Free Floating Staircase by Ronald Malfi Page A

EIGHT
    C hristmas came and went. We celebrated the New Year with Adam’s family at Tequila Mockingbird, Tooey Jones’s pub off Main Street. A heavy snowfall blanketed the town of Westlake that first week of January, and old-timers propped up on stools at Tooey’s bar or at the local barbershop proclaimed this to be the coldest winter they’d seen since they’d been young boys which, by the look of the lot of them, must have been approximately three hundred years ago.
    With the exception of a less than reliable heating unit in the basement, the new house gave us little worry. The day after New Year’s, someone from the gas company examined our heating system. After toiling around with the heating unit, the technician said there appeared to be nothing wrong with it. He then examined the thermostat upstairs, which registered at an even sixty-eight degrees. “Could be the thermostat’s busted,” he suggested. “You’ll have to make an appointment to have someone else come out.”
    Sales for
Water View
were good, as were the scatter of reviews my publisher managed to secure on websites and in a variety of print magazines. Yet despite this good news, I tried to avoid contact with my editor, Holly Dreher, because I hadn’t written a single damned thing on the new book since leaving North London. For whatever reason, there was a giant brick wall seated in the epicenter of my brain. However, I knew I couldn’t keep up the chase forever.
    During one slate-gray afternoon, with the bare tree limbs shaking with the threat of a storm, my cell phone began to chirp in the kitchen. Its persistent call echoed throughout the empty house. (Beth had whisked Jodie away for an afternoon of shopping in town.) At that very moment I had been staring at a blank notebook page, tapping a ballpoint pen against my wrist. And because God enjoys irony as much as anyone, I knew the call would be from Holly.
    Sure enough, snagging my cell phone off the kitchen counter, I recognized the 212 area code: New York. “Hey, Holly.”
    â€œI was beginning to think you died out there, Travis.” The tone of her voice suggested she knew I’d been avoiding her like some virulent disease.
    â€œNope. I’m still alive and well.”
    â€œI was just making an assumption based on the number of phone messages I’ve left for you that have yet to be returned.” She sighed. I could hear her lighting a cigarette. “How’s the new house?”
    â€œNeeds some work.”
    â€œChrist. You’re not tearing down walls or putting up walls or anything like that, are you?”
    â€œNo, it’s not that bad.”
    â€œYou haven’t answered my last couple e-mails, either.”
    â€œOur Internet connection is spotty at best.” Which wasn’t a lie; we’d had some difficulty. We’d complained to our provider, but they assured us the problem wasn’t on their end. Nevertheless, even if I’d been able to access my e-mail for more than a few fleeting seconds at a time before our connection went dead, I wouldn’t have had the fortitude to check Holly’s messages in the wake of the severe writer’s block I’d been suffering.
    â€œWell, you should get your ass down to the local library, buddy, and let a gal know you’re okay at least.
Capisce?”
    â€œHaven’t had much time to explore the town. I don’t even know if there
is
a library. You know how it is out here in the sticks.”
    â€œGod. Don’t remind me. I grew up in Incest, Pennsylvania, remember?”
    Outside, the wind grew stronger and rattled the kitchen windowpanes. The house creaked and groaned all around me. It was like being in the belly of a giant fish.
    â€œHad you read those e-mails,” Holly motored on, “you would have found high praise from me on those first few chapters.” Dramatic pause. “I’m anxious to read the