999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [76]
It was growing dark by the time she awoke. Clouds covered the sky, but the rain had not come. Despite the afternoon’s inactivity, they were both too tired to cook; instead they had dinner by candlelight at a roadside inn, along a desolate stretch of highway several miles beyond the town. They toasted one another’s health and wished that they were just a few years younger.
The house felt chilly when they returned; the air seemed thick with moisture. They’d already had to buy themselves wool mattress pads to keep their sheets from growing clammy. Tonight, to take the dampness off, Herb built a fire, carefully examining the logs he carried inside for spiders and insects that could drop off and infest the house. He remembered a line he’d seen in Practical Gardener, something about being constantly on watch for “the blight on the peach and the worm in the rosebud.”
This evening, though, it was Home Handyman that drew him back. He’d started weeks before with the older issues at the bottom of the pile and had steadily been working his way up. While on the couch Iris yawned over a contemporary romance, he engrossed himself in articles on wood-stove safety, building a patio, and—something he was glad he’d never have to worry about—pumping out a flooded basement.
The issue he’d just pulled out, from the top half of the pile, was less yellowed than the ones before. “Here’s a letter,” he announced, “from a man who’s had trouble removing a tree stump next to his house. Mr. Fixit says he’d better get rid of it fast, or it’ll attract termites.” Herb shook his head. “Christ, you can’t let down your guard for a second out here. And here’s one from a man who built a chimney but didn’t seal it properly.” He chuckled. “The damn fool! Filled his attic with smoke.” He eyed their fireplace speculatively, but it looked solid and substantial, the flames merry. He turned back to the magazine. The next page had the corner folded down. “Some guy asks about oil stains on a concrete floor. Mr. Fixit recommends a mixture of cream of tartar and something called ‘oxalic acid.’ How the hell are you supposed to find … Hey, listen to this, here’s another one from that same woman who wrote in before. ‘Dear Mr. Fixit: The advice you gave me previously, on getting rid of bulges under the linoleum in my bathroom by drilling up from the basement, was of little use, as we have no basement, and due to an incapacity my husband and I are unable to make our way beneath the house. The bulges—’ ”
Iris looked up from her book. “Before it was just one bulge.”
“Well, hon,” he said, thinking of her in the tub, “you know how it is with bulges.” He made sure he saw her smile before turning back to the column. “ The bulges have grown larger, and there’s a definite odor coming from them. What should we do?’ Signed, ‘Still Anxious.’ ”
“That poor woman!” said Iris. She stretched and settled back into the cushions. “You don’t suppose it could be radon, do you?”
“No, he says they may have something called ‘wood bloat.’ “ Herb shuddered, savoring the phrase. “ ‘Forget about preserving the linoleum,’ he says. ‘Drill two holes deep into the center of the bulges and carefully pour in a solution of equal parts baking soda, mineral spirits, and vanilla extract. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’d advise you to seek professional help.’ ”
“She should have done that in the first place,” said Iris. “I’d love to know how she made out.”
“Me, too,” said Herb. “Let’s see if the story’s continued.”
He flipped through the next few months of Home Handyman. There were leaky stovepipes, backed-up drains, and decaying roofs, but no mention of the bulges. From the couch came a soft bump as Iris lay