Vacationland

Omission

148 O o m i s s i o n A pry bar clutched in one fist, the other planted on her brand-new hip, Ursa Olson steps back to assess her handiwork, pleased by what she’d been able to accomplish with only a few tools and indignation. Stripping her kitchen to the studs wasn’t something she’d thought through. Simply, she began doing it, and when it became difficult, or her limbs complained, she’d grab some lever or the sawsall or the tube of Bengay. It began early, when she was supposed to be in town for physical therapy. She wasn’t because Kip Karjala was supposed to drive her and called to say his car was making the same noise again. Ursa offered to limp the half-mile over to look under his hood, but Kip said, “Yeah, Ursa? That would kinda defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?” No matter. She could drive herself, having finally found the car keys in the flour canister where Carina had hidden them. Clever on Carina’s part, Ursa had to admit, given the odds she would ever bake anything. Her daughter was not usually clever— in fact, Carina was quite unformed in many ways despite her age, despite being a card-carrying member of AARP. Ursa settles behind the wheel. The Olds 88 is an automatic, her hip is nearly healed, and she rarely uses the brakes anyway. But before she can even turn the key, a huge pickup coasts down the drive and stops in the loop, blocking her way. Its door is painted with a logo of a beaver clutching a handsaw, perched on a mound of wood shavings. Ursa hoists herself out and waits o m i s s i o n O 149 until Larry Perla’s son, what’s-his-name, walks over with a clipboard and a tape measure. “Rob,” he reminds her when she asks. Assuming Carina had called him about the dryer vent, Ursa leads him back to the house and gets busy making instant coffee . It’s already after eight and too late for the clinic anyway. She digs a donut from the depths of the breadbox while the kettle boils. After walking all the way around the foundation, Rob bangs in and wipes his feet. She hears him set his tape measure down on the table, and when she turns she sees he’s also spread flat a set of blueprints. Ursa sighs. Dummy. He’d meant to go next door, where an old cabin like hers had been razed and was being replaced by a new behemoth. She bangs the kettle back onto the hob. “Goddammit. Now I’ve missed my appointment because here you’ve stopped at the wrong place.” “I don’t think so, Mrs. Olson.” He holds out his clipboard. “You’re fire number 3958?” “That’s right, but you’re still wrong.” Ursa hands him the donut and claps powdered sugar from her hands. He pauses. “Look, here’s the work order. For this house.” “What work order?” She elbows in next to him. “For the remodel?” “What remodel?” He nods at the blueprints. “This one.” First he points with the donut since there’s no place set it, then slips it into a pocket of his Carhartt. He runs a sugary finger over the thin white lines of the blueprints, showing Ursa how existing rooms of the house would be expanded, how the thicker lines represented new rooms altogether. “This house? You’re certain?” “Yes, ma’am. See?” He taps the corner where names were printed, Ray and Carina Olson. “Carina?” “Your daughter.” 150 P o m i s s i o n “Jesus wept, I know who she is.” The vein near Ursa’s temple thumps, reminding her she hadn’t taken her Diovan. She leans over the prints and demands that Rob explain in detail. He does, tracing the blueprints as he speaks. The sunroom addition will poke out toward the lake like a glass ship: a new master suite with his and hers bathrooms added to the west side, along with a den for Ray and sewing room for Carina. With the great room/ kitchen and mudroom, the expansion would bloat the house to three times its current size. Rob puffs up a little himself. “Twenty-five hundred square feet.” “Oh?” Ursa inhales slowly through her nose...