The Hole in the Floor - Part II
In Part I, we meet Paul, a therapist stretched thin, his home slowly falling apart. When a massive hole opens in his kitchen floor and swallows his refrigerator, he comes up with a creative and ethically dubious solution—he enlists his client Michael, whose therapy has been mandated as part of his probation, to do the work for cheap.
Paul had set up a playdate for Dana on that coming Sunday morning, so he could have some time at the house alone with Michael. He wanted them to work without distraction, but more than that, he didn’t want Michael seeing Dana. One of the things he cherished most about being a therapist was the ability to help others without them getting to know him. No clients knew he was single—he never removed his wedding ring—and none knew that he had a daughter. It would be impossible to keep that fact from Michael, what with all of Dana’s stuff in the house, but he could at least keep him from seeing her. And, perhaps more importantly, if Dana saw him here with Michael, even though she wouldn’t know him from Adam, the shame of what they were doing would probably be enough to get him to bail on the whole thing. He couldn’t have that.
Paul was standing at his front door when he heard a roaring engine come up the street. Seated behind the wheel of a van, wearing a thick black-and-red checkered flannel and a black wool hat, was Michael. He pulled up to the house and got out of the cab, carrying a toolbox. Paul thought to offer him a handshake in welcome once he made his way up the front steps, but the deceptive nature of their enterprise made that feel inappropriate.
“Thanks for coming. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Sure,” Michael said.
Paul led Michael into the foyer, where he hung up his coat—Paul had mounted the hook back up—and then the kitchen, which, thanks to the collapsed floor, had a brisk chill to it. The hole itself was half a dozen feet in diameter, but the planks of wood around it sagged into it, which gave the impression that it was larger than it actually was.
“What have you been doing since it fell through?” Michael asked, after making his way to the edge of the hole.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you been staying here?”
“I don't have any family nearby, so—”
“So you’ve been staying here?”
Paul waited a moment before admitting, “Yes."
“It isn’t safe.”
“I know.”
A rush of shame came over Paul. He was supposed to be the responsible one—the therapist—but here he was, living in a house with a giant hole in it.
“I’m going to need to take a look around before I have an idea of what will have to be done,” Michael said. “I don’t know how big of a project this will be.”
“It doesn’t need to be a full renovation,” Paul said. “My bonus is coming in a few months, so I can do the renovation then.”
Michael studied the hole. The wood, warped and splintered, was still in a pile where it had fallen in the basement. Thankfully, the fridge hadn’t broken in the fall; Paul set it up down there once he’d manage to right it.
“I can lay down some wood that would cover the hole, but even then, I wouldn’t recommend walking on it. The rest of the wood in here,” Michael bounced lightly on his toes, “is liable to fall through anytime, too.”
“Laying down some wood would be fine.”
“And then you’ll fix all of it?”
“Swear on it.”
“In that case,” Michael put his hands on his hips, surveying the room, “let me grab my tools and see what we’re working with.”
*****
During the half hour Michael spent working on the hole, Paul was filled with angst. He hadn’t become a therapist to use someone like this. Michael had trusted him with thoughts and feelings about his ex, his son, and now Paul was looking over him as he steadily tore out broken slabs of wood in his kitchen. It was a simple quid pro quo, but it was wrong.
By the time Michael had finished his initial examination, Paul only had a half hour before he had to pick up Dana from her playdate. It was a fine excuse—he was ready to put a pause on this, anyway.
“I have to head out in a minute, so we’ll have to continue later,” Paul said. “You can leave all your stuff here in the meantime.”
Placing his gear down, Michael said, “We haven’t even started.”
“I thought today was just about seeing what we could do to fix things. To get a plan.”
“I got more time. You can leave me a set of keys and I could lock up after—”
“No,” Paul said, trying not to sound too fearful, too adamant. “That won’t work. I only have the one set.”
“Really?”
Paul nodded, even though it was a lie. “Could you come here tomorrow morning, though?”
“Okay.”
That meant Paul would have to take the morning off, but he was fine with that. The sooner Michael started getting to work, the better.
Paul led Michael towards the front door. As Michael grabbed his coat from the foyer, he looked down and noticed a pair of Dana’s shoes, pink and white cleats she’d used for soccer this past fall.
“You have a girl?” he said, pointing to the shoes.
“Those?” Paul said, thrown. He’d gone this long without Michael noticing any of Dana’s things that he’d practically forgotten about his concern of him noticing her presence. “Yeah, those are my daughter’s.”
Michael looked at Paul confused, like he’d been lied to.
“You didn’t tell me you had a daughter.”
“Well,” Paul said, “being your therapist, it’s not really my place to talk about myself.”
“I told you about my son, though.”
“It would’ve helped to know I had a kid, too?”
“Maybe. How old is she?”
“Seven.”
“Just like my Anthony,” Michael said, smiling to himself—a rare hint of warmth.
Paul forced a smile in return. “That’s right.”
“Maybe I’ll see her around.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, opening the front door. “Maybe.”
To be continued…
Benjamin Selesnick is a psychotherapist in New Jersey. His writing has appeared in Barely South Review, Lunch Ticket, Split Lip Magazine, The Tel Aviv Review of Books, and other publications. He holds an MFA in fiction from Rutgers University-Newark, and he writes book reviews for the Jewish Book Council and Cleaver Magazine.
Read more of his work here.