Free I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid Page B

a bit big for you, but these old floors are pretty cold.”
    â€œSure,” I say. “Thanks.”
    Jake rummages through a wooden bin to the left of the door, filled with hats and scarves, and digs up a pair of worn blue slippers.
    â€œMy old ones,” he says. “I knew they were in there. What they lack in appearance, they make up for in comfort.”
    He holds them in both hands, examining them. It’s like he’s cradling them.
    â€œI love these slippers,” he says, more to himself than to me. He sighs and hands me the slippers.
    â€œThanks,” I say, not sure that I should put them on. Eventually, I do. They don’t fit right.
    â€œOkay, this way,” says Jake.
    We step beyond the threshold, to the left, into a small sitting room. It’s dark, and Jake twists the switches on some lamps as we move.
    â€œWhat are your folks doing?”
    â€œThey’ll be down.”
    We step into a large room. A living room. The house, unlike outside, is closer to what I’d been expecting. Hand-me-down furniture, rugs, lots of wooden tables and chairs. Each piece of furniture or trinket is distinct. And the decor—not to be so judgmental—but few things match. And everything is antique-looking. There’s nothing in here that’s been bought in the last twenty years. I guess that can be charming. It feels like we’ve stepped back in time several decades.
    The music adds to this sensation of time travel. Hank Williams, I think. Or Bill Monroe. Maybe Johnny Cash? It sounds like vinyl, but I can’t see where it’s coming from.
    â€œThe bedrooms are upstairs,” Jake says, pointing to a staircase outside the living room. “Not much else up there. I can show you after we eat. I told you it’s not fancy. It’s an old place.”
    True. Everything is old, but it’s remarkably neat, tidy. There’s no dust on the side tables. The cushions aren’t stained or torn. What old farmhouse doesn’t have some dust? No lint or animal hair or threads or dirt on the couch and chairs. The walls are covered in paintings and sketches, lots of them. Most aren’t framed. The paintings are large. The sketches vary in size, but most are smaller. There’s no TV in this room, or a computer. Lots of lamps. And candles. Jake lights the ones that aren’t lit.
    I assume it’s his mom who collects the ornamental figurines. Most are small children dressed in elaborate attire, hats, and boots. Porcelain, I think. Some of the figurines are picking flowers. Some are carrying hay. Whatever they’re doing, they’re doing it for eternity.
    The woodstove crackles in the far corner. I walk over and stand in front of it, turning to feel its warmth on my back. “Love the fire,” I say. “Cozy on a cold night.”
    Jake sits down on the maroon couch opposite.
    A thought occurs to me, and before I can mull it over I blurt it out. “Your parents knew we were coming, right? They invited us?”
    â€œYeah. We communicate.”
    Beyond the entrance to this room, past the staircase, is a scratched-up, ragged door. It’s closed. “What’s in there?”
    Jake looks at me as if I’ve asked a really stupid question. “Just some more rooms. And the basement is through there.”
    â€œOh, okay,” I say.
    â€œIt isn’t finished. Just a nasty hole in the ground for the water heater and stuff like that. We don’t use it. It’s a waste of space. There’s nothing down there.”
    â€œA hole in the ground?”
    â€œJust forget about it. It’s there. It’s not a nice place. That’s all. It’s nothing.”
    I hear a door close somewhere upstairs. I look at Jake to see if he registers it, but he’s lost in his own mind, looking straight ahead, intently, though seemingly at nothing.
    â€œWhat are the scratches on the door from?”
    â€œFrom when we had a