Note: I wrote this last summer, but haven’t had luck in publishing it. Hope you enjoy!
The man was taking much too long for such a small job. For the last three and a half hours, Ingrid had heard a whining blast from the opposite end of the house, punctuated by sporadic cracks of a hammer. And now on top of everything, her stomach was growling. Pressing a hand to her belly, she thought longingly about swallowing her favorite veggie soup in slow, measured spoonfuls, dipping chunks of sourdough into her bowl. But she wasn’t about to enter the kitchen while the man perched on a stepladder inches from the table and showered her with clouds of dust. Anyway, he was bound to finish soon or take a break.
Propped on her brocaded chair in the downstairs master, she tried to focus on the mystery novel in her lap. Surely by the time she finished another chapter, he’d be done. But after a few minutes, the shriek of the electric sander and the dull ache in her stomach proved too distracting, and she croaked, “Oh, for God’s sake!”
She imagined her late husband scolding, “Inga! Why are you hiding here like a mouse in your own home?” A thin compression of his lips, the familiar quick shake of his head.
Investigate, she told herself. Find out what he’s doing, ask how much longer he’ll be. Hoisting herself up, she lumbered shakily to her feet. Her reading glasses slipped from her nose and bounced from their chain over her breasts. At the double doors, she peered into the marble foyer, where sunlight illuminated the balustrade of the wide, curved staircase. Her orange cat scampered around the corner and into the bedroom. From the kitchen echoed a solid thwack of metal against wood and then the shrill, incessant hum of the sander.
Cautiously, she shuffled down the foyer toward the family room. Each step cost her in ragged gasps, and she paused to catch her breath. Her doctor had advised her to lose weight and avoid sodium on account of her hypertension and a new, concerning tachycardia he’d warned could be atrial fibrillation at her advanced age. Now her heart gave an erratic kick, and for a brief, dreadful moment, she felt dizzy. Bracing a hand against the wall, she forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly, as the nurse had demonstrated, until the lightheaded feeling passed.
After half a dozen more labored steps, Ingrid reached the family room and gazed down its length to the adjacent white-tiled kitchen. The man was balancing on the stepladder, sanding the inner frame of the door between the kitchen and patio. She glimpsed the back of his dusty tee shirt and blue jeans. With a sigh, she realized he would never hear her, let alone see her; she would have to keep going. Panting, she padded across the Oriental rug, past the paintings, leather sofa and loveseat, mahogany coffee table. At last she was in the kitchen, standing directly behind him. As she considered how to catch his attention, she noticed mounded pillows of sand on the kitchen tile, swirls of fine particles along the edges of the family room hardwoods.
“Excuse me,” she tried, but her voice emerged in a windy squeak, and he didn’t turn.
“Hello,” she called, louder. The sander’s whir swallowed her words.
Nervously she approached the side of the stepladder. The man had metallic-slivered sideburns and reeked of sweat. Worried about startling him into falling, she waved, tentatively, hoping he would spy her from his peripheral vision.
“Hello,” she repeated, and this time he turned toward her with a jerk and immediately shut off the sander.
“Didn’t see you,” he muttered. The sander, which reminded Ingrid of a bulky clothes iron, dangled at his side.
When she looked squarely at his face, she recoiled in shock. He must have been in his forties or early fifties, but his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his skin had a gray pallor, as if he suffered from an illness. On second glance, she realized he was coated in grime and detritus from the door. He had a small paunch, and the top of his head was bald and shiny. A grizzled beard sprouted around his chin.
“I wanted to see how you were getting on,” she said, her voice gruff and shaky. Taking a big breath, she grasped a column by the door for balance.
He shrugged. “Turned out to be a little tricky. Top part of the door broke away from the frame, so I had to nail the jamb back in place, and that caused it to sit too high, so I’m sanding it down.”
His explanation reminded her of the jargon that Elliott, a Vice President at IBM, had used when describing something at work. She had rarely paid attention. Perhaps mistaking her blank face for confusion, the man climbed down the ladder, wiping his free hand on his jeans, and she took a step backward. Before he could launch another explanation, she raised a hand. “How long will it be?”
“Ma’am?”
“When do you expect to finish?”
“Not sure. A day? Could be two.”
She gaped at him, and he said, “I can leave and come back, if that’s easier for you.” A quick twist of his lips.
She coughed, struggling for breath, and finally heaved herself into a chair at the kitchen table. “I don’t understand,” she managed. “I thought it was a simple job. I thought it just needed to be sanded until it opens and shuts more easily.”
He shook his head grimly. “Nope. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, ma’am. I had to hammer deck screws to bolt the jamb to the frame, cause regular nails are too short. Also, I’ve got to go slowly so I don’t shave off too much and leave a big gap.”
Disappointment lapped through her in tiny waves as she realized not only would she not enjoy a peaceful lunch, she wouldn’t have an orderly kitchen for at least a day, best case.
“What would you like me to do?” the man asked. “You want me to finish this sometime later?” He watched her.
She blinked and looked away, searching for a logical way forward. Elliott had always handled the handymen and house projects. Not long before he died unexpectedly of a stroke, he’d even arranged for the roof to be replaced. Two days after his memorial service, Ingrid had woken to a distant hammering and clattering, and realized, after pulling on her housecoat and peeking through the curtains, he had come through one last time - the new roof his posthumous gift.
Although it was a matter of time before something in the house would fail and require attention, Ingrid had avoided considering that certainty. Sure enough, when her grandchildren had visited over summer break, the door between the kitchen and patio had begun to stick as they galloped in and out of the house. Jessica, Ingrid’s daughter, had rationalized it was swelling because of the humidity and would return to normal in cooler weather. But now, in late September, the door had continued to stick to the point that Ingrid could no longer enjoy her morning coffee on the patio among the trees and birds. In exasperation, she’d phoned the first handyman she’d found in the mail services pamphlet.
The man cleared his throat, and when Ingrid glanced up, his face was drawn and impatient, and she knew she needed to say something. “If you leave now, when would you come back?” she asked.
His eyes went wide, and he laid the sander on the floor. “Don’t know. I’ve got a couple other jobs to finish this week, so it might not be till early next.”
She released a long sigh.
“And here’s another problem,” he said, his eyes acquiring a cunning look that made her suddenly afraid.
“What?”
“See here, the door won’t close now.” He demonstrated by swinging the door on its hinge toward the frame.
“Won’t close?” she cried. “Why?”
“When I nailed the jamb to the frame, it raised the top of the door, so now it’s a little too high. That’s why I’ve got to sand it.”
She swallowed as comprehension slowly dawned. Pull yourself together, Inga, she warned. Imitating the brisk tone Elliott had used with service providers, she said, “Then I need you to finish it today. I can’t have a door that won’t close.”
A smirk crawled around his mouth. “No, ma’am, I didn’t expect you could. Wouldn’t be safe.”
As soon as he said it, she shuddered. How could she have painted herself into such a corner, made herself so utterly vulnerable?
“Can you finish today?” she asked, trying to keep anxiety from creeping into her voice.
He studied her, his eyes smug and confident. “That’s my aim.”
“Then I’ll let you work in peace.” Her hands trembled. She tried to stand, but she couldn’t push onto her feet in time and sank down heavily into her chair.
Suddenly the man was beside her, his hand on her elbow. She flinched, whiffing the pungent odor of his sweat and a stale cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes. “Go ahead, I’ve got you,” he said. His fingers tightened around her elbow.
“I..I can’t,” she said. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to be ushered from her own kitchen, as though she were the visitor. The woozy feeling returned, and she closed her eyes, letting her chin sag toward the table. Inside her lids, she saw bright, exploding dots.
“Ma’am?” the man was saying. His voice seemed to come from far away, from the other end of the house. “Are you all right?”
Oh, this was bad. Her heart was going fast, tapping out an irregular rhythm. Worse, she was alone with this stranger, at his mercy. An array of horrors whirled, kaleidoscope-like, through her head. He could rape her, but probably not, as she was eighty years old, and he’d likely be disinterested. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of; she’d read of such cases. But more likely, he could rob her, take her pocketbook and ransack her jewelry, while leaving her door broken, and she’d never be able to do a thing. After all, she’d picked him out of a pamphlet… Honeydo Man, which might not even be a real business. For that matter, she didn’t even know his actual name. Or, and she gulped hard, he could rob and kill her.
“Can you hear me?”
She forced herself to open an eye and mustered her voice. “Yes. I’m just a little tired, is all.”
“I can help you to bed, if you’d like.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’ll stay here. Was just going to heat up some soup.”
“I’ll hold off using the sander. Maybe do it by hand. My mother used to get bad migraines, and any little noise made it worse.”
“I don’t have a migraine,” she said, and peeked at him. He was rocking on his heels, eyes lowered, hands in pockets.
“Like some water?”
“I can get it.” She tried to lift her head, but the tiny dots swarmed in front of her, and her heart was still racing, her face flushed. She attempted several steadying breaths.
“No, you can’t,” the man said firmly. “Wait here.” A rustling as he opened cabinets, then the rushing of water at the sink. She wanted to protest, but knew she was too weak.
“Here.” She heard a tiny clink as he set the glass on the table.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She tried to draw herself up, and suddenly a bear-like paw wrapped around her head, bringing the glass to her lips. Obediently, she swallowed.
“Want me to call someone?” he asked quietly, his voice too close. “Relative or neighbor?”
The terrible truth was she had no one close enough to help. She didn’t know the neighbors; she left the house too infrequently, and those who’d been here when they moved in almost twenty years ago had since left. Jim, her eldest, was over three hundred miles away, and they’d barely spoken since Elliott’s funeral. She guessed Jim somehow blamed her for Elliott’s death, though he’d never admit it. And Jessica was on the opposite coast, up near Seattle, in no position to speed over at a moment’s notice. During her summer visit, she’d casually mentioned a new assisted living home in North Raleigh with a big cafeteria and spacious rooms. But before her daughter could go on, Ingrid had silenced her, warning they would not talk of this. Not now, possibly never.
At the table, Ingrid shook her head, corralled every ounce of strength to raise her head and meet the man’s eyes. The dots receded, and she took another deep breath, willing her heart rate to return to normal. “I’m better now. It was just a little dizzy spell.”
The man watched her, obviously unconvinced. “You sure?”
“Yes, of course.” She waved a hand. “Go on with what you were doing. Please.”
He squinted at the door. “If I sand by hand, it’ll go slower, but at least I won’t overshoot. It won’t make near as much noise, either.”
When he cast her a look, she nodded and took another sip. To her relief, he riffled through a toolbox by the wall and removed a sanding block. Funny how she’d read him wrong. She saw now he was just an ordinary guy, not much older than Jim.
“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
He glanced up. “Al.”
“Al,” she repeated. “Thank you for helping me.”
He scoured the block against the door frame in steady strokes. “My mother used to get migraines and dizzy spells.”
She started to say it wasn’t a migraine. He continued rubbing the block with strong, swift movements. She could only see the side of his face, perspiration glistening on his brow. After a while, she decided she was well enough to stand and get her soup, though admittedly, she’d feel awkward eating while he worked.
She fumbled around the cabinet for a bowl, retrieved the tub of homemade carrot, potato, and pea soup from the fridge. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked suddenly.
“Ma’am?” He stopped sanding, the block suspended above the door frame.
She repeated the question, and he glanced at the brown tub on the counter and shook his head. “No thanks.”
She wanted to protest it wouldn’t be right for him to skip lunch and work on an empty stomach. Then again, he would probably charge her an exorbitant fee for his time, including his missed lunch; undoubtedly he assumed she was rich. But in truth, she’d only ever been upper middle class at most. She and Elliott hadn’t even come close to the same income bracket as those snobs with live-in housekeepers, let alone the New York bankers with homes in the Hamptons.
Still, she was aware her house might appear opulent with its tapestries, Oriental rugs, glass figurines, paintings, marble and hardwood floors - windfalls from Elliott’s IBM pension and stock options, their own lucky dabbles in the stock market. Foolish trinkets for an old lady to own, when at this age, she knew, she should be reducing her clutter, giving away baubles to her children and grandchildren, not hoarding with the abandonment of a woman who had decades ahead of her.
“How about some sourdough bread?” she asked.
“I love sourdough. I’ll have a slice if you can spare it.”
Beaming, she arranged two large hunks onto a plate, topped them with butter, set them on the table at Elliott’s old place. The microwave beeped, and she removed the soup and sat.
“I guess it would be rude to eat standing up,” Al said, plopping into Elliott’s chair. “Tastes good,” he added, chewing.
“It’s from the Harris Teeter down the road.” She was grateful he didn’t watch her while she savored her soup; it made eating near him less awkward. Recalling a topic that had often animated Elliott in the same chair where Al sat, she ventured, “My husband would say you’re unusual.”
Al raised a brow. After a moment, he said, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Ingrid chose her words carefully. “Because you seem like a hard worker.”
Al picked up the remaining piece of bread and stuffed a chunk into his mouth.
“Elliott says a lot of people would rather go on government assistance than hold a job. He read in The Wall Street Journal it’s gotten tough to hire restaurant workers, ‘cause they make more by sitting home and getting government checks.” Elliott had frequently complained that blue collar workers were lazy, eager to stretch out a hand for a check and sit on their behinds all day, while government programs enabled their sloth. He’d insisted he’d held jobs every summer he was in school - washing dishes or mowing lawns, no matter whether it paid peanuts. Had boasted he didn’t slack until the day he retired.
Al swallowed the last chunk of bread and stared at her. His face had gone wary, as though he’d detected something dangerous in her.
“Of course, that’s only what he thinks,” she spoke into the lengthening silence.
Al rose, scraping Elliott’s chair back on its legs. “My daughter waits tables at an Italian chain. Half the customers don’t tip, or they tip real lousy. If she’s lucky, she might make thirty dollars a day on top of minimum wage. She’s on her feet for hours, moving nonstop. Works her ass off.”
At the word “ass,” Ingrid reflexively drew back.
“It’s thankless work.” He enunciated each word, slowly and loudly, as though Ingrid were a young child. A glob of spit flew from his lips and landed on her arm.
She dabbed it with her napkin, then looked up cautiously. Al was staring into the family room at the fireplace. Not knowing what else to do, Ingrid scooped up his empty plate, hobbled to the sink. She hadn’t finished her soup, but her appetite had vanished, and she didn’t think she could eat another bite.
When Ingrid turned to retrieve her bowl, Al’s jaw was steely. His gaze swept coldly down her body, and she shivered as if he’d seen her naked - potbelly; wrinkled, sagging breasts; fat jiggling under pale arms; gray wiry hair between flaccid thighs.
“Course,” he said, “That’s not something all folks would know.” His eyes slid away and traveled slowly from the kitchen to the family room, settling with a mocking smile on the oil painting above the mantelpiece. Instantly Ingrid saw herself under his penetrating stare and knew what he meant: She wouldn’t know, because she had it easy.
Admittedly, this house wasn’t the fruit of her own labors; it had been custom built with Elliott’s investments and earnings. In turn, her late husband had gotten a leg up from his father; those part-time jobs he’d worked as a kid were for pocket change. At IBM, Elliott had been well compensated - hadn’t lifted more than a few fingers at his laptop to order his staff to execute his plans. Now the house was a comforting reminder of their shared life and triumphant ascent to retirement. Ingrid couldn’t bear the thought of moving to a cramped room in one of those smelly senior assisted living homes, even the new one Jessica had mentioned, couldn’t stomach the hassle of sorting through her things and deciding what to toss, what to keep.
As Al stooped to pick up the sander block, Ingrid hugged her chest. True, she’d been unreasonably afraid of him. Elliott, too, would have suspected this man would take advantage of her ignorance and con her. And yet Al had helped her when she’d fallen ill moments earlier.
She limped to the fridge, shoved the bowl into the stainless steel cavern. Not wanting to face him yet, she pretended to arrange other containers, taking her time. When Ingrid finally swung around, Al was hovering on the third rung of the ladder, his profile furrowed in concentration. She searched for something to say, a small olive branch to show she appreciated his help and wasn’t as oblivious to his plight or his daughter’s as he must think.
Ingrid started to call his name, but Al was sanding with determination and didn’t look up. A breath of air whooshed from her body. She had the sudden, strange thought that she had missed out on something important, like a one-time invitation to a family reunion she had turned down. Ingrid’s pulse thundered in her chest. She waited until it slowed, then shuffled down the hall toward her bedroom.