“Your apartment?” Even after their weekly Sunday call ended, Lionel could still hear the disdain in his mother’s voice when he’d suggested she come see his new place. It lingered like the smell of the burnt rice glued to the bottom of the pan soaking in his kitchen sink. But in the end, she had agreed. After two years, she would finally be coming over the following Saturday. He had long wanted to have her over and get her approval on the home he was so thrilled to have. But as they hung up, the reality of her visit set in and he looked around his apartment, now seeing it through her eyes. The pile of dirty laundry, and the comic books he loved—they would all have to go. He had six and a half days.
He saw the dust and cat hair, and imagined his mother saying “Linyl!” with revulsion, rhyming it with vinyl and swallowing the second syllable in her ancient throat so it sounded like cheap flooring, something to be stepped on by others who were more important. He remembered her screaming “LIE-nyl” down the hall when he was a kid, the first syllable piercing the air like “liar,” as if accusing him. A vision of himself as a gawky teenager came to his mind, with all his faults laid bare—the version of himself he feared was true.
He vigorously scrubbed the burnt pot, imagining his mother seeing it and how she’d pester him about his ineptitude in the kitchen. Hers was not the playful banter of other kids’ moms, the lighthearted kidding of “Oh Timmy,” said with an eye roll and a smile. His mother’s teasing was mean.
By far, the worst part of his abode was his teensy bathroom. With the sink crammed next to the tub, and the toilet squeezed in beside, there wasn’t even room for the cat box. Gray had seemed like a classy color when he’d moved in last year, but now the small privy looked like a cement cube. He’d never gotten the black and white photos of eagles and elephants he’d always imagined having. The bathroom wasn’t just dull, it looked cheap. It looked, he thought, like crap.
“The bathroom is how you judge a place,” his mother would say anytime they went to a restaurant. He figured it also applied to people’s homes. If his bathroom was crap, his apartment was crap.
Maybe some touch-ups would help. But when he looked closer, he saw that the real problem was the walls had been sloppily done. The surface lacked the unsullied sheen of new construction that would make that same gray take on a distinguished feel.
He picked at a hangnail on his thumb until it bled. He was forty-five years old and his mother still had this effect on him. He glared at himself in the bathroom mirror, at his lumpish frame and thinning hair.
Lionel imagined his mother’s nasal sneer. “You should have made your canvas perfect before you painted.” Why hadn’t he done that? He recalled how chaotic his life had been when he moved in, how his job had been so demanding and it had taken him weeks to unpack. Pathetic.
Maybe some wall filler would help, but his small jar had dried up like crusted chalk. He put on his coat and went to the hardware store.
Along the way he thought about his mother, small and round-backed like a turtle, her gray curls set every Tuesday at the salon and sprayed stiff as a helmet. He thought of how she always asked him about his ex-girlfriend, Allison—who’d left him three years prior and was now dating a woman—as if they would rekindle things.
Wayne smiled from behind the counter when he came into the store. “Hey Li-on-el,” he called out. The way Wayne said his name was melodious. The first two syllables sounded like “lion,” and he wished his mother would say his name like that—with respect.
“Hey Wayne, I’m looking for some spackle.”
Wayne led him to a section beside the paintbrushes. “This one is pretty easy to use.” He handed Lionel a large white plastic pot that said Max’s Premixed in red block letters. “It may be a little easier to spread than the regular stuff and then you won’t need a sander.”
“A sander?!” He thought of the dust that would aggravate his asthma and how the noise would upset his cat, Cleo. No, sanding was out of the question.
“It’s okay, Lionel. This putty knife will make a nice even surface—no sanding needed!”
Lionel thanked Wayne and brought the package home, where it sat for three days on the kitchen table. He’d cleaned, tidied, and made a dinner reservation for Saturday night, but he was nervous about fixing up the bathroom. It seemed like a big project, but the more he put it off the more he hated himself.
It was Thursday after dinner when he forced himself to start the touch-ups. She was coming over on Saturday. He wanted to at least clean up the area over the shower, but it was difficult to get the thick white goo even. Each time he began a new section, he’d try to smooth it out, but he was clumsy and he’d press too hard or gouge his nail into the cool, wet paste. Or the top layer would have started to dry, and then it would bulge and pucker.
He imagined his mother seeing the mess and how she would criticize. He thought of how she always dropped little comments about his life, his job, his clothes, his diet, his friends, and even Cleo. These “gems of wisdom” were all-too-familiar barbs, and he felt their searing sting.
Each time he thought he’d gotten the surface even, the spackle would crest up like ripples or the spatula would slip, creating a gash. He got out a fan to help it dry, though it blew cat hair around and made him cough. Instead of working on one section until it was finished, he’d get frustrated and move on, making his way around the shower of the minuscule bathroom, his elbow knocking over the glass with his toothbrush, and hitting his head on the curtain rod.
As he worked, he thought of how his mother would cluck her tongue because he was only a law clerk and grill him on why he wouldn’t go to law school. He’d tell her that he had no interest in law, it was just a day job, and she’d chastise him for having no ambition. He’d never tell her his passion was drawing cartoons.
By midnight the container was empty, and he was exhausted. He emailed his boss, calling in sick on Friday so he could get it all done. He went to bed and fell asleep immediately.
The clock showed 3:47 a.m. when he awoke having a panic attack. He padded down the hall and stood in the doorway of the bathroom, his heart pounding as he took it in with bleary eyes. It was so much worse than when he’d started. The walls were caked like oatmeal, grotesque and lumpy—nightmarish—and there were even dried globs sticking out several inches, like softballs. He’d done such a horrible job. There were so many bumps it seemed as if the walls were closing in. But the container was empty and there was no way to fix it. His breathing caught in his chest, and he felt dizzy. What had he done? He couldn’t bear his mother seeing it. How she would ridicule him!
He felt the shame of a man ill-equipped in domestic renovations and scoured the internet searching for an answer to his spackling dilemma. Should he have even started? Should he quit now and sand? He cringed at the extensive sanding that would be necessary at this point to smooth out the wart-covered walls. He wondered if Wayne could help, but shame overtook him again. He could never tell anyone of his stupidity. He wanted to hide the mess he’d made of the walls over the shower. But then he had an idea. What if he did hide the mess by lowering the shower ceiling to be flush with the top of the tile? It would conceal the mistakes up above. That would fix it!
Wayne was just opening up at 7:30 a.m. when Lionel got there. “A whole case of Max’s Premixed, huh? You could probably fill a whole room!” Wayne stopped joking when he saw Lionel’s face, adding, “You can return anything you don’t use!”
Back home, Lionel started spreading the thick putty layer upon layer. He imagined it was frosting or marshmallow fluff, and that he was a cake decorator, artfully spreading batter, coating fondant. He emptied another giant tub and then one more. He was now at the hardest part, trying to make the new dropped ceiling a horizontal plane above the shower. This was delicate work—and he had to get it just right. He lowered the right side and then lowered the left side to match. He lowered the right side again, but it was no use, the whole ceiling was crooked! He could imagine his mother’s voice and her familiar jabs: “Who do you think you are?” and “You can’t do anything right.” What was he thinking? He didn’t have the artistry to make a perfect ceiling! He should have known he couldn’t do it!
He paced down the hall, in frustration, his mind hurling insults. But then he had another idea. What if… he walled off the entire shower? It was a crazy idea! But plenty of bathrooms didn’t have showers. It would even make it seem like he had two bathrooms, which would really impress his mother! He could just imagine her nod of approval. He could do it!
It was nearly noon, and Lionel hadn’t eaten breakfast. His arm ached. He fixed himself a grilled cheese sandwich and made coffee. He stretched his neck and fed Cleo who rubbed against his legs, swishing her tail, her green eyes gazing up at him. A few sips of his favorite Colombian roast made him feel high.
It took him all afternoon to cover over the shower head, down over the tiles, slapping the rubber scraper with impunity, his mind spinning elaborate fancies with each can he emptied. He’d start a new career in the Spackling Arts, moonlighting on weekends while building up his clientele. How he’d impress his mother!
Cleo came in and stared at him, but the smell made her squint and back out of the room in disgust. As he worked, each shower wall inched closer and closer and he filled the tub until there was no shower at all, just solid paste.
But when he was standing outside the bathtub, he realized the tub jutted out—and under!—the pedestal sink. He had miscalculated! If he kept the wall where it was, the edge of the bathtub would stick out at the bottom. If he extended the wall two inches, covering the bathtub, the wall would cover part of the sink! He had failed again! “NonononoNO!” He yelled, rubbing his forehead with the back of his right thumb joint, noticing the sweat and grit there. He’d been willing to sacrifice his shower, his beloved bathtub, but now that the futility of their loss was apparent, he was overcome with emotion.
It was after 4 p.m. His mother would be there in less than twenty-four hours. He was so very tired. He went into the kitchen in a daze and opened the refrigerator as if the answer to his predicament might be there between the pickles and the mayonnaise. He made a jam sandwich and took a swill of milk straight from the carton, “like a heathen” his mother would say. As if that one small act of rebellion had decided it for him, he knew what he was going to do. He’d fill the entire bathroom with spackle, wiping away his hideous attempts to DIY anything. He would erase it. Hadn’t Wayne said there was enough Max’s Premixed to fill a room?
It would be challenging, of course, not having a bathroom—how would he live? But didn’t he deserve such punishment? He’d have to finally join that 24-hour Planet Fitness across the street just so he could use their facilities.
Fueled by fear and the shame of who he had become—an utter failure, a monumental disappointment—he emptied can after can. He was like a dervish, spewing putty as fast as every angry intrusive thought whizzed through his head. He wasn’t just an unambitious schmuck with a boring day job, he was King of the Mediocre. He wasn’t just a bad artist who couldn’t get a single cartoon published, he was a laughing stock. Who was he kidding? He’d never be the next Gary Larson or Charles Shulz.
If he could have just used the filler on one wall like a normal person, then none of this would have happened. He might then have held on to some vestiges of his dignity. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his forehead reddened and sweaty, a smear of white along his temple, and sighed. Then he took his band-aids, aspirin, and Pepto Bismol from the medicine cabinet, and spackled over the vanity, releasing his self-hatred on the bathroom sink.
As he finished filling the bathroom, covering the toilet, and the wall behind it with that little glass shelf—how he’d loved that little shelf—he tried to find perfection. With each pass he got better at applying the white clay—better, but never perfect. Was it the fumes? The lack of food and sleep? Like an addict at a slot machine, every layer became another shot at winning, and each mistake another defeat, another coin lost.
He opened the bathroom door inwards, and covered it over, making it part of the wall behind. He wouldn’t need a door if he had no bathroom. The entire room would simply cease to exist.
By the time he opened the last container, he had worked through the night, and the bathroom was nearly filled. It was Saturday morning and he had passed from manic obsession to bleary exhaustion, to grim determination.
As he finished smoothing the last of the thick mush, he gazed up and realized with astonishment that he had achieved perfection. His grimy gray bathroom was completely filled in—obliterated in a solid block of white. But where there had once been a doorway, he had, without realizing it, created one pristinely flawless wall that was now appropriately framed by the door molding. He stood in the hall and admired his work. From top to bottom, that new wall had not a dent, not a bubble or scratch, not even one tiny cat hair—it was the most immaculate wall that had ever been. He couldn’t believe it. He was an artist after all!
In his sleep-deprived state, he imagined crowds cheering him, presenting him with an award. He felt the glow of praise from imaginary admirers, how he’d be held aloft, carried by adoring fans. He’d get a girlfriend! He’d impress his mother! He’d stand up for himself and be proud of his accomplishments! The buoyancy he felt began to give way to hallucinations. He was falling asleep on his feet. He set an alarm and fell into bed.
When he awoke it was 4 p.m., just in time, and his mother had texted, saying she would pick him up and see his apartment on their way to the restaurant. She would be there in half an hour.
Lionel washed at the kitchen sink and got dressed, pulling on a clean shirt, and the navy slacks and blazer he’d had cleaned. He knew his mother would approve of his suit. He combed his hair in the reflection of the microwave.
The books were organized; the polished shelves gleamed. The surfaces were tidy and bare. The floor was spotless, and anything incriminating was stacked in his closet out of sight. He fed Cleo and put a clean towel under her fresh water bowl. The thing that had most worried him, that dismal cube of a bathroom, was hidden away behind the most perfect wall there had ever been. He felt elated. That wall was profound proof that he was successful after all. He was an achiever and he couldn’t wait to show his mother.
He was using the lint roller on his pants when his mother texted that she’d arrived. He was giddy as he took the elevator down to meet her. “How was the drive?” He couldn’t help but grin.
“Hideous as usual.” She clucked her tongue to let him know it had been a major hassle. “That parking garage was very full, the attendant was so busy he didn’t say two words! Are you sure the car will be safe there?” There was that familiar complaining voice, nasal and grating.
Just wait until she sees my apartment, he thought! “Don’t worry, Mom, it’ll be safe for a short time, you’re just getting a quick tour of my place.” He suddenly felt magnanimous towards her. “I’m so glad you came out!”
“Well you seem happy, Linyl.” She scolded, swallowing the second syllable of his name in that hated way.
Lionel cringed.
“You don’t still have that damn cat, do you?”
“Cleo. Yeah, she’s going to be five.” Just hang on, he thought, she’ll be so impressed once she sees my creation!
“How you ended up with a cat I’ll never know.” She clucked her tongue again.
“Well, I told you before, Mom.” He kept his voice calm. “She was Allison’s cat, and when we broke up—”
“Why did you break up anyway?”
Lionel wasn’t going to let her get to him. “She left New York to go to law school and since she couldn’t take a cat to the dorms—”
“Why didn’t you go to law school,” his mother grumbled under her breath as she undid her scarf.
He took a breath and opened the door, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard her. “So I said I’d take Cleo. She had always liked me better anyway. Can I take your coat?” Lionel opened the door, and hung the black wool anorak on the row of hooks next to the closet, and went to stand next to his brand new wall, sheepish and proud, eagerly awaiting her accolades. “Uh-huh, well, you’ve got your father’s sense of decorating, that’s for sure.” She walked right past him into the bedroom, towards the window. Lights were coming on in the buildings nearby and the city was cast in a warm orange glow. He loved his uptown view.
“Your window sills are in terrible shape, Linyl, you should really get your super to fix them. Or you could do it——never mind,” she added with a snarky side eye. “I don’t think it’s quite your thing.”
Not his thing! Hadn’t he created a wall of unparalleled beauty?
“Linyl, where is your powder room? I’ve been driving for two and a half hours.”
This was the moment! He took a deep breath and indicated behind him in triumph. “Instead of a bathroom, may I show you this fabulous wall?”
“A wall? You want to show me a wall? Whatever for?”
“Because I made it!” He smiled but felt his face flush. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. It was beautiful, wasn’t it?
“What do you mean you made it?”
His bravado faltered, and his voice was smaller now. “I created it. I drywalled it.” He heard himself petulant and immature.
His mother quickly looked around the small one-bedroom. “Isn’t this where the bathroom should be?”
“Yes, but, Mom,” Lionel was pleading now. “Isn’t it perfect?”
“Well, it’s got a crack in it, if you want my honest opinion.”
Lionel turned around and it was true! There was a big crack going right down the center with tiny cracks radiating out from it. They must have appeared as the spackle dried. How could this have happened?
“A perfect wall?! Where do you go to the bathroom?” Then her eyes narrowed. “And why on earth would you seal it off?
He stared at his mother. How could she be so ungrateful? He’d done this for her! Couldn’t she see?
“Have you lost your mind, Linyl?”
He couldn’t take it anymore. He’d never once in his life contradicted her, but now his wrath turned outward, simmered and magnified, as he thought of how she’d treated him since he was a small child and decades of castrating anguish blazed in his chest.
He ran to the kitchen, picked up the heavy metal pot from the drying rack, and ran back, scaring Cleo, who bolted. He grunted as the pan slammed into his wall. Why couldn’t his mother just accept him for who he was? He’d been so eager for her to see him living on his own in the city finally, but she was just as disappointed in him as she’d always been, as she always would be. It was never good enough. No wonder he lacked the ambition to achieve. No wonder he had no real dreams. What was the point of dreaming?
As his fury boiled over, he attacked that wall like a storm, unleashing all his pent-up rage. First he was merely denting it, then under his hammering blows it began to give way and crumble—hunks of plaster crashing all around him. He thought of how she had criticized every person he’d ever dated, every friend, everything he’d said, or worn, and even when he was sick, she’d criticized his inability to get better faster. He slammed the pot into that chalky void, carving out great powdery blocks until the toilet and door were freed.
“There!” He stepped back in exhaustion. “There!” He screamed again in agony, in triumph. “There is my bathroom! GO!”
His mother’s eyebrows rocketed high above the purple frames of her glasses, and she blinked several times in silent surprise before stepping gingerly over the piles of gypsum littering the hallway.
Lionel stormed into the living room and paced back and forth in front of the couch trying to catch his breath.
“Well,” his mother said, emerging from the rubble, shaken, with a fine dusting of dried spackle sitting on the top of her crusted hair, “That was most dramatic, Linyl.” There it was again—that hateful word.
He whipped around. “Mother…” He clenched his fists but his voice remained calm. “I prefer my name to be pronounced ‘Lionel.’” He opened his mouth wide as if he were the lion, the three syllables ricocheting in his head, echoing, -ionel, -ionel, -ionel, until the sound of his voice faded into the volcanic crater between them.
“Well, Li-on-el,” she said at last, over-pronouncing the three syllables pointedly. “You must’ve worked up quite an appetite. Shall we go to dinner?”
Lionel exhaled. He brushed the white powder from his suit and held out his arm. She took it and looked at him for a moment before making the subtlest downward shift of her chin. It was a curt, begrudging gesture, the barest hint of a nod, but it was enough.
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Sarah Doudna’s writing has appeared in Cardinal Sins, Mojave Heart Review and the webzine Ducts.org. She teaches ballet and writes a blog called On the Way to the Barre. She is learning to play electric guitar and loves a good DIY project.
© Sarah Doudna, 2025
Halfway Down the Stairs 