LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Well, it’s not flat and it’s not mansard, so I guess it’s got to be pitch,” George offers. “It’s pretty steep.”

      Mr. Raymond smiles again. “Steep it is then. What means of access?”

      “To the attic? We plan to put in a scuttle.”

      “Scuttle,” Mr. Raymond says as he writes. His finger traces through the remaining questions, some of which contain words or phrases unfamiliar to Emma: what is an oriel? He draws a wavy line down through all of them, with the exception of, “What is the estimated cost of the proposed improvement?”

      He looks up at her as he asks, and she realizes that she does not know the number that George and Charley have settled on. “Two thousand dollars,” George says, and Emma coughs in order to cover up a small gasp. She isn’t sure what number she has been thinking of, but it is not that.

      Mr. Raymond scans the form one last time as he straightens up from the drafting table. Apparently everything is in order. He looks at Emma again. “That will be two dollars for the application.”

      Emma feels herself flush hot in a wave of panic. She hasn’t thought to ask about a fee—why hasn’t anyone mentioned it before?—and she knows she does not have that much money with her. She is so mortified that she almost doesn’t see that George is already pulling the bills from his money clip to give to Mr. Raymond. “Thank you. Now, Miss Miller, I just need you to sign here on this line.” He dips the pen, taps it against the neck of the inkwell, and hands it to her. Her hand is shaking, but she manages not to smudge the ink as she signs. He takes the pen from her and dips it again. “And Mr. Dove, here,” he indicates. Then he blots the signatures, holds up the application to look at it one last time, and says, “If you wait here, I’ll be back shortly.”

      “I don’t have time!” Emma cries out before she can stop herself. On top of her surprise at the cost of the house, and the embarrassment about the application fee, Emma has been watching the wall clock with increasing apprehension. She can’t count on Mr. Warner’s goodwill extending into the afternoon; she needs to get back to work.

      “Mr. Raymond, you don’t need Miss Miller to sign any other forms, do you? I can wait for the permit myself.” Mr. Raymond nods, and Emma breathes, “Thank you,” quietly to George. She bids goodbye to Mr. Raymond and slips out the door, forcing herself to slow her steps as she walks back to the office. By the time she reaches the entrance, her composure is restored. She tidies her hair a bit, walks the two flights upstairs, and slips back into her chair.

      By that evening, the episode has lost its sting to the point that she is able to make light of it during dinner with Mary and Charley, and again when George comes by the house. “When Mr. Raymond asked for the two dollars, I feared for a moment that I might faint.”

      “You did turn a bit pale there, Miss Emma. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you that I pay the application fee. But this might make up for it.” With a flourish, he produces an envelope and hands it directly to Emma. She opens it and shares it with Charley as they take it in together.

      No. 2357­

      PERMIT TO BUILD

      ---

      DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

      OFFICE OF INSPECTOR OF BUILDINGS

      Washington, May 15 189 3

      This is to Certify, That Emma L. Miller

      has permission to erect one 2 story brick building on lot 8

      Blk 22 Brightwood Park, Cor 8th & Flint in accordance

      with application No. 2357 on file in this office, and subject to the provisions of the Building Regulations of the District.

      She and Charley continue to admire the document long after they have finished reading it. In his happiness, he reaches over and squeezes her hand, and she responds with a smile. Charley folds the paper back up to look at the outside. The back of the document indicates that this permit had been recorded in the County Building Book, No. 13, Page 209. He flips it over to the front, and both he and Emma notice simultaneously. She gasps and Charley holds the document out to George. “This says the permit was granted on the eleventh. Today’s the fifteenth.”

      George looks at it, surprised, and then lets out a good-natured laugh. “Well, whoever said that Government clerks aren’t efficient? Here they approved the permit before they even got the application!”

      cd

      A hawk circling high overhead—in this region, almost certainly a red-tailed or red-shouldered hawk—wheeling effortlessly in the warm updrafts above the open farmland of Washington County, might notice, among the irregular and haphazard plots of cultivated farmland and uncultivated fields, a tiny grid superimposed on the land, an unnatural series of sharply defined squares stamped into the countryside. If such a hawk were to circle in for a closer look, it would soon resolve that the grid is formed by roads, to the extent that raw graded strips of land can be called such, that start and end abruptly for no reason that its hawk eye can discern, since, after all, man-made boundary lines are visible only on maps, not stitched into the countryside. Its curiosity piqued, it winds closer and closer to earth, until it glides past a sign that clearly states, “Welcome to Brightwood Park.” Accepting the invitation, it selects one of the few trees in the grid to survive both farmers and land developers, settles in, and takes a look around. It considers that the food supply might be good here, since the land inside the streets still houses undergrowth of tangled brush, evidence of farmland that has lain uncultivated for some years. Finally, the hawk notices activity in one tiny section: hacking, chopping, a dragging out of vines and brambles. There’s no need to hear it to know that under it all is the manic skittering of tiny, clawed feet, their owners shocked to be revealed in an instant naked to the world, and now scrambling for cover. Eons of instinct cause those red shoulders to contract automatically in preparation for flight, as an electrical pulse sends the signal: Dinnertime.

      cd

      Once the land deed is recorded and the building contract signed, Charley wastes no time. He and George have negotiated the price of the house based on the understanding that Charley is to contribute a significant amount of sweat equity to the project. It’s also agreed that, if necessary, the house on Flint Street will take a back seat to George’s other projects. The work will take longer, but the cost savings are worth it.

      Evenings after work, when it’s dry, Charley is out at the property. Every weekend, he has teams of helpers with him, at first clearing, then grading. Some of Charley’s brothers come in from here and there, along with Joe and the other fellows from Mrs. G’s boarding house, even Mrs. G herself, armed with tea, lemonade, and lunch. Emma does not hang back, but ties up her hair in a handkerchief, pulls on the leather gloves that Charley has given her, and sets to ripping out the vines that overrun the property. Mary Miller finally consents to come up on the cars once or twice to watch the proceedings—one of the boys produces a camp chair for her—though she grouses that she has no idea why they want to live all the way out here in the country. The shared labor establishes a fine camaraderie, and Charley watches as Emma laughs along with the others at the jokes and hijinks, and even joins in occasionally. When his little brother Billy shows off by balancing at the top of a huge brush pile, but slips and tumbles all the way down until he lands on his feet and cries out, “Ta dah!” as though he planned the whole thing, she laughs until tears roll down her sun-reddened cheeks.

      Wagons pulled by massive draft horses trundle up to the lot to haul away the heaps of refuse, but it doesn’t take long to open up the property enough to see it clearly. It is everything that Charley has hoped for: a few mature trees to keep the house and yard from baking in the sun, but good exposure for the garden plots, which he is already designing in his head. Most of the property is flat, but it slopes gently away from the spot where the house is to be sited; that will keep rainwater from seeping into the cellar.

      It is that cellar that causes Charley some worry, since it has to be hand-dug; he needs the weather to be dry enough to keep the hole from becoming a mud pit, but not so dry as to become sun-cooked and impervious to

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