Drip, Drip, Drippety Drip

Blah, blah, blah.  She was in her home, her lovely home, but without her children to keep her occupied and feel useful. And the home was lovely. She felt bad about her malaise. She could be exercising every moment and making a killer beach body for the summer. Or writing the Great American Novel. Or learning how to draw from a YouTube video. Instead, she was moping around her mid-century contemporary home, freshly renovated, and feeling too paralyzed to do anything. 

Except eat, of course. Only 8 days into this quarantine, and she had already gained 5 pounds. My peasant ancestors would be proud of me for bulking up in uncertain times, she ruefully thought to herself.

Kitchen with its lovely new white countertops and cupboards. Dining room featuring simple but elegant crown molding. Large family room centered by a huge stone fireplace. Wide windows looking out over the state forest enveloping their yard. Living room with its extraneous baby grand piano, bought with the best of intentions, of course. And back through it all she walked, over and over again. 

There were no animals. Her new husband wouldn’t permit it. Didn’t like the idea of them messing up a business dinner at home. Her babies were at their dad’s for the next two days. And said new husband was the director of a cardiology clinic in the wealthy part of upper New York State. Even with the quarantine, he was business as usual. But she guessed people did need working hearts.

Alone, alone, lonely, blah.

The woman had been a trophy wife for all of one month when the COVID-19 epidemic hit. She was still getting used to this eerily perfect house, and the expectations of her eerily perfect life. It was a beautiful day outside. She should go outside and explore some of the outbuildings. Her husband had said she could take over one as a writing/art studio. Maybe the little one closest to the forest.

She moved to the designer mudroom - a hook for each child’s backpack and jacket at the ready, but empty today – and, dusting off her hiking boots, haphazardly dressed herself for an excursion outside where it was guaranteed she would run into no one. No neighbors for at least half a mile, woods surrounding their low-profile home, in a quiet New England mind-your-own-business town. 

Clomp, clomp, clomp. Out to the yard she walked, mindful of any sounds: the rustle of her jacket; the birds tweeting in the early spring air; the crunch of her boots on the portion of overgrown yard leading to the woods. She stopped for a moment to look around and reminisce about the time before all this. Just a month ago she was worried about every bill, wondering if her Prince Charming was really going to save her from all the wanting and none of the getting. And now here she was, and, well, it just wasn’t as good as she thought it would be. She didn’t feel as alive; she felt numb and asleep. Is that what settling felt like? Immediately, she banished the thought from her mind. Of course she hadn’t settled. He was a wonderful man, loved her and the kids. She was so very lucky to have found him.

Okay, let’s get moving and see this thing, the woman breathed. She resolutely finished her walk through the dry high grass to the door. The whole thing would need an overhaul. It was little more than a large shed, but she remembered her husband telling her it was the original home from the first inhabitants. It had electricity and running water, and she could put some love into it – redo the trim, stain the siding, install new flooring inside, and some whimsical touches like a chandelier. Then, maybe, when she found some friends, she could invite them there, and they would laugh over their shared jokes and glasses of red wine.

She had remembered to bring the key, and with some effort, unlocked and the door. Pushing hard, she made her way in, and stood for a moment with the door still open behind her. The smell was musty hay, mouse droppings, and something more. There was a sweetness; it was almost yeasty. The woman like the smell, but instinctively knew that it was unwholesome.

Tired, tired, blah blah, tired. She sat down on the dirty floor, not caring what she was sitting on or touching. It didn’t matter. Gazing off at nothing for a while, she eventually noticed a drip, drip, dripping sound coming from somewhere in the little cottage. The woman ignored it for a while, continuing to daydream about this and that, but eventually was overcome by curiosity. She got to her feet, dusting off her dirty jeans and hands, and began to nose about listening for the source of the drip.

Drip, drip, drippety drip. She peeked behind old shovels, pieces of wood scraps from long-ago projects, an unwanted antenna, old-fashioned sleds, rakes, and more miscellaneous evidence of a time when the people who lived here were industrious earthy folk.

Finally she realized the sound was coming from below, like there was a secret compartment underneath. Most likely an old root cellar.

Scraping around with her boots on the dirty floor, the woman eventually found a trapdoor. On her hands and knees, she painstakingly followed the seam all the way around until she came to a small latch indented into the floor. Using a rusty nail, she scraped out the crud around the latch, and pushed it open. Filthy by now, a gash on her finger streaked blood and dirt on her face whenever she pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. But she didn’t notice. The woman needed to know what was underneath the trap door. What was causing the drip, drip, dripping?

Using the tip of a rusty shovel, she shoved open the trap door, and pushed it with a crash to the floor. The door had a long rope that dangled down into the darkness. She could see nothing, but the drip, drip, drip was louder and had a certain density to it now. It didn’t sound like water. Not water, not water, she mused, no longer aware of her own thoughts, just a mantra running through her mind.

She had her cell phone, and took it out of her jacket pocket. There was no signal out here, but that didn’t matter. The woman only needed the flashlight. Switching it on, she kneeled and lowered it slowly into the darkness, bringing her head and hand lower and lower into the pit. 

There was nothing. Not a chair or a shelf. No tools or old cans of food. Just the earth and the drip, drip, drip. Carefully jumping down, the woman landed with a soft thud, and continued to look around, searching. Finally, there it was – the source of the sound. With a satisfied sigh, the woman switched off the flashlight, pulled on the rope, and closed the hatch.