Cicada Summer Read online

  I sighed and opened my palms, releasing the insect back into the air. She was so different than I was as a child. In my childhood backyard, I loved lifting up all the flagstones and rocks to uncover wiggling insects, and I was always hanging from tree branches or exploring corners of the yard for buried treasure. I wasn’t ever sure if I should encourage her to be more like me or if I should just go with what came naturally to her.

  “Just wait. In a few weeks, the cicadas will be here.”

  Her eyes grew wide and she slowly shook her head. “I’m going to stay inside until they’re gone.”

  I laughed. The insects woke every seventeen years, crawling out of the ground and covering the yard with their black bodies and orange eyes for six long weeks. I was seventeen the last summer they arrived, and I remembered that the noise from their humming and buzzing was almost deafening, blanketing the neighborhood in a loud white noise for weeks. Even a short trek outside to the mailbox turned into a battle as I had to swat them away again and again to stop them from landing all over my clothes. I couldn’t imagine how Abby was going to react.

  As I tucked her into bed that night, in her tiny room in our two-bedroom house, I kissed her forehead. Her breathing was already slowing as sleep began to cover her with a veil.

  “I love you,” I whispered into the darkness. I leaned closer and said, “I have a feeling about this one, Ab. This house is something special.”

  I closed the door to her room and tried to sleep until the birds outside my window began to chirp at 3 a.m., as though they couldn’t wait any longer for me to work on the house.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I think this is the one. You were right about that.” My contractor, Eddie, stood up from where he had lain on the ground outside the house. He dusted his muddy hands off on his jeans and glanced back at the cracked foundation, shaking his head.

  “Meaning?” I said as I swatted away a bee. The outside of the house teemed with crawling creatures, the result of years’ worth of overgrown rosebushes and hydrangeas that seemed determined to sprawl over every patch of unused grass, like they were mounting an offense.

  “Meaning your foundation is shot. Not just shot, but crumbling away. Water damage, looks like.” He motioned for me to crouch down and stuck his index finger right through the brick. “It’s like whipped cream.” He held it up in the air, the shortened stub of his ring finger framing the watered-down concrete. He’d lost half the finger in a tile saw accident years ago, a form of dues-paying to the construction gods.

  “I figured as much when I bought it,” I said. Many of the houses sold at auction had something structurally wrong with them, usually why they went for such cheap prices. The average person who buys a house is thinking more in terms of paint, carpeting, and maybe a kitchen remodel, not floor joists, support beams, and sinking foundations.

  “Did you know that the rot goes all the way into the basement? And into the footings?” he said. He shook his head, his dreadlocked brown hair whipping against his face. Adjusting his bandanna, he gave me a serious look. “Worst I’ve seen. And you know what I’ve seen.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  “I wish,” he said and shook his head again.

  I rubbed my forehead as I peered through the hole from his finger, straight into the basement. “So, what do you think we’re talking about here?” My voice wavered and he glanced at me in surprise.

  He took a few steps back, staring up at the stucco that peeled away from the frame like a bad sunburn. It begged for someone to bump against it so it could finally sigh and release dust that had been trapped for over a hundred years.

  “Need to pour new footings, at least,” he said.

  “That isn’t so bad. We’ve done that in almost every house,” I said. We had worked together on five projects over the past four years. We poured concrete, stripped floors, and repaired windows side by side through divorce (mine), and the sleepless nights that come with having a newborn (his—Mia). Eddie had moved to the area five years ago from Milwaukee and, in addition to helping me with my projects, helped the summer residents keep up their vacation homes during the off-season. We met at the hardware store, of all places, in the pest control aisle. Fitting, since we would spend the next few years battling all sorts of different creatures in the houses.

  “In the basement. We’d have to pour new footings in the basement, and even then I don’t know if the house could withstand the necessary repairs and load-bearing to get it actually, you know, not condemned,” he said.

  “How in the hell would we get the concrete in the basement to . . .” I trailed off as he made a lifting motion to the foundation. “No. We can’t.” I took a step back and held my hands up.

  “It’s your only choice. You’d have to lift the whole foundation, and house, pour new footings, and leave it up there while they dry for a week or so,” he said. “And then put it back down.” He looked up and gave the hole another glance. “Assuming there will be anything left to put back.”

  I felt sweat start to trickle down my back. “And this is our only option?”

  “Looks that way. Pour a whole new basement or . . .” He shrugged.

  I managed a half smile. “Of course, this is the part when you tell me that you have a connection, and will find someone to do it for a couple thousand bucks?”

  He laughed, showing the gold cap on his molar. “Not this time, boss.” He held up a hand. “Five figures, easy.”

  I buried my face in my hands and took a deep breath. “I’m screwed. Why did I think I could take on an old house? Was this a huge mistake?”

  “Nah. She’s got good bones. We’ll fix her up and make her so pretty that someone will pay top dollar,” he said.

  I slowly removed my hands and looked up at the house, allowing the first few feelings of anticipation to return. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I don’t have any other option right now. So let’s lift the damn house up and fix it.”

  Eddie put his hands on his hips. “You got it, boss.”

  We walked inside, and a cloud of dust swirled thickly around us, spinning at the introduction of fresh air. I surveyed the piles of garbage in the living room—traces from whoever had lived there before—blankets, lumber, plates, a broken chair, books that were ripped in half. And cigarettes. Millions and millions of cigarette butts, some crushed into the wood floors, like the previous owners couldn’t have been bothered to find an ashtray. The remnants of smoke caked the walls and left a film on every surface that we would have to eventually scrub off.

  I stepped over about twenty crushed cans of Diet Coke (also likely filled with cigarette butts) as I made my way to the kitchen. It, unlike other parts of the house, had been renovated. Not well, and not for about thirty years, unfortunately. When the house was built, it likely had open wood shelving and a large, deep porcelain sink. Now it had cracked Formica countertops, wood veneer cabinets straight out of 1975, and broken ceramic tiles glued to the floor. All of it would have to go, and I would take particular pride in hauling out all the cheap material.

  I surveyed the garbage on the floor of the kitchen—red Solo cups, dirty silverware, and pizza boxes—and shook my head. I had estimated that we would need two Dumpsters to clear out the house, but it likely would be many, many more.

  Eddie handed me a shovel and we began to move the mess toward the front door so it could be tossed into the Dumpster later that afternoon. We didn’t get three shovels full before the stench of a dead animal hit us at the same time.

  “Ah, there it is. I was wondering how long it would take.” Eddie moved the bandanna off his forehead and over his mouth and nose.

  “Ten seconds. Has to be a new record,” I said. The next shovel full came up with the offending odor—a flattened rat. “One of how many.” I walked it outside and pitched it onto the lawn. When I returned, Eddie had cleared away a small path that was littered with more flattened rodents.

  “Family reunion?” he said.


  “Rodent apocalypse,” I muttered as we began to scoop them up.

  “I think this house wins the award for Most Disgusting Property Ever Purchased. I bet these rats killed themselves rather than stay here another night,” Eddie said as he tried to pry one of the rats off the wood floor. He threw a shoulder into the shovel and finally the thing peeled off the floor in one piece.

  I took a quick step backward over a pile of torn T-shirts and put my hand on the wood around the arched doorway. “Yes, but wait, there’s more,” I said in my best infomercial voice. I slowly pulled out a beautifully carved oak pocket door that separated the living room from the dining room. “It has a pocket door. That has to count for something, right?” Many older homes had pocket doors, and I was hoping mine would, too. They were used in the time before air-conditioning and reliable indoor heating to keep the heat from the kitchen out of the parlor during the summer and the warmth of the fire in the room during the winter.

  Eddie grunted in reply, clearly not as impressed as me. I ran a hand along the beautifully preserved wood, kept so by the protection of the plaster door pocket. It hadn’t been caked in years of cigarette smoke, or painted a faded cream like a lot of the other wood trim in the house. I tried to push it back into the pocket, but it slowed down and the metal hinges began to screech.

  “Oops. Looks like we can add pocket door repair to the list,” I said.

  “You know, boss, look at it this way—you’ve always talked about how saving houses is your mission. If you can bring this one back to life, I think you can officially retire,” he said.

  “Never,” I said. “If I can do this—if I can renovate this disaster—it’s just the beginning.”

  “Just the beginning?” he said as he leaned on his shovel and surveyed the pile of dead animals. “Right now, that sounds more like a threat than a promise.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I heard my cousin Traci before I saw her as I waited at the bar at Chuck’s Lakeshore Tavern. Abby was back at Matt’s, and I was left with an empty house again. Most nights when she was gone, I opted to leave the house rather than ruminate in her absence. Evenings were supposed to be spent with chaos and children, not silence and Lean Cuisines.

  “Alex! Where the hell are you?” Traci shouted over the crowded bar, garnering more than a few looks of annoyance as people jumped aside as she barreled past them. Her diminutive figure finally appeared, and I waved her over. She threw herself into the bar stool that I had saved minus threats to life and limb, and sighed. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Thanks for coming all the way out here after work.” I swirled a bottle of Spotted Cow beer as Traci signaled to the bartender and ordered their specialty—a Bloody Mary served with a pony can of Miller Lite on the side.

  “No problem. It’s not exactly a cross-country trip.” Although she grew up in Geneva Lake, Traci had moved away after high school graduation. She lived twenty minutes away, in Richmond, Illinois, just across the state line. She took a long pull of her drink as soon as the bartender set it down, and half of it disappeared. She glanced around Chuck’s. “Every time I come in here, it’s like a time warp. I don’t think it’s changed in . . . ever.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Nope. Same beer. Same burgers. Same bartenders.” I nodded at Tim, who lifted an eyebrow in recognition. That was the extent of the positive expression he gave out. The negative was usually reserved for the hotel visitors who wandered over from the nearby Abbey Resort excited to see a “real” Wisconsin bar and gorge on cheese curds. Chuck’s wasn’t in town proper; rather, it was across the lake in the town of Fontana, making it more of a locals’ bar than a tourist attraction.

  “Same great view. Man, I do miss living here,” Traci said as she gazed over her shoulder out the big picture windows that lined the front of the bar. Arguably Chuck’s best asset—Lord knows the sad pinball machine didn’t keep us coming—the lake sparkled amidst the bobbing boats tethered to whitewashed piers in between white and orange buoys. To the left, I could faintly see the bend in the shoreline for the town of Williams Bay, and straight ahead was the downtown area.

  “That’s your own fault for moving away,” I said. “So, how’s work?” I said. Traci worked as a secretary for a high school in Richmond. She often said that a little-known secret was that it wasn’t the principal who ran the school, but the secretaries and maintenance workers. If someone wanted something—anything—done, they had to go through one of those two groups.

  She shrugged. “Fine. I spent part of today dealing with a teacher’s soon-to-be ex-wife stalking him to gather dirt for a divorce. She keeps showing up at the office and delivering things like doughnuts and coffee. Probably poisoned.” She toyed with the olive on a toothpick in her drink.

  “Not all of us are crazy,” I said with a rueful smile. Most days, anyway, I added silently.

  She waved her drink around, sloshing red liquid out the sides and onto the dark wood bar. “You, my dear, had a right to be crazy. He deserved to be punished for what he did. But for some reason, you chose sanity and maturity. Seems like a missed opportunity to me.”

  “Yes, well, I had Abby. I couldn’t afford to go off the rails and burn his clothes on the front yard,” I said. I didn’t add that while I might outwardly project some form of normalcy, it was tempered by nights of tears, loneliness, and heartbreak. It was only because those nights purged me of the memories of what I had lost that I could maintain an emotional equilibrium.

  “Well, just know if you ever want him to ‘go away,’ I’m sure I could find some guys who would be happy to help you with that.” She winked and threw back the rest of her drink.

  “Oh, don’t tempt me,” I said with a laugh. “Divorce is weird. It’s like the death of something, even though at times it would be easier if the other person had died. There would be a reason for all the sadness and then you would move on. With divorce, it never ends. Or at least it feels that way. You never stop . . .” I shook my head before I could add “missing the other person.”

  She nodded sympathetically and exhaled, turning toward me on her bar stool. “So, the new house. A total money pit?”

  “Remains to be seen. I finally have the first floor cleared of everything, and now we’re about to start work upstairs. A roofer came out today and said the roof, thankfully, looks okay and just needs a few shingles replaced. So, nothing serious. But I did get the quote to stabilize the foundation and pour the footings in the basement.”

  “And?”

  I laughed into my beer bottle as I took a long sip. “You don’t want to know.” I opened my purse and pulled out two small red lava rocks that I had found in the backyard. “Here. I thought Chris would like these.”

  She smiled. “He will. Thanks.” She carefully put them in her purse. Her seventeen-year-old son, Chris, had Asperger’s syndrome. He lived at home and worked as a bagger at the grocery store. His passion was collecting rocks, small treasures that he displayed proudly in his room like trophies.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for any more. Lots more stuff to uncover at that house. Hopefully no more dead rats, though,” I muttered.

  She shook her head as another drink was placed in front of her. “You and your old house fantasy. Why couldn’t you find something that’s just kind of messed up, like usual? Like a nice ranch from the sixties, or a split level from the seventies? Those always have tons of problems for you to solve that don’t require lifting the whole damn thing in the air. You always fix up and sell those to nice couples who are looking to start a family, no problem.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I said quickly. “Anyone can do that. Besides, you know that I’ve always been obsessed with old houses. I’ve wanted to fix one up since I started down this road. My dad always said that there wasn’t anything, or any house, that couldn’t be saved.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Then you didn’t have to ask the question, right?”

/>   “You’re impossible,” she said.

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that. Just ask any contractor within a fifteen-mile radius,” I said as I pulled my hair into a ponytail.

  “Speaking of repelling men, when are you going to let me set you up with someone? There’s a new teacher at my school who—”

  I cut her off quickly as I tightened the hair at the back of my head. “Nope. Not interested.”

  She slapped the bar and turned to face me. “It’s been four years. You’ve got to get out there and date someone. Please. Anyone.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Any one? Like a convicted felon or a serial killer?”

  “Funny. No, I’m serious. It’s time. And this teacher is really great. I think you two would get along. He’s cute, smart, and likely not a serial killer or convicted felon,” she said.

  “As great of a sales pitch as that is—likely not a murderer—don’t bother. I have too much going on with Abby and the new house,” I said. In addition, the thought of going on dates and explaining my life history—and divorce journey—sounded like just about the worst thing I could imagine.

  “Just do this as a favor to me. Like a gift,” she said.

  “No, thanks. Unwanted gift, like the stray cat that used to leave dead birds on the doorstep,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Did you just compare a cute guy to a dead bird? All that plaster and asbestos have really done a number on your brain.”

  “Probably. I repeat—talk to any contractor in a fifteen-mile radius.”

  She slapped her hand on the bar. “Well, fine. You can spend lonely nights at your newest dump—I mean, diamond in the rough—” she added when I quickly opened my mouth, “but what are you going to do when it’s complete? Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to take you out to dinner, share a bottle of wine with, and talk to about something other than paint strippers?”

  I shrugged. “In theory. But the answer is still no. I need to focus on the house.”