Blue Heaven

Part 7

24 February 1982

Wednesday 3:00pm

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You were playing one of your new old 1930s records. Beau darted back and forth on the rug madly, chasing something you couldn't see.

You were knitting on the sofa. The baby was on the carpet as well, on her stomach. The book said it was good to let her be in that position.

She could lift her head easily now, propping herself on her elbows. She watched the cat running, making sharp squeaking shouts in return. It was very amusing, considering she didn't speak very much before.

Paul had gotten supplies from town. There was a fault in the nursery ceiling, and when it rained, water would drip from it. You had kept a bucket there to collect it so the floor wouldn't be damaged. Paul was upstairs in the nursery, he had taken a stepstool and began to patch it up.

The record ended, only static, then the needle stopped. You stood up to flip it over.

In the silence, you stopped. Thought the music had stopped, you heard a faint singing.

I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in...

And stops my mind from wandering...

Where it will go...

It was surely Paul's voice, though he was not in the room. It had an echoing quality to it.

For a moment, you wondered if you were going mad, auditory hallucinations.

You tried to find the source, moving around the room. Rosemary's head was turned, watching you, going quiet as well. Beau had rolled to his back, paws batting at the air.

Eventually, you got to the vent in the corner of the room. You lowered down, putting your ear to it.

Sure enough, it was a trick of the acoustics. It was surely Paul's voice, and you could heart his humming coming through, likely thinking he was alone.

"Hello, beautiful!" You called through the vent.

His voice abruptly stopped.

He paused a good moment, as if trying to figure out if he were imagining things.

You heard him speak again, tentative, this time confused.

"____?"

You giggled. You pushed up to a stance, grabbing Rosemary off the floor and rushing up the stairs.

"Alright, songbird." You said, poking your head in the room. "Apparently the sound from here carries through the vents. Isn't that something?"

He turned his head, looking over his shoulder. He was up on the stepstool. His brows were raised, and he smiled.

"Hullo, baby." He said. "Hm, the sound carries, then? I haven't noticed all these years."

To your knowledge, he had been alone whenever he came here. So there was likely no sound to carry.

You were holding Rosemary around the chest, the fabric of her gown draping downward. You loved putting her in the old white dresses that used to be yours. She looked like a little princess. She was looking up at her lovely father, her mouth parted.

"What song is that?" You said. "Something from the sixties?"

Paul beamed, prideful.

"No song." He said. "I made it up."

He clarified.

"I had to patch up a lot of these holes in the seventies. It got tedious, so I thought up a tune." He said. "Other verses too, for other renovations."