Coming Home

George didn’t know the dictionary definition of marriage, but he liked to think of it as two people, one of whom sleeps every night in a room that’s too hot lying in bed next to another who sleeps in a room that’s too cold. This was undoubtedly the case with him and Maggie. 

George was a city boy through and through. He was born in Brooklyn and had the accent to prove it. He'd never actually said fuhgeddaboudit but, if he had, no one would've batted an eye. Maggie, on the other hand, was a southern belle from Jackson, Mississippi. She frequently used expressions like fixin’ to and Y’all with the sweetest drawl you’d ever heard. They were a mismatched couple if there ever was one but, somehow, they fit like two comfortable socks. To the outside world, they were different in every way but their hearts fit more perfectly than interlocking puzzle pieces. 

He wasn’t house shopping when he noticed the “For Sale” sign prominently displayed on the lawn. Even if he had been, the home behind the sign would have been the last one George would have chosen. To most people, the home was country living at its finest—a front-page listing in Better Homes and Gardens to be sure. It was an American Foursquare, painted light blue, complete with a wrap-around porch. The third story had dormer windows on all four sides and from the front, with its hilltop perch, the western vista promised exquisite sunsets over the picturesque mountains in the distance.  

That, however, was not what George saw, not even close. To him, the large hill on which the home stood was nothing more than a lawn-mowing nightmare. And three-stories, to a boy brought up in an apartment building with an elevator, was a pulled muscle and bad back waiting to happen. On top of all that was the remote location. The closest "convenience" store was almost eight miles away and to get to a God’s honest supermarket you’d have to set aside at least an hour for the round trip. 

The porch would be perfect for an early evening pipe smoke, George thought to himself, but he had to sneak those in to avoid the ire of his loving wife. Yes, there was nothing George liked about this monstrosity—nothing except that Maggie would love it, and to George, nothing was more important than that.

“It’s darling, George.” Maggie practically squealed, the moment the house came into view. “How ever did you find it?” The excitement in Maggie’s voice said more than her words. “I love everything about it. Look how majestic it is, sitting up there on the hill, and it has three stories!” 

George managed a small smile as he pulled into the driveway. 

“When I was a little girl my Mamma said the more stories a house has—the more stories it will tell. I want to hear all of this house’s stories, George. Don’t you?” Before George could answer his wife had already exited the car and turned her gaze towards the mountain. She paused to take in the majesty of it all then turned back to her best friend and exclaimed "Look, George. Not a single building for as far as the eye can see. It’s perfect—just perfect—please tell me we can afford it. Please make it ours” 

George just smiled and nodded his head. 

Before George brought Maggie to see the home he knew he wanted to buy it, and her unbridled excitement upon seeing it only reinforced his conviction. The list price on the house was $575,000, an amount not supported by any comps in the area or by the previous sale price from just two years earlier. Complicating the matter was the identity of the listing agent. 

Bobby Jones, owner and one-man crew of Bobby Jones’s Real Estate, had known George and Maggie for the better part of 20 years. George would joke with his old buddy, often saying, “you share your name with a famous golfer but not his swing.” Bobby had handled the sale of the couple’s home a few years prior, and had helped George and Maggie find the “perfect” place in the city, a fact that confused him when he saw the familiar number on the Caller ID.

“George, you son of a gun, what the hell are you calling me for?” Bobby asked, chuckling as only old friends do. “Did Maggie finally kick you out?”

“Not yet, you rat bastard, but who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

“Seriously, George, what can I do for you and Maggie? Is everything okay?”

“We’re doing the best we can, my friend. What I’m actually calling about is business related. Bobby, I want to buy a house and, ironically, you’re the listing agent.”  

“Which house are you looking to buy?” Bobby replied, confused at what might have changed in such a short time.

“The one on Sycamore. You know the one.” The silence that accompanied this revelation lasted almost long enough for George to think he had lost connection. Then, Bobby finally spoke. “I only have one house available on Sycamore. You can’t mean that one.”

“I do,” George replied bluntly. “Maggie loves the house and I love Maggie, so that’s the house I want.”

After another long pause to contemplate the situation, Bobby, well aware of who he was talking to, gingerly broached the subject of price. “It’s listed at $575,000 and the owner is firm.” There was a hesitation in Bobby’s voice and the statement was delivered almost like a question and with a hint of fear.

* * * * * * * * * *

The process of buying a house is almost a religious experience to a boy from Brooklyn. It’s the culmination of a lifetime of learning to negotiate. Brooklanders are street smart and relentless—they don’t buy anything at full price. 

When George’s father used to take him to the market to pick up groceries for the family restaurant, he taught George the art of haggling. 

“Georgie Boy,“ his dad would say with a roguish twinkle in his eye. “You gotta start low. If the first offer isn’t an insult, then you’ve lost already. After that you get their indignant response and the competition is on.” 

To George, the trips to the market with his dad were the best times of his young life. His dad was a fast talker and an expert haggler. Without fail, George’s dad would play the same game with all his vendors. Both combatants knew in advance about where the final price would land, but that didn’t stop them from yelling and arguing until they settled it all with a handshake. 

To George the whole dance was magic—it was in his DNA. This was another in the long line of differences between George and Maggie. Maggie always paid full price for everything, even a car. 

“You did what! Who pays full price for a car?” George would ask, feigning disappointment. “My dad is rolling over in his grave.” 

“Your dad is on the mantle in an urn.” Maggie would reply, knowing full well George could never really be mad at her. 

Whenever George would start to haggle, and he would often haggle, Maggie would cut her eyes, sigh, and walk away. She had to pretend the haggling made her mad. It was part of their dance, one practiced and perfected over the years and performed masterfully. 

* * * * * * * * * *

As Bobby sat back in his chair anticipating the free-for-all he was sure was coming George said the most un-George like thing. “Done. When can we sign the papers?” 

“You are paying the asking price?” Bobby blurted. 

“I know, right.” George replied, aware of the shock that accompanied this departure from the norm. Then his voice grew soft, almost like a whisper. “It’s for Maggie, Bobby. It’s all for Maggie.”

“No problem at all my friend. I understand. I don’t see any reason why we can't get this done this week. I’ll call you when the papers are ready.”

On moving day, after his easy chair was placed in the front sitting room, George made a point of staying out of the way while Maggie worked the poor moving guys to exhaustion. Like most boys from Brooklyn, George had an opinion on everything and he usually made those opinions known. But not when it came to the layout of the house. That was Maggie's department.  

He watched as each piece of furniture was placed in every possible spot until Maggie found its perfect home. Then she would repeat the process with the next piece. George hated this house, but he loved to watch Maggie set it up and, as the process drew to a close, George looked at each of her choices and he knew they were exactly right. 

Sitting there, in his favorite chair, George contemplated what he and Maggie had accomplished in just a few weeks and he found his soul lightened and his face smiling for the first time in two years. 

There is no night like the first night in a new house and the night is even better when it happens at the beginning of fall in the country. After a nice but easy dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, Maggie and George found their way to the rockers on the front porch. They were able to sit down and get comfortable just in time to see the sun go down over the mountains. George, noticing their breath now visible in the cool night air, placed a sweater over his wife’s shoulders.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” Maggie said breathlessly, breaking the silence, as she scanned the wonder in front of her.

“Absolutely,” George agreed, never taking his eyes off his wife. 

“George, thank you so much for this. I know this isn’t your cup of tea, but it’s everything I could ever want. This house, this view—” she paused before looking back at her husband and finishing her thought“—and you.”

George just nodded and smiled. This is proof of God, he thought to himself as he took in the moment.

"I’m getting a little tired now,” Maggie said, almost reluctantly. “Would you mind if I turned in early?”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” he responded truthfully. “I’ll be up shortly.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know you’re going to smoke that nasty pipe,” Maggie said, pretending to be annoyed, but smiling all the while. “Make sure you brush your teeth before you come to bed, you old poo.” 

Then she kissed him on the cheek and headed into the house and up the stairs.  

George watched as Maggie climbed the stairs and turned right into their bedroom. Then he turned back towards the mountains and pulled out his pipe. It only took a few seconds to fill it with his favorite tobacco. Then, flame in hand, George took a long satisfying pull. 

For George, time would stand still when he could sit alone and smoke his pipe. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been there when he saw some people coming up the steep driveway.

“Hello!” came a greeting piercing the silence of nightfall. “We come in peace.”

“John—Emily? Is that you?” George responded to what he was sure was a familiar voice.

“Oh my God, George, what are you doing here?" John asked with obvious concern. "Is everything okay?"

“Yes, it’s me. Maggie and I have moved back in.” George replied, pausing to take a deep breath. "Maggie’s worse, guys. Much worse. She doesn’t remember much of anything anymore. I figured things would be better in the city. I wanted her to be near her doctors and the hospital, but I was wrong.”

“Oh no,” John said. “What happened?”

“She would wander aimlessly,” George answered, shuddering at the unpleasant memory. "She was miserable and lost. She didn't know that I knew, but I could hear her crying almost every night.”

“That’s awful,” Emily replied, hugging George. “So you moved back? You bought your old house?”

“Yes,” George said. “Maggie doesn’t remember it. To her the house is new, but she loves it just like she always did. I should never have moved her out. This is where we belong.”

The news brought tears to Emily's eyes. “Is there anything we can do?”

“No, not really. It would help if you would pretend you don’t know her when you meet," John responded. “I’m not sure how much longer she has but for now, this house has brought back her smile. She’s forgotten that she forgets and for now, that’s a gift.”

“Of course we will,” John replied. “And if you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

“Thank you so much," George said, casting his glance up the stairs and then turning back towards his old friends. "If you’ll forgive me, when you came I was about to head to bed. I don’t like to leave Maggie alone for too long.” 

“Absolutely,” Emily said knowingly, hugging George once again. Then the two turned and walked back down the driveway, leaving George alone on the front porch of the house he never liked in the first place. 

Taking one last pull on his favorite pipe, George looked out over his new old view. 

“I guess I don’t hate this place after all.” 

And with that, he walked back in the door and headed up to bed.