Page 97 of Too Old for This

Another nod. Not a happy one.

She has a big reaction to the kitchen. The house was built around 1910, but the kitchen was redone forty years later. “This is amazing. I can imagine Mrs.Cleaver in here.”

“Mrs.Cleaver?”

“FromLeave It to Beaver.”

“Why don’t I show you the upstairs?”

The house has four bedrooms. One of them was Archie’s until he went to college, then on and off between semesters all the way through law school.

The room has changed a lot. The toys disappeared first. Then the posters and the bedspread with spaceships on it. Only a few things are left from his childhood. The blue walls have been the same color since we moved in. I painted them myself. A few of the slats on the closet doors are loose, theones at eye level for a child. Archie used to hide there to trick me, and I would walk around saying, “Where’s Archie? Where did he go?” He pulled on those slats to get a better view.

The room has half a dozen other small things I could point out and tell the stories of how they happened, but Delia isn’t interested in those. She walks around the room, glances out the window, and is done. We move on.

The house has two and a half bathrooms, all updated at the same time as the kitchen. One has pink tile, another has green, and the one downstairs has turquoise.

Delia shakes her head and smiles at all of them. “So amazing.”

My bedroom is the largest, the only one that’s lived in. The furniture is from the ’80s but meant to look older. I wanted it to match the age of the house and ended up with a bedroom set in dark wood with carved edges, a four-poster bed, and a heavy, oppressive feel. But the comforter is pink and green, and very cheery.

When Delia sees it, her only comment is about the size of the room and the closet. “A little small, but that’s to be expected in a house this old.”

She takes a long look at the main hallway, along with the view down to the foyer. The chandelier is not fancy and needs cleaning. She doesn’t mention that.

As we head back downstairs, Delia asks about the roof.

“It was replaced right before I bought it,” I say. “That was in 1985.”

“Any updates to the electrical?”

“No.”

“Plumbing?”

“No.” We reach the bottom of the stairs, and she follows me over to the far side of the house. “Last but not least, this is the garage.”

My old sedan is parked on one side. The other has a wall full of shelves, along with my second refrigerator and the freezer.

Delia looks it over. A strand of her auburn hair falls forward, and she pushes it back with one of those fingernails. If I had to guess, she is about forty-five years old. Awell-preservedforty-five.

“This is quite a house,” she says.

“Maybe itisa time capsule. Though I never thought of it that way.” I shrug as we walk out of the garage. “It’s just home to me.”

“Please don’t take offense. I’m trying to see the house through a buyer’s eyes.”

Which is all well and good, but she should have kept her mouth shut. I had planned to offer her something to drink, but now I don’t feel like it.

“So how much do you think I could get for it?” I ask. “Exactly as it is, without changing anything?”

“Most buyers will factor in some significant renovations, possibly new wiring and roof, and they always want updated kitchens and bathrooms, so I want to look at some comps.”

“Ballpark.”

The price she quotes is much lower than I expected. Lower than Ihoped. “Thanks so much for coming by. I’ll think about it.”

“If you’d like, I can talk to a few people who specialize in major renovations like this and see what they think.”