When I get home from work the next day, the whole house smells like glue. It’s not pleasant.
“Enzo?” I call out.
I’m pretty sure he’s home. Once again, I saw his truck parked outside the house. But maybe he’s at Suzette’s again. Maybe he’s hidden in some passageway behind the wall where I’ll never find him. After yesterday, I have no idea what to expect.
“Am here!” he miraculously calls back.
I follow the sound of his voice around the side of the stairwell. And there he is, painting glue on the wall below the stairwell. There’s a tarp beneath his boots as well as a roll of what looks like wallpaper on the floor.
“I called the Realtor,” he tells me. “I asked her where the old owners bought the wallpaper, and I got another roll.”
“Why?”
He lowers the paintbrush as he turns to look at me. “You said you want the room sealed up. So that is what I will do.”
I am astonished. I thought for sure we were going to have to have five or six more arguments about this room before he agreed to seal it up. And somehow, here he is, doing it of his own free will. I haven’t had to nag him once.
“I’m sorry I argued with you yesterday,” he says softly. “I understand how you feel. And the truth is ” He looks at the crack in the wall that is the only remaining sign of the fact that there is a door
concealed within; even the hinge is on the inside. “It makes me nervous too.”
At his words, a shiver goes through me. That room is so tiny and stifling. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped inside there. Well, actually, I can imagine it. That’s the problem.
He reaches for my hand with the one that isn’t holding the glue. “Is
better now?”
I take his hand and start to say yes, but then a terrible fear grips me. We haven’t looked inside this room since yesterday. What if one of the children went inside again? What if we sealed the room up with them trapped in there? It is, after all, soundproof.
“Can you open the door?” I ask him. He frowns. “But is covered with glue.”
He makes a good point. There is glue completely coating the wall, which would make it exceptionally hard to open. Yet I can’t stop thinking about the idea that somebody could be trapped in there. And next time I hear the scraping, it will be that person trying to escape.
“Millie?”
I swallow a lump in my throat. “I just I’m worried that ”
“The kids are upstairs,” he says gently. “I asked them if they wanted to help before I got started.” He adds, “They did not.”
Okay, I’m being ridiculous. There’s no reason to wrench open this door and make a huge mess just because I’m paranoid. “I can help you.”
He beams at me. “I would love your help.”
So we get to work spreading the pieces of wallpaper over the hidden door. I can’t quite rest easy until the door is completely covered. And even then, I can’t shake the feeling that this hidden room will come back to haunt me.
