Free Crawlspace by Herbert Lieberman Page B

the northern exposure of the house, showing clearly through the cement foundation. Here the wind whistled sharply around and rattled the gutters just below the porch roof.
    I spent several minutes inspecting the damage. It was a wide fissure with unnumerable tiny breaks along its main fine, the sort of thing caused by excessive dampness and improperly mixed cement.
    I set to work at once mixing cement in a large basin. Not long after, I was applying it with a trowel. I had never cemented before, and of course the workmanship was clumsy. Several times I had to undo what I’d done, chipping away with a mattock at the cement, which hardened quickly in that freezing weather.
    All the while I labored there that afternoon, hunched over with the wind whipping at my back, I brooded over Richard’s failure to follow up on my suggestion to see Washburn. I had a good sulk for a while and made a few decisions about firmness that I immediately abandoned. Soon I reasoned that although he hadn’t bothered to see Washburn, he must undoubtedly be seeing other people about a job and would continue to do so. And I had to admit, there was some truth to what Alice said. As much as I enjoyed Washburn, I knew my fondness for the man amounted to no more than a quaint eccentricity. To have to spend day after day as an employee of Ezra Washburn would be a form of cruel and unnatural punishment. And the work was not terribly challenging or rewarding, either. Richard would have been unhappy at it, and he had the good sense, even if I didn’t, to foresee that.
    Finally, along about dusk, the chink was filled to my satisfaction, and I went back into the house assuaged by my thoughts.
    Darkness came swiftly in that season. One moment you’d be in daylight, and the next moment you’d turn around and darkness had fallen.
    When I entered the house I found the parlor lights lit, the Christmas tree aglow, and a cheery fire crackling on the hearth. My back ached from having worked stooped over all afternoon, and my hands and feet were numb from the cold. But there was the savory smell of Alice’s pea soup, thick and blistering hot in a pot on the stove. And though I was cold and weary and unsure of how I felt about anything, I was at least pleased with my day’s work.

Chapter Six
    One morning just before Christmas I came down for breakfast and found Alice waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “Albert—Come quickly.”
    I followed her into the kitchen. “What is it?”
    “Albert—”
    “Yes.”
    She looked at me. “Can’t you smell it?”
    “Smell what?” I sniffed, but aside from a variety of cooking odors, I could smell nothing unusual.
    “Come over here.” She was standing at a corner of the kitchen at a point farthest from the stove. “Smell it now.” There was an urgency in her voice.
    I pointed my nose upwards and sniffed around in several directions.
    “I smell cocoa and bacon.”
    “Oh, Albert.”
    “I’m sorry, but that’s—” and then it hit me full in the face. She must’ve seen my expression change.
    “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
    “Horrible,” I sniffed again. “It’s only over here. You can’t smell it over by the stove.”
    “What do you suppose it is?”
    I shrugged but offered no answer.
    “Smells like a public toilet,” she went on. “You think a pipe’s burst?”
    “Perfectly possible in this kind of weather.”
    I walked over to the sink and gave the spigots a full twist. The water drained freely. Next I went to the little powder room right off the kitchen and flushed the toilet. There was no back-up. I walked slowly back to Alice.
    “Well, it’s not the pipes of the septic tank, thank heavens.”
    She was staring own at the floor, pawing it with her feet. “It’s right here.”
    “What?”
    “Right under us.”
    We looked down at the wide bare planks of the kitchen floor. They were a varnished, wormy chestnut, nailed down with studs and set in with widish spaces between them. It was the