Up the Hill to Home. Jennifer Bort Yacovissi

greens in before the season is completely over. Two of the beds are ready for planting. Here’s where the fruit trees will go, over there the nut trees. He has laid out some of the pathways through the yard with stones excavated while digging the cellar and the beds; one goes all the way out to the back alley, and another ends at the water pump above their well. Immediately next to the pump is the windmill. Together, George and Charley engineered this marvel and together explained the concept to Emma with great enthusiasm. She remains lukewarm to the idea, but has deferred to their expertise. This is the first time she’s seen the windmill, more than two stories tall on its spindly stork legs. Charley’s grin is so big as she looks it over that the ends of his mustache fan out over his cheeks.

      “Does it work?”

      “Wait and see,” is all he will say.

      As they walk around the sides and the back, still unpainted, she admires the steps coming down from the kitchen, the storm cellar doors angled up from the ground to keep the water from seeping in and to make the entrance easier to navigate. There are big windows spaced evenly around the house. Having spent so many years in a row house in a back alley where the sun barely waves hello as it sails past, Emma longs for the luxury of sunlight in every room. Those windows are hers.

      Finally, they arrive back at the point where they started the tour, and Emma stands to admire her favorite feature, which is primarily her own design: the turret, created by a set of three windows on each floor, angled in what looks like the first three sides of an octagon. On the first floor, the windows bump out onto the front porch from the parlor. Up from there, the bay is part of the main bedroom—theirs, of course—and beyond that is the attic. The turret ends in a tall cone of a roof that makes Emma think of a witch’s hat. She sees that someone has climbed all the way up there to cap the tower with a simple weather vane that points into the breeze.

      They stand together at the bottom of the wide steps. For the first time, she notices the house numbers, black forged iron against a white, mitered board that hangs on a diagonal by the entrance: 741. They take their time walking up the steps to the front door, savoring the moment, and he ceremoniously hands her the key—more symbolic than useful it turns out, since it spends virtually all of its remaining existence hanging on a hook in the entry. She unlocks the door, and he opens it onto the hall.

      With the exception of the turret, and the pantry and bath bump-out in the back, the house is almost completely square and built around a central chimney. Each of the four rooms on the first floor has a fireplace, though the main source of heat is a coal-fired furnace in the cellar. Starting from the entrance and moving counterclockwise are the hall, the parlor, the dining room, and the kitchen, with its small bump-out for the cooking pantry. Immediately across from the front door is the staircase to the second floor, with its four bedrooms, bath, and access to the attic. The attic itself has big dormers and the turret, a full-height ceiling and the same footprint as the story below—an open, airy, light-filled space. In contrast, the cellar is thoroughly utilitarian and subterranean, squat and unattractive but vital to the operation of the household.

      Even with the many trips that Charley and his friends have undertaken to collect, deliver, and arrange furniture, the big house is still sparsely furnished, but she can see the care they have taken to make it welcoming. The effort that her mother and the redoubtable Mrs. G have put into sprucing things up is not lost on her either. A lovely bouquet of gladiolus greets her from a small table in the hall, and there are lace curtains at the front windows. She walks slowly through the rooms, admiring the familiar and unfamiliar items. The parlor is bare, with the exception of a large gilt mirror above the mantle and an older velveteen sofa, still nice, both from the Beck’s storage.

      The dining room has but a small table and four unmatched chairs; however, Mary’s Schlegel family’s buffet and china closet are here, having survived every move of the Miller household since before Emma can remember. Mary’s furniture has begun to populate the house in advance of her permanent arrival.

      They reach the kitchen, and Emma takes her time walking around the room, letting her fingers trail over each surface. Charley has succeeded in finding an icebox that is secondhand but lightly used and good quality. The woodstove sits in the pantry, which is lined with shelves, cabinets, drawers, and a countertop. Finally, Emma stands at the enamel sink, looking at the handles and faucets for hot and cold water; this is where the windmill comes in. As Charley explains it to her during the design phase, the windmill pulls water up from the well and pushes it all the way up to a tank that sits on the roof; the head pressure that gravity creates guarantees a good flow of water from any faucet. It’s all a new concept for her, having grown up thinking that a hand pump at the sink is the ultimate luxury. When he and George describe it to her, she rubs her forehead. “What if the wind doesn’t blow?”

      “I can hand-crank the screw for the windmill to pump it up by hand.”

      She shakes her head. “I still don’t understand about the hot water. If it’s not heated on the stove, where does it come from?”

      George sketches out a picture for her, as he likes to do whenever he explains a concept. The water heater sits in the cellar and has its own scuttle for coal; the plumbers’ name for it, bucket-a-day, comes from the fact that the heater typically consumes a bucket of coal each day to keep the water hot. A large coil containing the water wraps around the heated core; water from the rooftop tank is piped into the bottom, and hot water pushes out from the top. “So when you turn on the hot side of the faucet, out it comes!” he concludes with a flourish.

      To ensure a successful demonstration for Emma, George had stopped by earlier in the day to light the heater. Now she and Charley stand together at the sink, but she hesitates. He takes her hand and puts it gently onto the right porcelain faucet handle. “This is the cold. Just turn it this way to get the flow you want.”

      With his hand still on top of hers, she slowly turns the handle. Water streams out, and pours more forcefully as she continues to turn. He holds his hand under the stream for a minute, and she copies his motion. In the heat of the summer, with the tank on the roof, the water will almost never be cold, as it is when it comes straight from the well. She turns the pressure up and down, fascinated by the expanding and constricting flow.

      “Now on the hot side you need to be careful because it comes out hot enough to burn you.” He puts the stopper in the sink and lets Emma turn on the second faucet. Both are running into the sink now, and she can see the steam rising from the left side. Her mouth is agape. Charley swirls the water in the sink to test the temperature. “See what you think.”

      Again she copies him to try out the temperature of the water. It is decidedly warm to the touch. Then she turns the cold water off and lets the steaming water pour in.

      “Just be careful,” Charley cautions, and it is a brief moment before Emma pulls her hand back to keep it from scalding.

      She laughs out loud. “Well, isn’t that just something! Everyone will want to try it!” She continues to look at the steam curling up from the water pouring out from the faucet, her faucet. It is not to be believed.

      Charley finally turns it off, smiling at her obvious delight. “Let’s just take a peek upstairs, shall we?” They walk back into the hall, completing the circle, then up the stairs to the first landing. There, a tiny table holds another vase, this time with yellow rose blossoms that Charley grows in Mrs. G’s garden. They turn up the second set of stairs and end at the top landing, where the railing opens a view to the floor below. First, Charley shows her the finished bedroom that is to be Mary’s, which faces out onto the side yard to the west. Then the plumbed bath at the end of the hall that holds a sink, a huge claw-footed tub, and a flush toilet; they try each fixture in turn, to Emma’s continued delight. There is not much to see in the two unfinished bedrooms on either side of the main bedroom but, finally, he opens the door to their bedroom. He has arranged her things around the room: photographs, keepsakes, ceramic figurines, items that have been tucked away in her hope chest for many years. New curtains hang in the four windows that will allow the cross ventilation that might make summer nights almost tolerable. Finally, she looks at the bed, his wedding gift to her, knowing that he sees her redden slightly. The pillows and linens are new to her, freshly laundered and ironed,