I watched the third step crack in betrayal. The cold earth ground under my nails. Five steps was the new record. The stone had shown no response to pressure as a thick layer of mortar was laid and the fourth step was placed, or even the fifth.
Too many divots and ridges, the stones had resisted the arrangement from the start. They slid and shifted, or completely split, when set down the wrong way. Mixing enough mortar for each step by hand had taken the entire morning, but it bonded the stones securely into position.
On hands and knees, I examined the crack as it etched its way through the stone toward me.
This would hold, I had told myself. This time it will hold.
I counted the seconds, matching them to my heartbeat, exhaling in slow ribbons away from the steps as to not shift the air.
With each centimeter, the crack compromised the structure. It branched into hair-thin tendrils that crept down and carved through the stone.
I sat back on my heels. Each breath came with a painful lump. Less than thirty minutes of sunlight left.
The white house with black door stood imposing over me. Long shadows stretched across the front door entrance. Black shuttered windows on either side matched the door. The small glass pane across the top of the door was foggy with years of dust.
“I’m sorry,” I said out loud.
A moan cut through the silence and the third step split, fracturing into gravel. It took the fourth and fifth steps with it. They fragmented, disintegrated, until it all dissolved into the earth.
Day in and day out, the steps betrayed me, turning to ash, to dust, to sand. Running my hands through the decay, I rooted my fingers into the earth and debris. I clenched and unclenched my fists around the remains. Dug down to my forearms.
Blackness settled over the threshold. I listened but there was silence. The air was still. Neither hot nor cold graced my skin. I felt for the mound of earth and lay my head there. The next day, I would try again. As I had every day before.
The dawn came sudden and stark, as it always had. My cheek to the dirt, the smell of cold, damp earth. The edge of the house’s shadow cut across the grass. I had almost ten hours of daylight. No mortar today, waste of time.
As if any of this wasn’t a waste—
I cut myself off.
“Brick,” I said loudly.
Pile by pile, I gathered bricks into my skirt, spilling them beside the threshold. The fabric stretched and snagged under the weight. The sun was overhead by the time I had collected enough.
Just stacking. I could get past five steps this time.
This would hold, I told myself. This time it will hold.
Integrity, the foundation needed integrity. I arranged and rearranged the bottom layer, gauging different patterns for stability. The second and third layers lay upon the substructure, I tested the steadiness. Bricks popped out, the third layer shifted, I adjusted. Once the foundation was stable, I started to build up.
The placement was careful, the patterns precise. I could work quicker without mortar. Quicker to the top, I just had to get to the top. Just enough to reach the doorknob.
I moved from the back to the front, laying the second step. Shadows grew taller on the front door as I moved onto steps three and four. I was running out of time.
My lower back seized as I started the fifth step. In a spasm, my legs were rendered useless and I collapsed. I slid, knocking loose several end bricks.
I lay at the foot of the stairs, motionless. I counted. Every three seconds, a spasm paralyzed my lower half. I shouted in agony to no one. Staring at the top layer, I was almost at the fifth step. Almost halfway to the door. I closed my eyes.
The doorknob was cold against my skin. My fingers found the familiar engravings surrounding the edge. It turned easily under my touch. An amber light saturated the entryway, leading into the hall with time-stained wallpaper of fruits and birds. The second sconce on the wall hung slightly crooked as the flames danced against the wind blown in from the door.
I opened my eyes. The sun sank lower in the sky. My pain turned to fury, cheeks wet with frustration and exhaustion. Four and a half steps. I screamed. I cried.
Peering through the trees, the last line of sun burned into my eyes and followed me as I blinked back to the steps. The front door was almost completely shaded now as the spasm subsided.
I tested my legs and started hurling bricks up onto the topmost step. I was losing time. I needed speed. Five steps, at least five steps. I climbed.
As my foot hit the first step, it gave way beneath me.
“No,” I hurried up the second step, it broke away.
The bricks were turning to sand.
“No!” I cried, as I met the ground. The bricks around me deteriorated. I pressed with my body, with my hands, into the layers, trying to hold the remaining bricks in place. They all dissolved at my touch.
Lifting one up to my face, it crumbled and sifted through my fingers.
The structure disintegrated. Powdery sand piled up to the height of my face as I knelt. And then began its slow descent into the ground, sinking away. Another mound formed from the debris, small, under the towering house. Night veiled the grounds. The next day, I would try again. As I had every day before.
It was harder to wake the next morning. Clouds shrouded the dawn sun. My body resisted with stiffness.
“Wood,” I said out loud, pushing myself up.
This would hold, I told myself. This time—
My body slowed me down. The lumber was knotted, heavy, and awkward; it would be harder to move. Gather, build the layer, gather for the next, and so on. The stacking would require time. The weight and size alone would keep them in place on their own with less complexity. It was a tradeoff.
A breeze picked up as I finished the foundational first layer. My arms shook. Bruises blossomed on my already scraped legs. I began the haul for the second layer.
My legs gave out as I heaved the final log onto the second step and fit it into place. I leaned back against the steps. The breeze lifted the scent of cut wood and sap to my nose. Drinking in the smell, I rested my eyes.
The amber light pulled me into the living room. Tufted green armchairs were arranged around the woodstove at the center. It had been retrofitted into the brick fireplace. In the winter it would warm the whole house. It amazed me, every year, that such a small stove could emit such powerful heat.
I hadn’t been careful enough the last time I used the woodstove. Ashes coated the bottom with embers from the night before. I used the gleaming remnants to ignite new wood. It sizzled and hissed as I piled it on. Most were dry, but the smoke indicated some pieces were still wet.
I could see the pipe in the back blazing red as the metal overheated. I quickly closed the flue to reduce the heat. The metal calmed, returning to black. I watched cautiously for a moment and then decided it was safe. I made my way to the kitchen, sitting at the stone countertop. Steam curled up from my coffee as I listened to the fire; the wood creaked and snapped inside the stove.
With a bang, the heat kicked the door open and spit hot ash out onto the floor—past the spark mat. A tinder burned angrily as I ran over from the kitchen, knocking the coffee off the counter. I grabbed the mat, throwing it over the live coal to stamp it out. I stamped with both feet, the spark mat warm under foot, until it was out.
The burn was permanent on the wood. A dark blemish. I scrubbed. With a brush and lemon oil, I scrubbed until my hands were chapped. With a sander, I ground down the mahogany until a dimple formed. I painted with stain, matching to the surrounding color, coat after coat. The spot endured. It was deep, permanent. No one blamed me.
I missed the smell of the woodstove, the warmth. I used to sit in the armchair, watching the flames through the glass door. They twisted around the wood in carnelian spirals as the logs shrank and crumbled under their touch. Where indigo met vivid orange, the wood darkened and compressed. The warmth soothed me to sleep. It was comfort, familiarity, safety. My home.
A crow cawed from a nearby tree, startling me. I had fallen asleep. The clouds were darker now.
“No!” I sprang up, frenzied. I had lost the day.
I turned to the steps, they were still intact. I ran my hands over each one, giving a cautious press. They were solid, stable.
I smiled. It was deep into nighttime, and the steps were still here. My heart gave a quick patter. The wood worked, I could continue with the steps tomorrow, I could rest and start early, I could—
The steps vibrated under my hand. My heartbeat felt deliberate and hard. My stomach twisted, my jaw stung with sour nausea.
“Please don’t...”
Swirling on the top step, the breeze spun the wood into splinters. The splinters climbed into the spiraling wind, turning to ash. A gust pulled, carrying the ash as I grasped at the last of my steps, at the air, at nothing.
Darkness blurred my surroundings. The breeze settled. The air was still. Neither hot nor cold graced my skin. I closed my eyes, taking long, slow breaths as I counted the seconds, matching them to my heartbeat.
The next day, I would try again. As I had every day before.