I think it's time for a bath, little guy," Darren said to Noah, to break the silence.

As Noah climbed my arm, I reached over with the other and stood up in one swoop. I was impressed with my toddler-swinging skills and carried him inside, Darren following behind us.

The house was eerily quiet. It almost felt like I could hear the dust floating in the rays of sunlight that beamed down through the windows onto the dark hardwood floors that ran from room to room. There were toys everywhere––a plastic train set with turned over cars shaped like clouds, The Sky Express––as if Noah had been scooped up mid-play and his mother would, of course, return him after naptime or clean it up before bed. Books were scattered on chairs and ledges, peeking up between cushions and stuffed amongst piles in corners. Every inch of the house felt like Phil and Theresa, like it was waiting for them to return.

I paused in the foyer, taking it all in; the mahogany fireplace with photos of their wedding and our parents at Christmas and Noah's first birthday; the end table with a photo of Phil and Darren in front of the first home they had flipped over by the creek. It was the first of many with large painted panels instead of siding, their trademark. There was even a photo of Phil and I hanging on the wall under the stairs. Phil had driven to Pittsburgh to celebrate my graduation from art school and we spent an awkward weekend bar hopping, hoping the drinks and revolving locations would give us enough to talk about. I remembered it was when he was fighting with Theresa and I had to break up several attempts at flirting.

The picture was taken on top of Mount Washington overlooking the downtown skyline. A fellow graduate had taken it and you could only see our heads since we were cut off from the neck down to make room for the sky.

All over the house there was life. I thought of my apartment on the Upper West Side with its white walls, linoleum floors, and large paintings by artists I admired. Not a single family photograph, everything tucked away and intentional. Like a museum, there was no evidence of a life. For a split second I wished it had been me on the turnpike, that I could trade places with my brother. I wouldn't even blink at the chance. But if I couldn't change it, I would protect the life that he had built there. I owed him that much.