Safe as Houses

This Is Your Will to Live

4 9 This salesman came to my house. He was my age, thirty or so, but seemed to have had a better life, a life that led him into pressed pants and a sharp-looking button-down, or at least a job. I said, “What’s up?” “I’m a salesman.” He held a plaid suitcase the size of a turkey. “That I can see. What are you selling?” “Something very special indeed.” “Oh yeah?” I leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Let’s see it.” “I need a table to set up.” This Is Your Will to Live 50 T h i s I s Yo u r W i l l t o L i v e “I don’t know if I should let you into my house,” I said. “I’m alone in here and a woman.” He stared at me. He seemed to want me to take the opportunity to process his unmuscular forearms, his unassuming chin. “Are you going to murder me?” I said. “Not today.” We laughed. “Did you go to my high school?” “I’m just passing through.” “We’re all just passing through,” I said. “You can come in,” I said. “But the place is a mess.” The front room of my house has a table and not much else. The large bay windows invite nature in; it was the major selling point when I bought this house, but it’s not much for privacy. Now, as I held the door open for the salesman, I was glad for it. If he planned to murder me, he would have to do it in front of these large windows , in front of nature and the neighbors. He looked at the bare table, the blank bookshelves. There was a dead geranium I hadn’t gotten around to throwing out. It hung its head, a dehydrated ghoul. I had just taken my sweater off before he came and had thrown it on one of the couches. “What a beautiful space,” he said. I was fond of him immediately, in the way we feel kinship to those who compliment us. “Coffee?” I said. “If you have some made.” “I don’t but it’s no trouble.” I walked toward the kitchen. “Anyway , you can use the time to set up, can’t you?” I know when people want to be alone to do their own thing. In the kitchen, I hummed and heated water. I was happy for an opportunity to use my French press. I heard his suitcase land with a thump on the table and two sharp clicks of the locks opening. “Okay in there?” I called, in between humming. “Let me know if you need anything.” “I’m fine,” he said, sounding like he was wrenching the lid from an old jar. I walked back into the room. I held a tray with coffee, sugar, T h i s I s Yo u r W i l l t o L i v e 5 1 cream, and a plate of gingerbread cookies. He sat in front of the suitcase, his head near its open mouth. Nothing was displayed on the table. “I only have gingerbread cookies,” I said. “I guessed that you liked sugar. Was I right?” “No,” he said. “Black.” I frowned. “I’m normally good at that.” “Please.” He spread his arms, inviting me to my own table. I stirred sugar into my coffee and waited for him to begin. “What do I call you?” I said. He extended his hand. “Foster Grass.” “I’m Elaine Hemphill.” We shook. “Foster Grass,” I said. “Is that because your eyes are as green as grass?” His eyes were brown. I was making a joke. I know you can’t control your last name. Foster switched to a cooler, more professional tone, as if getting ready to take stage. “Elaine, I’m here today with a special proposition.” “Lay it on me, Foster.” He pulled a small wooden box out of his suitcase and placed it in front of me. He felt around the sides until he found a lever. The top jackknifed open, revealing a plastic man with a large head. I took a closer look. He wore the same suit as the salesman. His face was painted in intricate detail. Same eyes, same downturned mouth. “Who’s this little guy?” I said. The salesman didn’t speak but felt along the velvet for something else that elicited a clicking sound...