Grandpa's New Hole: Chapter Two
- Hamlin
- Apr 13
- 6 min read
Updated: Jul 12
The narrow kitchen was a sliver of morning light, the frosted window above the sink scattering gold across the chipped countertops. Janey stood there, her bare feet planted firm on the hardwood, a soft cloth in her hand as she traced the edges of a row of picture frames. Dust lifted in faint clouds, catching the sun, and she moved with a brisk precision—swipe, fold, swipe again—like she could scrub away the restlessness itching under her skin. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and old wood, a sharp tang that mingled with the faint tobacco scent clinging to everything in Al’s house. She reached for the broom next, its bristles whispering against the floor in rhythmic swishes, her body swaying slightly with each stroke.
Al appeared in the doorway, his broad frame cutting through the light like a shadow with weight. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders, and his gray eyes flicked over her work with a quiet appraisal.
“Kept a squad in line once, back in ’72,” he said, his voice low and steady, pulling her attention like a leash. “Middle of a storm in Germany—wind howling, tents flapping like they’d rip apart. Had to tie the damn things down myself while the boys scrambled.” He stepped forward, reaching for a framed medal on the shelf—a tarnished star pinned to faded ribbon—and adjusted it with a careful twist, his thick fingers deliberate.
Janey paused, the broom still in her grip, and tilted her head slightly, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder.
“Sounds intense,” she said, her voice soft but eager, a thread of admiration woven through it.
She nodded, soaking in his words, then turned back to the counter, dragging the cloth over its surface in slow, deliberate arcs. Her fingers pressed harder than they needed to, the motion grounding her as his story sank in—his authority, his control, the way he owned every moment he described. She pictured him in that storm, barking orders, his big hands wrestling canvas into submission, and a shiver ran down her spine, quick and unbidden.
He grunted, a sound that could’ve been agreement or dismissal, and she stole a glance at him. His jaw was set, his posture relaxed but unyielding, like a man who’d never known uncertainty.
“Discipline kept us alive,” he added, his tone flat but heavy, and he gave the medal one last nudge before stepping back. His boots thudded softly on the floor, a slow retreat toward the corridor, and Janey’s eyes followed him—past the sink, past the row of frames, to the metal-reinforced door at the end. He paused there, his hand brushing the handle, and shot her a look—sharp, warning, the same one from yesterday. “Keep up the good work,” he said, then disappeared through the doorway, the faint creak of stairs swallowed by silence.
The kitchen went still, the swish of her mop the only sound left. She leaned into it, the damp strands slapping the floor in a steady beat, her breath syncing with the rhythm. The door lingered in her mind, cold and closed, a puzzle she wasn’t supposed to solve. But it pulled at her, a tug deep in her gut, and she mopped harder, like she could scrub it out of her thoughts. The light shifted, the sun climbing higher, and she worked until the floor gleamed, her reflection a faint blur in the shine. Alone now, she stood there, the mop handle warm in her hands, and wondered what he did down there—what secrets lived behind that steel.
The afternoon sun pressed through the cramped living room, its heat pooling on the cluttered table where Janey sat. A laptop glowed beside a stack of scattered envelopes, their edges curling in the humidity. She clicked through her inbox, each new message a fresh sting—“Thank you for your interest,” “We regret to inform you,” “Position filled.”
Her fingers tapped the table in a controlled rhythm, a staccato beat that matched the tightening in her chest. She’d printed the rejections too, a neat pile of failures she set aside with care, like they were worth keeping. Another email loaded, and she read it aloud, her voice low and clipped: “We regret to inform you…” Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a split second, and she ran a hand over her hair, damp with sweat from the morning’s work.
The screen blurred as she stared, her brow furrowing deep, lines carving into her smooth skin. Her lips trembled, mouthing the words again—“We regret…”—like they’d stick if she said them enough. She leaned back, the chair creaking under her, and let her hand fall to her lap, fingers brushing the hem of her tank top. The room was too small, the walls too close, and the weight of nothing-to-do pressed down on her. She’d come here for a fresh start, but every “no” felt like a door slamming shut, louder than the one she wasn’t allowed to open.
A faint thud echoed from the corridor—Al, moving toward the basement again. She didn’t turn, didn’t need to. The sound was familiar now, a ritual she couldn’t place: boots on carpet, the soft groan of hinges, then nothing. Her eyes stayed on the screen, but her ears strained, catching the distant click of the door closing behind him. It was the third time today, and each one gnawed at her a little more. What was he doing down there? Tools, he’d said. Unsafe. But the word felt hollow, a lie she couldn’t call out.
She pushed the laptop aside, the pile of envelopes tipping slightly, and stood, stretching until her spine popped. The sun slanted through the window, gilding the dust motes that danced in her wake, and she paced the tight space—three steps to the couch, three back. Her fingers twitched, restless, and she glanced toward the corridor. The basement door was out of sight, but she felt it anyway, a cold pulse in the house’s warm belly. She shook her head, muttering, “Focus, Janey,” and sat back down, forcing her eyes to the screen. Another rejection stared back, and she sighed, the sound sharp and bitter. The afternoon stretched ahead, empty except for the faint pull of that locked-off world below.
Dusk settled over the house like a heavy blanket, the light fading to a bruised purple beyond the windows. Janey moved down the narrow corridor, a stack of job applications clutched tight in her hands—her last batch, printed and ready to mail, a desperate bid against the day’s failures. Her sandals scuffed the worn carpet, a soft shuffle that stopped dead at the foot of the wooden staircase leading down. The basement door was there, slightly ajar, a thin beam of light spilling out from beneath it, sharp and yellow against the dimness. She froze, her breath catching as a faint, rhythmic thump drifted up—steady, deliberate, like a heartbeat in the earth.
Her ears sharpened, picking out more: low murmurs, too soft to decipher, and the occasional clank—metal on metal, quick and jarring. Her eyes darted to the door, the gap taunting her, daring her to look closer. She shifted the papers to one arm, her free hand hovering in the air, trembling slightly. The sounds twisted together—thump, murmur, clank—and her foot tapped the floor in a subtle echo, an unconscious mimicry. Her body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and she leaned forward just an inch, straining to hear.
The murmurs grew briefly clearer—a voice, female maybe, low and raw, then gone again, swallowed by the thump. Janey’s pulse raced, her skin prickling with a mix of fear and something hotter, something she didn’t want to name. What the hell was that? Her mind spun—tools, sure, but this? Her fingers tightened on the applications, crumpling the edges, and she swallowed hard, the dry click loud in her throat. The light flickered under the door, a shadow passing through it, and she pictured Al down there—big hands, stern face, doing… what?
She stood there, rooted, the stack of papers a flimsy shield against the pull of that sound. Her foot tapped faster, a nervous tic, and she bit her lip, tasting salt from the day’s sweat. The murmurs faded, the thumps slowed, and the silence that followed was worse—heavy, expectant, like the house itself was holding its breath. She wanted to move closer, to nudge the door wider, to see. But Al’s warning rang sharp in her head—“off limits”—and it pinned her in place, a good girl caught in a bad want.
The clank came again, louder, and she flinched, her sandal scraping the floor. Enough. She turned slowly, deliberately, her back to the stairs, and walked away—each step a fight against the tug pulling her back. The corridor stretched long and dark ahead, the applications damp under her grip, and she didn’t look over her shoulder. Not once. But the sounds stayed with her, thumping in her ears, murmuring in her bones, and the mystery below burned brighter than ever. She’d ask him tomorrow. Maybe. Or maybe she’d just listen harder next time.
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