What’s Behind Door Number Three?

Over the 269 years since the home was built, it has undergone a number of “improvements” made by the previous owners. The roof went from wood shingles to slate to asphalt shingles to metal and back to asphalt shingles. Additions, including bathrooms and a laundry room, expanded the square footage. Appliances were installed, then replaced with more energy-efficient versions.

The plumbing, electric, insulation, doors and windows were constantly upgraded so the house met whatever the current (and later obsolete) code was at the time. Renovations were done in the name of comfort. The individuals paying the mortgage felt obligated to add personalized touches which, over the decades, slowly masked the original character of the house.

The final iteration ended with the home subdivided into a studio apartment occupying the upstairs and an efficiency in the basement. The main floor was now a common area shared by both tenants. There are rumblings that once the leases are up, the structure will be converted back into a single-family dwelling in an attempt to return it to its former glory and then listed as an Airbnb.

The charm the dwelling showcased when Ray Hewitt first built it for his growing family has dissipated as only a few of the original components are still intact. Undoubtedly, if Ray, his first wife and kids could see the home now, they wouldn’t recognize it.

So, I find myself, with the help of my brother, lugging a king-sized mattress up a flight of narrow steps while she follows with a box of linens. It’s moving day with my girlfriend. As we sweat and struggle with the bedding, I wonder if the Stearns and Foster will bend enough to make the turn to the left when we reach the top of the stairs. Her old apartment had wider halls and staircases. I rented on a first floor and didn’t have to worry about such logistics.

After almost a year, she decided we should “take our relationship to the next level” and live together. So far, it’s been a good union. We have a fair amount in common and for the most part can agree to disagree on the topics which cause friction. I guess we’ve both changed, matured if you will. Maybe me more than her but that’s because girls adapt and grow up quicker than guys.

Once all the labeled totes were staged in their designated rooms and my brother left, the process of unboxing began. I had sold my duplicates of any item from when we combined our property. This lightened the load and reduced clutter. As the kitchen was being organized, I found myself feeling nostalgic for my blender though. Hers is fancier but I was comfortable with mine. I use to make margaritas with it during college and transitioned it into whipping up smoothies before heading off to work. I’m sure once I get accustomed to it, hers will be more than adequate.

I was getting ready to tackle the bedroom projects when I noticed a half-door that had been painted shut in the far corner of the room. Taking a break from my primary goal, I decide to see if I could breach the coats of latex, or more likely lead, keeping the door affixed in place. Excitement builds as I chip away at the filled-in gap around the frame with the flathead screwdriver in my hand that I intended to use for tightening the bed frame bolts.

I methodically carve, removing each paint layer as the corresponding flecks fall onto the carpet below. Alternating between scoring around the perimeter and tugging on the low-profile handle, I feel the door flex. This progress gives me a renewed outlook on my decision to move. It rekindles feelings that the sacrifices I, we’ve, made will recoup great rewards. Much like life, the only way to find out what’s behind any door is to put forth the energy to open it.

There has got to be long forgotten treasures concealed by this hinged, wooden panel. Items once carefully sequestered then forgotten then overlooked and now rediscovered. Although the door was old, whatever’s behind it would be new to me. The anticipation reaches a fever pitch.

My girlfriend enters the room and notices me struggling with my side project. She approaches and asks, “What are you working on there? Do you need any help with the bed frame?”

“Nope, I’m good. Just trying to get this door open to see what’s in there,” I reply without breaking my cutting/pulling sequence. One last solid yank and the door releases, the edges still holding onto jagged layers of paint.

When our eyes adjust, we find ourselves staring at what appears to be an abandoned dumbwaiter shaft. A piece of plywood served as the floor while another was installed for a shelf. Both are covered with an accumulation of dust, cobwebs and pieces of plaster. The mummified remains of what appears to be either a large rat or a small squirrel is located towards the back.

“When you clean this out,” my girlfriend interjects, “it’ll make a great place to keep my photo albums and childhood knickknacks. Let me know when you get that done and I’ll bring you the box of that stuff,” she concludes as leaving.

This once serviceable feature wasn’t part of the original home. It was added after it’s invention in the mid-1800’s. But then someone decided this convenience was obsolete and needed to be transformed into storage. And when that lost its purpose, someone else decided a wall was a better option and just sealed the opening.

Disappointment settles on my heart faster than the dust coughed up from the void settles onto the paint chips covering the floor. The musty smell that had been displaced by the fresh air from the room now clings to my clothes, as if it is trying to catch a ride to somewhere else.

I thought for sure I’d stumble onto some treasure from times past. I had optimism I’d be a changed person when I got whatever valuables should have been hidden in there. I’d get a fresh outlook on this new chapter in my life. But there was nothing.

With a defeated sigh, I toss the screwdriver towards the still unassembled metal frame in the center of the room. I replay the idea over and over in my mind – “I thought for sure I’d stumble onto some treasure... I had optimism.” But that didn’t happen. The only revelation was that of nothing. And this nothingness is giving me a hug, not a comforting one, more of a welcoming embrace. Like, “Welcome to the club. Welcome to your new normal.”

Now I have a connection to the house. More than I thought a renter could have. Or wanted to have. Because, like the house I’m contractually obligated to call home for the next twelve months, all the changes made in the name of improvement were actually changes that caused it to lose its identity.