Nightflower Candor

“Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Costello,” the realtor said. The white-and-blue house was the envy of the neighborhood. The realtor ushered us through the red door before we could take a careful look at the garden. There would be time after the tour.

            “I look forward to showing you this house, Mr. and Mrs. Costello.”

            “Wonderful,” I said and motioned for the realtor to begin the tour. The realtor’s smile was frozen in place as they turned and opened the door. We would finally rid ourselves of that cramped apartment just in time for the baby. I smiled at my wife.

            “As you step inside,” the realtor said, “you’ll immediately notice the grandeur of this open-concept design where natural light floods the space, accentuating the pristine white oak floors. Now, let’s talk about the heart of the home—the kitchen, this gorgeous, gorgeous kitchen. Top-of-the-line appliances, custom Italian cabinetry, soapstone countertops, plus the butler’s pantry—ideal for hosting dinner parties.”

            “The price…” my wife said. “There must be a mistake.”

            “No, Mrs. Costello. Isn’t it a wonderful price? Especially considering the breathtaking living room and magnificent coffered ceiling. You’ll be captivated by the panoramic views of the lush garden and can we talk about the fireplace? I’d love to talk about the fireplace. Recently renovated by Pierre Mason and Company, it’s the centerpiece of the home with its stunning limestone mantel. Pierre is the winner of second-best stoneworker in the county for three years running, but if you ask me, he is number one!”

            “When did it go on the market?” I asked.

            “Just now, Mr. Costello.”

            “How many other buyers?”

            “None yet, Mr. Costello. The seller will likely take the first offer at asking price. I don’t wish to pressure you, but this kind of opportunity does not come around often.”

            “That asking price?”

            “Yes, Mr. Costello.”

            “We must be dreaming,” I said to my wife.

            “Let’s see the rest of the house,” my wife said. The realtor walked us into several more ornate rooms and we inspected the house in silence. We opened cabinets and peered into every corner. The craftsmanship was even more impressive up close. Everything seemed perfect. We looked at each other. And the price.

            “And here, Mr. and Mrs. Costello,” the realtor said, “is the master bedroom, and not just a master bedroom, but a novel experience of unparalleled elegance and comfort. An oasis for dreams and other things we shouldn’t speak about in front of children.”

            “We’re ready to sign,” I said, rolling up my sleeves as if to prove it.

            “There are no children,” my wife said.

            “No children, Mrs. Costello?”

            “There are no children here.”

            “No,” the realtor said. “There are not.”

            “Sign?” I said to break the tension. “We were going to sign…”

            “What is that?” my wife asked, pointing at the floor just under the bed. A dark red stain on the hardwood near the wall. We looked at each other.

            “White oak was used to accentuate the—”

            “The stain! What is that stain…”

            “That is blood, Mrs. Costello.”

            “Blood?” my wife said. “Why is there blood in the master bedroom?”

            “The sellers had a young boy and one day he snuck into this stunning, custom master bedroom and tried climbing a bookshelf.”

            We waited. The realtor sighed.

            “The shelf was not fastened to the wall.”

            “Why wouldn’t you clean it up?” I asked.

            “The blood may not be removed.” The realtor reached behind their back and produced a stack of documents. “It’s stated here in the purchase agreement.”

            “That’s insane!” my wife said. “You’re fucking insane.”

            “No,” the realtor said. “It’s disclosed. Now, would you like to look over the agreement, or no? I have other clients.”

            My wife snatched the paperwork and tossed it across the room. The realtor collected it from the floor and smoothed out each page with a thumb.

            “We should at least—” I began, but my wife’s gaze seized my tongue. My eyes lingered on the paperwork tucked beneath their arm.

            The price.

            My wife held her belly.

            “I can’t live here.”

            “This might be our only chance to own a home,” I said and placed my hand on her belly. “A home for our bean.”

            “No.”

            “Then I will show you the way out,” the realtor said flatly.

            “Please,” my wife replied, tugging my arm to follow. That price.

            “Here,” the realtor said, “you will find natural light beaming from the expansive windows as you exit and never return. Good day. Good life.”

            The mulch was thin and washing away.

            Another young couple, wide-eyed and hopeful, passed us on our way out. They giggled about the asking price and looked at us like we had just walked away from paradise. That price. I held the door open and smiled.

            “Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Costello.”