The Hole in the Floor - Part III
In Part II, Michael comes to Paul’s house to begin working on the hole in the kitchen floor. Paul is overcome with shame for the quid pro quo and wants to keep his daughter separate from the entire situation.
Michael came the next morning after Dana went off to school. Paul had called Hope and told them that he wasn’t feeling well and would have to take the day off. He had sessions scheduled for that morning and a group to run in the afternoon, but they could do without him for a day.
Michael quickly got to work examining the hole. He went into the basement, checked the joists; he continued messing with the sub-flooring, which, the more he peeled away, the worse it seemed. As Michael worked, Paul sat on the couch in the living room, out of the way but close enough so that he could still see what Michael was doing.
When Michael finally finished his examination, he found Paul sitting there reading, as if uninterested in the work that was being done right next to him.
“I don’t like the look of what you got in there,” Michael said. “I’m guessing your home was last renovated back in the day, right?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said. He wracked his mind for the conversations he’d had with the previous owner and the realtor about the condition of the house. “I think it was renovated in the sixties.”
Michael nodded. “I figured. They must’ve put in this cheap sub-flooring back then. It looks like they redid the whole kitchen at that time, but your fridge, see,” he pointed to a window that was next to where the fridge had been, “had probably been sitting on wood that’d been soaked from water leaking through the window.”
“What does that mean for the work that needs to be done?”
“Well, luckily, your joists aren’t rotted or sagging, so that saves us from having to sister another one to them. All that needs to be done now is to fix this hole. Shouldn’t be too big of a project, although my time is pretty tight right now, so I don’t know how quickly I could complete it.”
Paul felt a bit of relief, but felt, too, that another shoe was still left to drop.
“The rest of the kitchen is walkable, but I don’t know how long it’ll be, especially around the edges near the windows. I’d recommend replacing the whole thing now before it becomes more trouble.”
“Can it wait?”
“I wouldn’t,” Michael said. “You don’t know if the floor might fall away. And with a little girl living in this house—
“Okay,” Paul said, cutting him off before he could start moralizing. “What will it take, then?”
“Call in a crew and get an estimate. I can try and get you some referrals.”
“I don’t want a referral.” Paul couldn’t afford to pay a whole crew. He could only afford the low rate he was giving Michael. “Can you do the job? You already know what’s going on here.”
“If we’re doing the whole floor, it would take me awhile to do this on my own.”
“But could you make it work?”
Michael looked at the hole, at the work he’d done so far. A disapproving grimace came on his face. “I could.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s just one thing I’ll need.”
Paul hesitated. “What is it?”
“Have you talked to Fiona about the weekend pass?”
“The pass? No, I—” Paul had imagined the pass as a payment upon completion type of thing but hadn’t communicated that. “I haven’t been to the office since last Friday, so I haven’t had time to talk to her. I texted her early this morning about taking you out of group, though.”
“Call her,” he said. “Let me know when I get it, then I’ll help you.”
“Sure, sure. Just—can you still come tomorrow? I want to make sure this keeps moving.”
“Call her,” he repeated.
Paul looked up at Michael: he was a few inches taller than him, certainly had at least thirty pounds on him. In therapy, the power balance always slides towards the therapist—they’re the authority, the one whose help is being sought—which any good therapist tries to lessen over the course of treatment and, when necessary, uses for the client’s benefit. Now, it felt like that balance was starting to flip.
“Okay,” Paul said. “I will.”
*****
Paul called Fiona on Tuesday morning and asked her to give Michael the weekend pass. She was hesitant at first. Michael seemed like he was on the right path, she’d said, but he’d only been on probation for two months. It seemed early to give him a pass. Paul reassured her that Michael had been doing well, that he was engaged in treatment, and that it’d been a few months since he saw his son. After a little more hemming and hawing, she agreed to allow him the pass.
Michael was upset to hear that it would take two weeks before the pass was approved, but he’d started work on the kitchen anyway. Paul had given him his credit card to get supplies when he came over Friday morning after his shift at the Herald, and so later that same morning, there was a pile of new sub-flooring and wood panels laid up in his living room.
As Paul could’ve expected, Michael proved himself to be a competent worker. He arrived when he said he would and he worked without complaint. First, he cleared away the rest of the rotted wood and sub-flooring by the hole and then he began a process of replacing it that Paul couldn’t make heads or tails of. Again, Paul sat on the living room couch, pretending to read, as he watched Michael work.
Two hours passed before Michael took his first break. Paul could see that sections of the kitchen around its edge near the hole had had their wood removed, the sub-flooring revealing itself to be discolored.
“It’s not all a mess,” Michael said, when he came over to Paul to give him an update. “I thought the rot would’ve gone deeper. Consider yourself lucky.”
"I do,” Paul said, even though he felt anything but. “How long do you expect it to take, now that you’ve gotten a closer look at it all?”
“Tough to tell,” Michael said absently. He was dabbing the sweat on his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.
Paul took a moment to study Michael. The Michael he saw in front of him seemed different from the one he’d seen at Hope. That Michael, although reserved, too, had the capacity to open up, to be frustrated and annoyed and impatient and hurt; this one appeared even more blunted, only able to work and sweat.
“How’s Hope?” Michael asked, still clutching the end of his shirt.
“Just as you left it.”
“Do the group-goers miss me yet?”
“You’re all they talk about.”
Michael chuckled. He had always been quiet in group. He only ever answered check-ins, never shared on the topic at hand. If Paul hadn’t been his individual therapist, he wouldn’t know a thing about him. “Is that right?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
A quiet settled over the room, almost like the ones they used to have in session. Paul, curious but also wanting to continue softening Michael, asked, “Have you put together a trip to see Anthony?”
“Kind of,” he said. “Kaitlyn,” his wife, “hasn’t agreed to the visit, really, but I told her I was coming in two weeks.”
“Will that be a problem, her not agreeing?”
“It’ll be her problem.”
“It might become yours, too.”
“Maybe.”
Michael put his head down and slowly paced around the room. The floor was covered in a blue shag carpeting that was dusty and nearing fifty years of age. He looked over to the couch, which Paul kept in neat condition, and at a box beside it, which held a collection of Dana’s toys. They were well organized.
Michael pointed to the box. “My kid’s a lot more messy.”
“That’s more me than her,” Paul said. “If I didn’t make sure she put them away, they’d be all over.”
“Same for Anthony, but he’s harder to get a hold of than your girl, it seems. All he wants to do is run around. We used to play hide-and-seek at Kaitlyn’s old place when I visited, and you wouldn’t believe the noise this kid made, like he wanted me to catch him—running everywhere, slamming closet doors, knocking things over. I don’t know where he got it from. Me, I’m not like that. Never was. I like my peace and quiet.”
“He sounds like a handful.”
“He gets it from his mom.”
“Still, I’m sure he’s a great kid.”
“Yeah.” Michael bobbed his head, as if uncertain. “It’s a lot of work, this whole parenting thing.”
“Sure is.”
“Who would’ve thought?
Paul smiled meekly in agreement. He didn’t want to relate to Michael like this—for Michael to see him as a peer, instead of as a therapist or, in this case, an employer.
“I don’t see signs of anyone else here,” Michael continued, his head swiveling around. “You got a wife?”
“I did.”
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s been living in Connecticut with family.”
Michael glanced over at Paul with a look of commiseration. What was the story Michael was telling about the two of them right then? Paul wondered. Two men spurned by the women they’d loved? Taken advantage of without just cause? If that was the case, it wasn’t accurate: Paul knew that Michael hadn’t treated Kaitlyn as he should’ve—he told Paul he’d hit her once, although Paul suspected it wasn’t just the once—and he knew that he hadn’t been the partner his ex needed him to be. She was never cruel, or negligent, or demanding; she was sick—schizophrenia was her last diagnosis—and these past few years, he’d only felt up to being around sick people at work.
“Tough luck,” Michael finally said. He looked back to the kitchen. “I got about another half hour before I need to head home. Got work in the morning.”
“Of course,” Paul said. “Again, I appreciate you being here, whatever time you can give.”
“No problem,” Michael said. He went towards the kitchen, paused in the doorway, and then looked back at Paul. He seemed more relaxed, more open. “I’m glad to help.”
*****
Paul was with Dana all weekend, so Michael wasn’t able to come in to work on the floor. In that time, he did the best he could to keep Dana out of the kitchen, but that wasn’t always possible: what better to inspire a child’s imagination than a giant hole?
Sunday morning, she snuck behind him when he was in the kitchen preparing their breakfast and went over to the hole. Michael had put up a small barrier protecting the hole, but it was insufficient to keep away anyone who wanted to get around it. Dana held her hands on the barrier and peered over the edge.
“Wow,” she said.
“Get over here,” Paul said once he heard her. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his hip. “I told you not to go near there. You could fall in.”
“What’s down there?”
“You know what’s down there. It’s the basement.”
Dana looked into the hole once more before Paul tugged on her wrist and led her into the living room.
“Wait for Dad to finish breakfast. Then, we’ll go out and play.”
Dana did as she was told and by Monday morning—when Michael came over next—she hadn’t approached the hole again.
That morning, Michael’s work started as smoothly as it had the Friday before. Paul stayed on the couch while Michael worked, but this time he was actually engaged in the book he was reading, rather than simply pretending to be. Maybe their conversation about their children the other day had made Paul trust Michael a little more. Maybe. Regardless, a little voice in Paul's head told him to stay alert. This project wasn’t kosher.
Again, two hours passed without interruption. Michael took his break, which this time included a couple of bites from a ham and Swiss sandwich he brought with him.
“I’m making progress,” he said, his mouth full. “I’m going to start measuring out the wood to put on top of the places where I’ve put in new sub-flooring.”
“That’s great.”
“Yup, we’re getting there.”
Paul returned to his book while Michael finished off his sandwich. Once Michael had gobbled it and balled up its tinfoil wrapper, he went over to the street-facing window. Paul caught him from the corner of his eye and put his book down.
“I’m thinking about bumping up my visit to Anthony,” Michael said, turning back to Paul. “Later this week, I might drive out to PA. Surprise him.”
“Michael,” Paul said cautiously. He didn’t like being a disciplinarian, although his working with mandated clients had unfortunately made him more comfortable with the role. “You don’t have permission yet.”
Michael looked surprised by Paul’s protest. “It’s only a week early. What’s the difference?”
“If it’s only a week, then why move it up? He’ll still be there.”
“You don’t know that. Kaitlyn could take him away without telling me. She did it before.”
“You could get in a lot of trouble,” Paul said.
“How? Who’s going to tell Fiona?”
“Maybe—”
“You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
In any other situation, Paul would. He was a rule-follower, after all, and his job depended on him having upfront and communicative relationships with PO officers, no matter how much he might resent them for their treatment of his clients. But this wasn’t like any other situation.
“You know that she can call you at any time and have you come to her office for a drug test,” Paul said, blowing past Michael’s question. “She can stop by your apartment. What are you going to do if she does that?”
He shrugged. “I’ll be gone a day or two. What’re the odds?”
“Do you really want to take that risk?”
“It’s my son,” he said. “I should be able to see him.”
Paul wanted to argue, but next to where Michael was standing, Paul could see the hole in the floor—he didn’t want to put his foot down too firmly, damage their relationship, and put this repair job in jeopardy. How would he finish it without him? What would he do if the next time Dana looked into the hole, she fell in?
“You don’t want to make things worse,” Paul warned
Michael put his arms behind his head and turned his chin up. Paul couldn’t tell how he was hearing his words.
“Whatever,” he eventually said.
Michael put his arms down and went back into the kitchen. A moment later, Paul heard a large saw turn on. It roared through the house, as it cleanly sliced through a plank of wood.
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.