108 years, 10 months, and 9 days

While Eileen waited for Shannon to be pulled from a meeting at her school, and Surya walked through neighbors' yards in search of Ann and Dylan, Naomi found herself following the old woman and the little boy through the hall of her own house. Ann paused only to open the door to the basement and walked down. Naomi wanted to call out, to warn her of the rickety stairs or tell her where the light switch was, but Ann walked confidently down the stairs. Waiting only for Naomi and Dylan to reach her, Ann kept walking. She passed the laundry area, where Naomi and Ben had installed large red energy-efficient appliances. She passed the mountain of empty boxes, moving cartons that they had unpacked but not yet flattened or recycled. Ann walked to what Naomi consider the edge of the basement, where the cement floor gave way to packed dirt with, Naomi hoped, some building material underneat. It disturbed her to think of the house resting on the bare earth, though Ben reminded that all houses did, at the very bases.
This part of the basement was dark, and shards of coal and -- what is all of this stuff? -- rested on the floor. Naomi wished her slippers were shoes and she glanced at Dylan's feet. Sneakers with socks. Good.
For the first time, Naomi spoke. "Um, thanks for showing this to me. Could we go back up now?"
Ann hardly looked at her when she replied. "We're going in there."
Naomi and Dylan looked at where Ann pointed. Naomi saw three doors so old and dirty that it looked like they had been carved from the earth. She remembered that the house inspector couldn't reach them easily and had generally advised against opening them. Naomi hadn't argued, happy for them to stay closed forever.
To her surprise, the first door opened easily when Ann turned the doorknob. She, Naomi and Dylan peered into a small room, hardly larger than a closet, lined with shelves. The shelves were lined with newspapers. Naomi peered at the date on one.
"1902," she said wonderingly. "August 12, 1902."
Behind her, Dylan murmured. "108 years, 10 months, and 9 days ago."
Despite the dirt and the uneasy feeling that she was surrounded by spiders, Naomi felt a thrill from scalp to dirty slippers. This was an old house, that had lived when Victoria was on the throne.
"What was this for?" asked Naomi.
"They told us not to play in it, but we did," said Ann, replying but not answering. "They used it some, though, for storage. Mary kept her butter here -- oh, she knew it was old-fashioned but she liked the old ways best, didn't she -- and the plates that came out at Christmas. You remember how they came down here to the summer kitchen, just behind that second door, when it was too hot upstairs. And remember the noise the coal made, when they delivered it and it fell down the chute?"
Ann was looking from Dylan to Naomi, asking for agreement or confirmation of her memories that they couldn't give. Naomi felt confused but also curious about the old woman's memories of the house.
Ann rambled on, now talking not to the others but to herself or someone in imagination. "I remember pulling the dumbwaiter myself more than once," she said, now moving behind the door and opening what looked like a large cupboard.
Dylan and Naomi both caught their breaths in surprise. When Ann pulled the door, it opened to reveal a wooden shelf loaded with dishes, the dumbwaiter halfway up the shaft, like an elevator caught between floors. Ann pulled a frayed rope and it responded with a loud growl.
"Them's the wheels," said Ann knowledgeably. "Gotta get them boys with the oil can." As she pulled harder on the rope, she leaned on the door of the small room and it closed behind her. She pulled again, and the dumbwaiter reached its floor.
Naomi was torn between opening the door of the room and studying the contents of the dumbwaiter. She disliked small spaces and closed doors, and only concentration and habit made airplane bathrooms and elevators possible for her. She felt the first stirrings of panic; sweat broke out under her arms and her stomach clenched. She began to fidget with her hands and feet, and her ears felt like they were filling with water. Taking a deep breath, as dozens of yoga instructors over the years had told her to do, Naomi reached for the doorknob, which fell off in her hand. She pulled the door, the heavy wooden door that had been closed for years, and it stayed stubbornly shut. Naomi felt the panic grow, as it reached her head. I'm in here forever, she thought. I will be found in here years later. I will faint now and this boy and old lady will do nothing. There will be pain and I will disappoint Ben.
But just as the mental record began to replay, with the worst-case scenarios growing even more dire, Naomi felt Dylan's hand touch the back of her right wrist. So softly that she could barely hear him, she heard counting.
"Help me count," he whispered.
"What are we counting?" she asked, trying desperately to focus on Dylan, on numbers, on anything that would stave off the panic.
"Count the bricks," he said, nodding at the wall. "Count with me."
Naomi swallowed and obeyed, aware only of numbers and of Dylan's hand, now patting hers. She reached for his other hand, and felt better, as if the wave of panic was slowing, maybe even receding. Ann still stared at the china in front of her, lost in a reverie of decades past.
When Naomi had counted to 212 with Dylan, she felt calmer.
"I forgot," she told him. "I have a cell phone. But I don't know if it will get a signal here."
Without speaking, he took it from her and pressed buttons. As he tried to find a signal, Naomi heard noises from outside. She heard the squeal of the garbage truck's brakes and the honk-honk of Walter, the UPS delivery man, telling someone on the block that he had a delivery. For an instant, she imagined shouting, and realized that no one would hear her. For another minute, she considered putting Dylan in the dumbwaiter and sending him upstairs. Yes, her anxiety was retreating.
"Don't worry," said Dylan gravely, looking hard at her. "My mother will come." He handed back the cell phone, useless without a signal.
Naomi felt a stab of anxiety, but Dylan again took her hand.
"Count more," he said, and she joined him in counting bricks in the wall behind them.
Naomi noticed that the noises were growing louder, as if someone was walking in the house above them.
"Should we shout?" she asked Dylan. "Yeah, let's shout."
But he walked past her and past his grandmother and pulled the ropes of the dumbwaiter. The creaking was louder this time, and the other noises in the house ceased. Then they heard the rush of feet. Dylan pulled again, and the noises came closer until they could hear voices on the other side of the door.
"Dylan? Ma?" called a voice.
"We're all here," said Naomi. "We can't open the door."
Naomi heard a scream and then a scrabbling noise at the door.
Another voice, accented and precise, was louder and spoke authoritatively.
"Eileen, this will not work. My father will open the door. Will you fetch the older gentleman from my house? Please tell him we need him to bring tools and come quickly."
Naomi heard the sound of footsteps above them again, and then, even before she had time to panic, she heard more footsteps. She held Dylan's hand, amazed at his ability to stand and wait.
The door to the basement creaked, and she heard muttered voices on the other side. Finally -- was it minutes or hours? -- the door swung not open, but off. A short man, clearly Surya's father by the resemblance, held the door and Surya clutched screws and hinges.
In the instant before speech, before Eileen clutched her son and mother, and Surya hugged her father, Naomi felt a wave not of panic but of deep emotion, of gratitude, of triumph over anxiety, of lovefor this house and the little boy next to her. Tears rolled down her face, washing down the accumulated dirt of 108 years, 10 months, and 9 days.



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