Red - Jack Ketchum [11]
“Me too?” said Darlin’.
He smiled and took her by the hand. “Sure, sweetie. You too.”
He led them down the front steps across the stone and gravel path to the fruit cellar just left of the barn. Peg plodded along behind her. He waved to Brian.
“Follow us, son.”
What the hell’s he want down there this time of the evening? Belle thought. I’m cooking his dinner. There wasn’t any point in asking though.
It was a wooden cellar door painted barn-red, chipped and rough in places, set at a slight angle off the ground. Belle was still lobbying him for a steel one. It would help keep the weather out of her preserves. But she guessed that for Chris a new cellar door just wasn’t a priority. Or maybe the old one reminded him of his father’s — back when they still had the farm. She didn’t know.
He used the key on the padlock. Hauled the door up and open.
“Watch your step now.”
At the base of the narrow stone stairway he turned on the light. A single bright bulb overhead.
Belle had never much liked the cellar. It smelled of old dead air, musty, of earth and mold and rust. She could hear crickets somewhere nearby chirping away. There was shelving on all sides. Her preserves were neatly arranged on a pair of them directly to her left. The preserves were her only reason to go down here. Below them just above the old concrete sink, jars of nails, screws and brackets which Chris hardly, if ever, used. All of them opaque with grime. His father’s old tools. On the floor, a trunk, a pile of board games the kids had grown out of, a tricycle with a broken wheel which had once belonged to Brian — Chris had planned to fix that up for Darlin’ but bought her a new one instead — an old rusty wagon and a Flexible Flyer which hadn’t been flexible for years.
Piles of junk. Empty water and Clorox bottles. Aluminum cans. Paint cans. Boxes of her mother’s 78rpm records, probably all warped by now. Belle’s old ironing board and iron. Boxes of magazines and books. Why were they saving textbooks that belonged to Peggy ten years ago? A folding table-and-chairs set that would probably never see a card-party again. Standing lamps. Table lamps. A Polaroid camera.
Chris couldn’t let go of anything.
Which is why what he said surprised the hell out of her.
“I’m gonna need you to clean out all this junk from the south end of the cellar. To about midway through. Sweep the floor.”
Peggy sighed. “Before dinner?”
“Yes, honey. Before dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because your dad wants you to. You don’t have a problem with that now, do you Brian?”
“Nah. Where do you want us to put all this stuff?”
“Throw it in the dump trailer. If it’s small and burnable, put it in the burn barrel. You’ll need some gloves. There’s a few pair out in the barn. You feed the dogs yet?”
“It’s Peggy’s turn.”
“Peg?”
She sighed again. The girl was big on sighing these days.
“Oh, all right. I’ll feed the dogs. I’ll get the gloves.”
“Good girl.”
Belle watched her trudge up the stairs.
“Are there mice down here?” asked Darlin’.
“Could be,” Chris said.
“Should I get some cheese?”
Chris patted her head. Even Belle had to smile. Their daughter was pretty adorable.
“Nah, honey,” Chris said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He turned to Belle. “You organize things down here, okay? With the three of you? Shouldn’t take too long. Keep this little one out of trouble. I’ve got things to do upstairs.”
“Chris? Why are we doing this? I mean…”
“You’ll see. Trust me on this one.”
She repressed her own urge to sigh. Trust me was one of his favorite phrases. Usually she did — and things worked out okay in the end. But there was something really odd about this. Why now? She guessed he was off on one of his little projects again. When that was the case there was no stopping him. She’d known Chris Cleek for over twenty years and was fully aware that for a lawyer her husband could be a highly impulsive man. Only last summer he got it into his head at ten in the evening to paint the barn doors a darker shade of red than the rest of it. Thought it would look better. So there