Common Wealth

On a blustery Tuesday in mid-December, Charles Murphy cracks open the door of his brownstone to find three people waiting upon the welcome mat.

Wanda Kent, green but highly motivated, is a realtor in tony Beacon Hill. The lovebirds by her side are, one can assume, his prospective buyers.

Based on their impeccable attire and no-nonsense expressions, he couldn't be less interested.

Rather than invite the trio inside, he says, his delivery warm, "There must be some mistake, friends. Joint's no longer on the market. Rodent infestation. Yooge pain in the ass. If you'll excuse me..."

Before anyone can object, our octogenarian slides the bolt back into place, shutting out their befuddlement and the frigid morning air.

•♾•

Moments later, his cell rings. Wanda, by now more pal than professional, is calling to read him the riot act. This is, you see, the nineteenth couple he's dismissed in the past four weeks.

We won't talk about the many months prior.

Sometimes the rejection is immediate. More often, it fatally punctuates what she thought was a successful affair. Clients have oohed and ahhed in a manner most sellers find flattering, their sterling behavior on deliberate display.

Alas, all were deemed unsuitable.

It's not that he has anything against these folks. Murph is known throughout Beantown as an accepting and genial soul. It's just that this house meant everything to Joan, his deceased wife.

It's imperative that the purchaser be of precisely the right ilk.

Plopping onto the stiff linen sofa, he jams an iPhone up to his ear. While nifty, he muses, the damn things sure aren't ergonomic.

"You left me hanging again, Charlie! And rodents? What am I going to do with you?"

In hindsight, the rats may have been a bit dramatic.

"I apologize, but the Gucci twins were all wrong for the gig."

This earns him an exasperated chuckle.

"We need to cast a wider net," he adds. "Maybe dropping the number will help?"

"Any lower and I'll be forced to eat ramen. Besides, you're sitting on prime real estate! It would kill me to list it for crumbs."

"I promise you'll end up with more than noodles. Glad to spring for pizza from Regina's if we ever ink the deal."

Unlike certain aspects of existence, money is not an obstacle in Charles Murphy's life. Following a humble upbringing in Southie, he toiled for decades to secure said reality.

It doesn't hurt that he got in early on Bitcoin.

"I'll hold you to it. Extra cheese, please."

"Meatball," he counters. His missus, God bless her, had been overly keen on tofu.

"We'll see. Now, are you going to fill me in on the big picture? I've been fumbling in the dark."

"It's complicated, kid. Maybe someday I'll be able to explain. I appreciate you for toughing this out."

"Truth? I've got a soft spot. You remind me so much of my dad. This was his favorite season. He used to say that snow ushers in change."

Though he attempts to hide it, her candor leaves a lump in his throat.

•♾•

As Charles hangs up, an idea floats to the surface. Perhaps it's time to switch gears. The old-fashioned approach does have its charms.

He retrieves his tablet and begins composing an advert for the online edition of the Globe.

Might even slum it and try his luck with the Herald.

FOR SALE BY OWNER

Plum find on famed Comm Ave • Turnkey condition • Meticulous craftsmanship • Priced LOW to sell FAST

By noon, there are loads of replies that require sorting. It astounds him how quickly plans unfold in this era of Wi-Fi.

After snooping around Facebook and weighing the options, he arranges for a single showing this coming Sunday.

Content, he leans back against the upholstery and gives in to the need for a siesta.

One more Hail Mary and he'll admit defeat. It worked for Tom Brady.

•♾•

The appointment is scheduled for 2:00 sharp.

At 2:14, Charles begins to pace the parlor, surveying the neighborhood from his signature bay window.

At 2:37, the antique doorbell rings, flooding the hallway with possibility.

This time, the scene that greets him through the peephole could not be more intriguing.

Leading the charge is a frazzled-looking woman with unkempt hair and a curious splotch on her sweater. A man who appears only slightly less harried is to her left.

Behind them are six children of varying maturity. Two must be approaching their teens, the others barely more than toddlers.

One of the boys is, for want of a sophisticated description, visibly sticky.

Their host throws open the double doors.

"Sorry we're late! Our babysitter canceled."

Kismet.

He flashes his broadest smile, silently willing his dentures to hold firm. "That's quite alright. Come on in! I've got cocoa and hot cider."

Owing to a thick-as-molasses accent, it's closer to ciduh.

The ragtag clan traverses the marble threshold, eight pairs of feet tracking mud through his sparkling foyer.

"Shit!" exclaims Erin Weaton, mortified. "Take off your boots! All of you!"

"Oh, that's not necessary," Charles reassures her, his eyes agleam at the foul language. "It's been a while since I've had any wee ones on the property. Frankly, I get a kick out of the chaos."

If the parents find this hard to swallow, they don't let on.

After refreshments, the troupe sets about exploring the first level. Like he's come to expect, they're dazzled by its classic bones and curated beauty.

His Joanie had exquisite taste.

The floors, a lustrous walnut, are peppered with plush area rugs in shades of muted cranberry. Every wall is painted colonial blue and adorned with enough art to rival nearby museums. The millwork, ornate and abundant, is a crisp, satisfying white.

As they round the corner to the kitchen, Charles finds Lala, the smallest of the brood, picking her nose. She shamelessly wipes her spoils down the immaculate trim, a trail of chartreuse-colored snot lingering in her wake.

Next they take a gander at the second story, its bedrooms eliciting a chorus of dibs from the tots. Bentley and Max, the typically sullen tweens, are most impressed by the dumbwaiter, declaring it wicked awesome.

Glowing praise, indeed.

They journey up the remaining flight, pausing to admire vintage photographs along the stairwell. There's a lovely portrait of Joan, her ensemble as elegant as the interior over which she labored.

Her widower takes in the memory, losing himself to a series of what-ifs.

He's swiftly rousted from the subjunctive by a spectacular noise. While zooming down the corridor, Sticky Louis has slammed into a credenza, sending the vase atop it soaring.

Nobody would've guessed that porcelain could produce such a cacophony.

"Don't worry!" Charles shouts above the clatter. "It wasn't that rare."

Amused, he mutters, "There's probably a matching piece over at the Isabella Stewart..."

"Our doggy is named Isabella!" blurts out Lucy, precocious middle sibling. "I call her Belle, like da princess."

"Really?" he asks, his attention nabbed. Social media hadn't mentioned a canine companion. "That's terrific. What kind of pup is she?"

"A Newfoundland!"

The freckled lass pronounces it nuffinlint, but he gets the gist.

Touchdown.

Before he can decide on a strategy, an overwhelmed Tim Weaton pipes up.

"Your home is incredible, Mr. Murphy, but I don't think we can afford this. Not to mention we're bulls in a china shop."

"It's Charlie, friend! Like any decent buddy, I'm prepared to make an offer you can't refuse."

He wiggles his bushy brows, prompting a ripple of laughter from the masses.

"Unfortunately, my husband is right," Erin echoes. "It's gorgeous, but we have tuition to consider and this is a lot of house to maintain. Unless you're willing to take a loss, we have to pass."

"I understand. How does ten bucks sound?"

The adults exchange a confused glance. "Ten bucks for what?"

"That's my asking price. And it comes furnished!"

•♾•

That evening, Charles indulges in a hearty meal of steak and potatoes, pouring himself a thumb of whiskey for good measure.

He dines to the brisk rhythm of Irish folk tunes, conducting with his fork in between bites.

Stuffed, he grabs the clicker—clickuh—and puts on the game, cheering with adolescent vigor as the Patriots pull off yet another win.

All told, it's a fitting goodbye.

This will be his final weekend on the street where he's weathered fifty New England winters. After convincing the Weatons of his sincerity—to say nothing of sanity—they gratefully agreed to sign.

The lot will be moving in post-holiday, one slobbering puppy included.

Sporting plaid pajamas and a grin, Charles climbs into bed, today's whirlwind replaying on a loop. A dozen pages into the latest Grisham, he actually catches himself humming.

His mood is so elevated, in fact, that he scarcely notices the shrill rant emanating from his dead wife's lips.

•♾•

His erstwhile bride is flittering in front of the armoire, spewing at a clip that would make those with a pulse dizzy.

Her stern features shift in and out of focus, melding with the damask wallpaper.

She's been at this for hours.

"How could you, Chuck? The nerve! The absolute audacity you have to disrespect me in MY house, a place I struggled to keep presentable for you!"

He snorts. It was always Joanie who relied on the approval of strangers.

"Don't you dare smirk while I'm speaking. Who do you think you are? Eating rich foods. Blasting music you know I loathe. Traipsing those pigs around and snickering as they cussed? Sinful."

"Tell me how you really feel," he quips, gazing intently at his novel.

"The insolence! You've lost what was left of your mushy mind. And don't get me started on my shattered vahz..."

These eruptions, if you will, had come to define their farce of a marriage. While others adored Charlie, Joan was forever concocting reasons to swing for his innards.

He initially stayed because he cared. Later, as a matter of futile optimism.

This was all he knew.

If hope withers slowly, fortune turns on a dime. Last January, Murph popped into Trader Joe's for some milk and scones. Torn between vanilla bean and Tuscan orange, he must've dallied a tad too long.

When he returned—both flavors in tow, thank you—her body was lying motionless in the living room, a ham-fisted tribute to irony.

Oddly enough, he also found Joanie at the stove, attempting to fry an egg. Her hazy fingers refused to grasp the spatula.

"Did you see what's beside the coffee table?" she'd asked, notably casual for someone referencing her own corpse. "Fluff the pillows before you phone the authorities. Then adjust my dress. How unseemly."

To her deep and abiding chagrin, Joan had become a ghoul of limited talents. She could no longer manipulate the tangible. No one but Charles could sense her, a fact he's since confirmed, for ethics' sake, with each tour.

She was watching, appalled and powerless, when Lala anointed the baseboard with a booger.

Worth the cost of admission.

The most crucial discovery was that the house itself would not permit her beyond its frame. During a Broadway-worthy meltdown, Mrs. Murphy tried to take off for ports unknown, somehow viewing this as a means of exacting punishment.

Invisible forces flung her flat on the ol' spectral rear.

It was through observing such folly that Charles had his epiphany. He was the unshackled spouse in residence, the sole variable in their equation. He alone could hit the pavement and make the most of his stint on this orb.

Liberation wears many faces.

So began his quest for what these mirthless bricks have lacked. The notion of a spirited bunch thriving herein filled him with peace and longing alike. Raising a large flock had been his dream, an agreed-upon vision that never materialized.

Eventually, on an occasion where her ire got the best of her, Joan conceded to playing him for a fool. Despite countless assurances to the contrary, she found children too dirty, too loud.

Too human.

Tolerating her deception remains his most enduring regret. For years, he was unable to enjoy a trip to Fenway without aching for a tiny hand to hold.

The loneliness only increased when everyone else became a grandpa, their Saturdays spent riding the swan boats amid peals of joy.

It's this very vignette that causes him to snap. Removing his glasses with a yank, he meets her translucent stare.

"Shove it, Joanie. For the better part of a century, I've allowed you to steamroll me. I gave you everything on demand, never recouping an ounce of affection."

She rests a palm against her collar, her indignation plain, but he's not finished.

"Did you honestly believe that I required this opulence? No. I wanted something genuine. Now you can witness the undoing of what you treasure. Your precious perfection. Soon you'll be screaming into the void, which is exactly where your twaddle belongs."

She proffers, as the Beatles put it, no reply. Had she an actual jaw, it would be grazing the ground.

•♾•

On the day before Christmas, Charles makes his way down the brownstone's steep steps, taking the utmost care not to slip on black ice.

His bags are light, his Buick is gassed up, and it's snowing like something out of a Jimmy Stewart flick.

Not too shabby.

"Where will you go?" Joan caws from the study, arms crossed beneath her ghostly bosom. When no one was looking, little Archie lobbed a bookend through stained glass. The unpatched hole is serving as her party line.

"Anywhere I want!" he replies with an enthusiasm usually reserved for jailbreaks.

A smidge guilty about twisting the knife, Charles softens.

"Leslie has asked me to stay on at the lake. Gonna register for some culinary classes. Get a pooch from the shelter. See if the trout are nibbling come April."

His sweetheart of a niece recently acquired a cabin up in Maine. It's the sort of haven where a man can gather himself and, if fate is amenable, start making up for bygone chances.

Fishing had been Wanda's suggestion. They shared that pizza as a fond farewell. Half cheese, half meatball, wholly delicious. While he debated spilling his tale over slices, the words were tough to come by.

Perhaps they will flow more easily in the future. In between sips of root beer, the twosome vowed to reconnect whenever he visits. Though eager to escape what haunts him, one is a city mouse for life.

After dinner, he presented Wanda with a check for her projected commission. The young lady protested, of course, but his insistence prevailed. If she were his daughter, he would be mighty proud of her gumption and kindness.

The sentiment is mutual. This afternoon, he found a festively wrapped package propped up on his stoop. Inside was a spinning rod and a note that brought him to tears.

For my most demanding customer and one hell of a gent. This belonged to my father. He'd want you to have it.

I wish you all the happiness that can be squeezed out of our ripe and wondrous world, Charlie. My instincts say no one is more deserving. When you're ready, I will listen.

Keep in touch, friend. I mean it! Text once you're settled.

W~

He will do just that. From their familial bond to his status as an honorary Weaton, the road was already rising up to meet him.

"Well, don't come crawling back to me," Joan barks, interrupting his narrative for the last time. "If you go through with this, we're finished. I'm serious, Chuck! Find someone else to keep you company for eternity."

Charles Ronald Murphy, eighty-one and free as an eagle, stops midstride.

He turns, a look of mischief spreading like wildfire.

"You know what, my dear? That may be the smartest thing you've ever said."

He tips his hat and continues along the sidewalk, her voice growing distant with each fresh footprint.