The Hole in the Floor - Part I
When Paul bought a century-old house for his young daughter to grow up in, he knew he'd have to tighten his belt to make it work. But as a single father, buying the house offered a consistency and stability he desperately wanted to provide.
Within a matter of months, his finances are stretched paper thin and something new seems to break each day. Finally, after a major incident undercuts their safety at home, Paul taps Michael and makes an ethical compromise that erodes the boundaries between his work and private life, risks his job, and even jeopardizes his therapist's license.
Driven by rich tensions, "The Hole In The Floor" is the story of Paul and Michael—both of whom want to be good fathers—and show themselves to be well-intentioned but flawed men.
-Marissa
The evening Paul’s kitchen floor collapsed, he had been on the phone with Fiona. They were talking about Michael, a patient of Paul’s—Fiona was his probation officer, a new hire that was nonetheless as sharp and hardened as her colleagues.
“I just got his urine back,” she said. “All clean.”
“I figured,” Paul said, as he stepped into his house.
“That’s two months straight, now.”
Michael had gotten picked up four months ago for assaulting a man on an Amtrak between Newark and D.C. with a BAC of .14. Since it was his first offense, he was able to avoid jail time, but he had to do eighteen months on probation in addition to substance abuse treatment. The intake counselor at The Hope Center had assigned him to two weekly group sessions and a weekly individual session.
“How much longer do you think he’ll be in treatment?” she added.
Paul kicked his shoes off and hung up his coat. “I’m not sure.”
“Two months? Three?”
“I think—oh, c’mon.” The hook Paul’d just put his coat on had torn off the wall and fell to the floor. He leaned over and picked it up. “Sorry, something just broke in my house.”
“What was it?”
“A hook mounted on the wall.”
“Sucks. It seems like things are always breaking on you.”
“More often than I’d like.”
Paul had bought his century-old home just over a year ago, and whenever something like this happened—one day it was the wrought iron railing on the front step that toppled over, another it was a shutter that’d finally fell from its hinges—a sense of dread came over him. He’d had to waive the house inspection to get his bid accepted, so the obvious neglect was no surprise, but that didn’t make things any easier. Although the home had been a momentous purchase—stretching him well beyond what he could comfortably afford—it came with an even bigger list of future expenses: the roof was in desperate need of repair, shingles were chipped, the wood in the archways that connected the living room to the dining room to the kitchen were warped and damaged. Like the other houses on the block, his had been hit by Hurricane Sandy a decade prior, but unlike the other homes, his was at the bottom of a hill, so it’d gotten significantly more flooded, damaging the basement, the living room, anywhere that had a window, really. It was a mess. Every day, he regretted his decision to waive the inspection. But another buyer had fallen through, no question why, and he finally had a chance to lock-in a home in this competitive market. And he still regretted it.
“It’s an old house,” he clarified.
“I’m still renting.”
“I’m almost jealous.” Paul left the hook and his coat in a mound by the front door. He went into the kitchen, and, as he always did, felt the softness of the floor under his feet. “I got the home for me and my daughter. I can’t say whether it’s been worth the hassle.”
“Don’t complain about being a homeowner.”
“Fine,” Paul said. He knew better than to argue with Fiona at this point. And besides, the house wasn’t great, but it beat the last place he and Dana, his daughter, had lived: a cramped apartment with minuscule natural light, with a damp entryway that smelled of mold. He’d wanted a place for them that was their own, that they could grow in. His parents and friends told him that she was lucky to have him as a father, that she would be okay simply by the fact of their being together. But that wasn’t enough. He couldn’t be with her all the time. He couldn’t materialize another person into their family to be with her. He couldn’t transport her mother back to New Jersey from Connecticut, nor could he make her a competent enough parent. But he could get Dana more space. He could get her some grass to run around in. And maybe that would be enough, he’d told himself.
“Are you seeing Michael tomorrow?” Fiona asked.
“Yeah, he’s coming in at 9:30.”
“Good. Can you tell him to call me?”
Paul was walking over to the fridge. “Sure, how come?”
“He needs to come in for a visit. It’s been a bit.”
“No problem. I’ll be sure to—”
Paul’s breath caught in his throat. He coughed, his eyes widening.
“Paul?”
He hardly heard her. Only a few feet ahead of him, there was now a large hole where his fridge had once been. He walked lightly over to the hole and saw that inside, splattered against his basement floor, was a pile of rotted sub-flooring and wood circling his fridge, which lay on its side, the door open, with his week’s groceries spilling out. Looking around the rest of the room, he couldn’t see any other holes, nor any other damage. Just the one. Staring into it—into this abyss—presented him with what felt like, almost immediately, a problem too big for him to solve.
“Paul?” she repeated.
“I’m going to have to call you back.”
*****
When Michael arrived for his session the next morning, Paul was sitting behind his desk, drumming lightly at its underside with his index fingers. He hurriedly got up and met Michael at the door, doing his best to put on a face.
He’d thought of an out for his floor trouble last night once Dana came home, but he didn’t like it. He really didn’t like it. He’d never been one to bend the rules—when he was a teenager he couldn’t even skip class with his friends because the thought of doing so made him feel too guilty—and yet, with how strapped he was for cash, he couldn’t come up with any other way to fix his floor without putting him deep in the red forever. He’d cashed out a large chunk of his 401K for the down payment on the house, and he'd only started putting together a college fund for Dana—he had no wiggle room, hardly enough to cover his mortgage and groceries and childcare each month.
“How have you been?” Paul asked once they were both settled into their seats.
Michael was carrying himself the same way he always did: sitting heavily in the chair opposite Paul, with a mildly blunted demeanor, but with eyes light enough—even agitated enough—to tell you that there was something going on behind them. “All good on my front."
“Another good week.”
“That’s right.”
Paul folded his hands in his laps. Contemplatively, as if he were reviewing paperwork before him, he said, “You’ve been doing well. Two months and all negative tests.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“I’ve talked to Fiona, and she says you’ve been doing good, too. Never miss a meeting with her, and, of course, never miss a session here, either.”
After briefly moving beyond basic psychoeducation on substance abuse—the drunken brawl, Paul was convinced, was a one-time thing; Michael had no prior record or history of substance use treatment, and he only scored in the moderate range on the Clinical Anger Scale—Michael’s sessions started to revolve around growing issues between him and his son’s mother. They were sweethearts at Nutley High—both only children of Italian families—and five years after graduating, she gave birth to their only child, Anthony. The two of them were on and off through the rest of their twenties, and when Michael got arrested and put on probation, she left Jersey for a small town outside Philadelphia, where she had some extended family. Since he was on probation, he wasn’t allowed to leave the state without a pass from his PO, and he hadn’t accrued enough good will with her yet to earn one.
“Just doing what I gotta do.”
“Still, plenty of people don't even do that much.”
Michael nodded, and then the two of them lapsed into silence. Paul would typically wait for Michael to bring something up at this point—he was slow to warm, frequently acting as if each session was his first—but today, Paul had his own agenda. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and said, “Michael, this may sound odd, but I have a proposition I want to run by you.”
“A proposition?”
“It could result in terminating your treatment here.”
Michael leaned back. Although he seemed to be getting something out of therapy, Michael was still like most everyone else that came through Hope: he wanted to get out as soon as he could. He’d recently gotten a job working in the warehouse of the Newark Herald, bagging newspapers and filling a truck with them that he’d then drive across western Essex county in the early morning—this was hard work on its own, but was made more challenging by knowing that he had to come to Hope right afterwards three days a week to attend group or individual. It was inconvenient, to say the least.
“I had an issue at my house,” Paul continued. “The kitchen floor—it—it caved in. There’s a giant hole. Money is tight and I can’t afford to hire someone to fix it. I know you used to do some contracting work. I was thinking that maybe we could figure something out.”
“How does that—” Michael looked to the office’s door, then back at Paul. “What does that have to do with my treatment?”
“If you do some work at my house—just some patchwork, enough to make living there safe—I could terminate your treatment. Not right away, but I could take you out of group. We could stop doing your individuals. All you’d have to do is show up to take your drug tests, which we could make biweekly.”
Michael crossed his arms over his chest, let his shoulders slacken, and inched down in his chair.
“I’m almost done. I can just ride it out.”
“You can,” Paul agreed. “If you keep testing negative, I can have you out of here in six weeks. I just thought that not having to come to group, getting some extra cash—I would compensate you some for the work, of course, although I really don’t have much right now—that might interest you.”
“It’s interesting,” he admitted, after a beat. “But I’ve been doing good. I’ve given Fiona no reason to bother me.”
“She won’t bother you.”
Michael shrugged lightly. His gaze drifted from Paul to the abstract paintings he had scattered around the walls of the room. It felt dirty doing what he was doing. He almost wanted to renege on the whole thing: You know what, Michael? I’m sorry, this is crazy. We’d both get in trouble. Just forget everything I said. But what would he and Dana do otherwise? Where else would he find someone who’d do the work so cheaply? He’d considered asking friends and family for money, but he felt so stupid about buying such an expensive house in such bad shape, he couldn’t even get himself to try. Dana’s mother was an option, but ever since she’d been put on Seroquel and Depakote five years ago after her last hospitalization, she hadn't been able to hold onto a job. She was back living with family, now on disability, which, even with the alimony he sent her every month, didn’t leave her with much leftover.
“Listen,” Paul said. He had an ace up his sleeve that he hadn’t wanted to pull out—it felt cruel, a devious act of coercion—but it seemed like his only next move. “I can talk to Fiona and see if she can get you a weekend pass to visit Anthony. I can’t say that’d happen for certain, but I’ve been giving her positive reports on you, and I don’t think she’d take it strange if I told her that you deserved a visit.”
Michael sat with the offer, mulling it over in his mind.
“Fine,” he finally said.
“I have to tell you, though,” Paul started, his voice wavering, “it would be a violation of your parole if you get caught. If we get caught. It wouldn’t be good.”
Michael stiffened. Paul couldn’t yet tell whether Michael was a risk-taking man or not. He’d gotten into arguments with his son’s mother many times about taking her to court to sue for custody, but had never actually done so (not that he’d be likely to win the case, but that was besides the point)—other than that, Paul had no evidence pointing either towards or away from him being a risk-taker.
“Ahh, fuck it,” Michael said, flipping his hands in the air as if throwing his concerns. “When do you want me to start?”
To be continued…
Benjamin Selesnick is a psychotherapist in New Jersey. His writing has appeared in Barely South Review, Lunch Ticket, Split Lip Magazine, The Tel Aviv Review of Books, and other publications. He holds an MFA in fiction from Rutgers University-Newark, and he writes book reviews for the Jewish Book Council and Cleaver Magazine.
Read more of his work here.