by Pete Fromm
He sees her head dip as she looks down at herself.
“Well, clothes on. That’s a good sign.”
Not one word, Marnie says.
“Babysitter rules,” he says.
“Well, thank god for those, right?”
He pushes the handle of his cup to the side. Back. “Right,” he says.
“I—” she starts. Brushes her fingers through her hair until they snag. “Jesus,” she whispers.
She keeps her back to him. “Thanks,” she says. “For letting me crash. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Last night. None of it. I didn’t even know we were headed here till he banged into the curb.”
“No worries,” he says. “I know what he’s like.”
“Install or shop today?” she says.
“Either.”
She starts to breathe, deep, measured. “You think it’d maybe be possible for me to take a day off?”
“All yours. Paid. I’ll give you a lift home.” He stands up, rattles the keys out of his pocket.
She starts to say no, but he says, “In celebration. For the snakes being driven out.”
They’re quiet then. Her breathing filling the room.
“Um,” she says. “Is it okay if I puke here?”
Taz doesn’t quite keep in a laugh, but she’s serious, off and running.
“It’s fine,” he says.
He tries not to listen. Wonders if he should help.
Holding Marnie’s hair back for her in the first tri. Cleaning up.
He gives her a minute. Two.
“You okay?” he calls.
“Oh, good god,” she says. “I do not do puking.”
“You sound good at it.”
“Ha, ha.”
Taz puts his forehead against the table, holding in the laugh, listens to Midge bob, the grunt she makes pushing off in a new direction.
He hears the flush. A second one. The door opens, closes, the wobble-bladed wall fan whirring.
It’s a second before he recognizes the other sound. Their bedroom door closing, the click of the latch. Silence.
He waits. And waits. Nothing more. The house quiet. Even Midge barely babbling. Humming more like it.
He is so tired. He closes his eyes.
He sleeps at the table for maybe an hour, he isn’t really sure. Midge wakes him, not really crying, just tired of the Jump-Up, arms held up in the air, shouting. He pulls her out, does a finger check of the front of the diaper, a nose check to the rear. All good, he loads her into the car seat, takes off for the grocery store, rides Midge around in the cart, all those brightly lit, perfectly organized aisles.
He comes back with eggs, bread, butter; his old morning-after cure, fried-egg sandwich, lots of salt. He sets the bag on the counter, Midge on the floor, and she crawls straight off to the bedroom, calling, “Mama? Mama?”
“Elmo,” Taz corrects, whispering it really, and he sees her note on the counter, an apology, an “I’m mortified,” a, “HUGE babysitting violation.” The i’s are dotted with little shamrocks, and he can’t not smile.
“It won’t happen again, ever!” she promises, her last line, the ever underlined, and he picks up the note, sticks it on the fridge, under the church key magnet. Then he hears Midge, pushed up against the closed bedroom door, and realizes he’s hearing, too, the laundry going. The sheets, he’s sure of it.
Midge calls, “Mama?” and Taz says, “No, Midge. Just Elmo.”
DAY 255
Spring finally arrived, the day too gorgeous for anything else, Taz walks Midge through the park, her pointing from the stroller, at every single thing, like an untrained bird dog. He threads through the college kids, Midge narrating their every move, a constant string of babble. The girls bend into the stroller, coo, talk back to her. She points, calls them all Mama, and Taz can’t help hear an upturn at the end of every line. Mama? Mama? The boys stand back, impatient, watch, wait.
He is no longer of their species.
The only of their gang to take the plunge, tie the knot, Taz and Marn pretended they’d changed nothing. But getting pregnant wiped even pretending away. Marnie said they’d taken the critical step up the evolutionary ladder. Rudy disagreed. At the Club, where Taz made his announcement, Rudy held up his hands as if framing a headline. “Wild Man Becomes Mild Man,” he said. “Adios, amigo.” Taz had smiled, denied it up one side, down the other, ordered shots. He’d loved it. Couldn’t wait to be mild man, to withdraw further, him and Marnie and this new thing, their baby, their own world. Pull up the drawbridge. Flood the moat. Release the crocs.
And now he spends whatever downtime he gets at the park, all this urban stuff, the pock of tennis balls, the college kids winging the Frisbee, kids screeching in the freezing water in the spray pool. The lilacs are trying, the buds straining to burst, that fresh wet-dirt smell, and the swing chain, squealing with every back-and-forth, could use some WD, something Midge doesn’t give a rip about, waving for more anytime he thinks of slowing down. Nine times out of ten, he’s the only man there. If Rudy only knew.
He takes the long way home, a way they’ve never walked. New streets, houses, dogs. Taz pretending he has no idea where they’ll end up.
They find Elmo sitting on her listing porch. Book in her lap. Reading glasses.
She smiles, says, “Now there’s a surprise.”
Midge hoots, kicks, pulls against the seat belt like the Hulk.
“Just walking,” he says.
“Get lost?”
The stroller rocks. Midge shouting “Mama.” Or maybe it’s Momo.
“For christ’s sake,” Elmo says. “Release the beast.”
“You’re studying.”
“Oh, please.”
Struggling with the belt, trying to push Midge back to gain some slack, he hears the book hit the warped porch boards.
He sets Midge on the grass. She takes off. All hands and knees. It’ll be cartwheels next.
Elmo steps down, sits on the grass splay-legged, lets Midge climb right in, haul herself upright on her chest. “This your way of telling me I don’t have to come over today?”
“They’re still framing.”
“Finish your chairs?”
He nods. “I hate chairs. No way you can charge enough.”
She nods, too. He guesses he’s been over this. She takes Midge’s hands, gets her own feet under her, starts walking her in a circle, so close to taking off on her own without the handholding. “We could,” she says, “you know, take her out somewhere. Go up into the mountains or something.” She is looking at Midge, not him.
Taz eyes the porch roof. He says, “You know, I looked at this house once. When it was for sale.”
She rears back. “You’ve been inside my house?”
He smiles. “Every room. Those pink fixtures.”
“What’s not to love, right?”
“You know,” he starts. “I’ve got nothing to do for a while. I could fix the porch. Maybe get some rent knocked off for you.”
“Rent’s for nitwits,” she says. “No offense.” She smiles. “I’m a homeowner.”
Taz sees her there on the grass with his daughter. “How—”
“Tips,” she says. “Babysitting money. Mortgage up the ass.”
“Well, then, for sure I can work on it for you.”
“I don’t have the money.”
He lifts his eyebrows, says, “Seriously?” trying to get her intonation right.
“I’m working on it,” she says. “When I can.” As Midge leads, Elmo’s bent over her, a near ninety at the waist that makes Taz’s back ache. She turns Midge toward the porch. “Come on in,” she says. “I’ll show you around.”
She picks Midge up, carries her over the stairs, through the screen door. Taz follows.
She’s painted the bricks, the fireplace. It’s the first thing he sees. White. He hears Marnie; Who the hell paints brick? But the wall is rust, and he has to admit, it looks nice. All her work is paint, some stenciling. Surface stuff. She points an
d waves. Vanna White.
Taz follows along. She dodges the bedroom, swings the door shut. “Hazmat site,” she says.
They glance in the bath. Taz says, “We could start here. New fixtures. Well, not new, but, you know, white anyway.”
“You don’t like the pink? The flowers?”
He’d forgotten the daisy stickers. Not me, Marnie says.
“Well,” he says. “The kitchen. I could make some cabinets. Glass doors maybe.”
“So people can see the crap I eat? I don’t think so.”
“Okay, raised panel. Go classic.”
“No,” she says. “I think I’m okay, really.”
“I owe you,” he says. “All that cleaning I failed to notice. I can start tomorrow.”
“You don’t owe me a thing,” she says.
“All the sick stuff? That’s not in your job description.”
“The drunk drop-in/hangover ward? Not in yours.”
“I owe you huge,” he says. “Honestly.”
She pulls at her lip, scans the old cabinets, the coats of paint thick enough to soften lines, pool in the corners of the panels. “Thanks,” she says. “But it’ll be a rental soon enough. It’s not really worth it. Makes more sense to work on yours. Your own kitchen. Bath. I could even help.” She pulls her muscle pose.
“Rental?” he says.
“You know. Finish school. Get a job. Start a life.”
Taz stands, blindsided. “Oh yeah,” he manages. “That.”
She purses her lips, looks down at Midge as if surprised to find herself holding her. She walks her out of the kitchen. “If I set you down here, baby,” she says, “who knows what disease you’d catch.”
Midge storms the couch, pulls herself up. Slaps at the cushions.
“Watch the dust,” Elmo says.
Taz doesn’t hear the steps on the porch. Just Rudy’s voice through the screen. “Hey, Mo, you home?”
“Yeah, Rudy,” she says. “Just giving Taz the tour.”
“Davis?” he says, swinging open the door, walking in. “I should have known,” he says. “The stroller out there.”
“You’re a genius, Rude,” Taz says.
Midge beats the cushion. Shuffles down to the end, eyes the abyss between the couch and the chair. Teeters. Shouts, “Du!”
“There’s this concert at the park,” Rudy says. “Like seventy-two tubas or something. I thought you might want to check it out.”
“Given my oompah background?”
“Right.”
“When?”
Rudy glances toward the watch he doesn’t own. “Now, pretty much, I guess. It was in the paper. The bandstand.”
“You still reading my neighbor’s paper?” Taz says.
“My neighbor’s. You in?”
Taz holds his hand down for Midge to grab. Just his thumb. She sets off, swinging like Tarzan and Cheeta. “I’ve got to get her home,” he says. “Big day already, cruising the city. Nap time chugging down the line.”
“She could sleep at the park,” Elmo says.
“With seventy tubas?”
“Seventy-two,” Rudy says.
Taz lifts Midge. She struggles away. Squawks. Not her happy one.
He carries her outside, sets her in the stroller, wrestles again, getting her strapped in. She yells. Elmo holds the handles for him. He sees her squeeze the bag. Feel the bottle in there. “Come on,” she says. “Feed her, she’ll sleep through the Second Coming.”
“Think about it,” he says. “Just the porch. Curbside appeal. Might get you more rent.”
“Let you know,” she says.
He leaves her there, gives Rudy the over-the-shoulder wave.
He turns right at the corner, instead of left, walks all the way back to the park though Midge truly is wearing out. Fussing. He unzips the bag, lets her hold the bottle herself, stops when it hits the sidewalk, Midge like a passed-out teenager slumped in the seat.
There’s a little crowd starting to fill in around the bandshell, the oldsters with their camp chairs. Others pulling tubas out of their enormous cases. A couple tuning blurts from a horn here and there. It’d be a disaster, these guys cranking up, shocking Midge out of her nap.
At the corner behind the shell, he turns and heads for home, the empty house.
DAY 257
Monday after lunch, when her classes start. The truck loaded the night before. His dad’s old log stuff. Jacks. Beams. He’s down the block when she leaves. Watches her go. Rolls forward. Marn says only, Creepy.
He sets Midge up in the yard in the playpen. Drops in toys. She stands holding the edge. Watches him set up the ladders, walk the beam up under the porch roof. Post each end.
He turns the jack. Slowly. Judges the creaking. Watches layers of paint crack. Goes up the ladder with the level twice, a third time. Steps back down, tears out the existing posts, finds rotten wood. Not just the planking, but the deck joists. He picks at them with the claw of his hammer. Tears out chunks as if he’s whacking Styrofoam.
“Shit.”
He scrapes out the footing blocks. Finds what he knew he would, not much bigger than coffee cans.
Normally this is when he’d hire Rudy. But he can’t really afford to be doing this at all. He calls anyway, guesses he’ll volunteer. Guesses it might help even, if she finds the two of them here. He leaves a message.
He gets the shovel. Digs. The wheelbarrow. The premix sacks. Finds her water. Hose. Builds footings that won’t budge. Looks over his shoulder for Rudy.
He’s on his knees, troweling the concrete, Midge snoozing in the playpen in the shade, when he hears her behind him. “I suppose I should be all excited,” she says.
He keeps working. “I’d hope so.”
He raises up the last of the fines, smoothing, making it more finished than he normally would, a footing. Waiting.
“You can’t just tear the front off somebody’s house,” Elmo says. “You know, without asking.”
He smiles. “I did ask.”
“You know,” he says. “I am going to put it back.”
“Well, yeah, I’d hope so.”
He hears her walk to the playpen. “Looks like she’s had fun.”
“She loves installs,” he says.
He can’t even pretend there’s more smoothing to be done. He sits back on his heels, stretches. Turns to look at her. Finds her with her back to the playpen, studying him.
“Once this sets, tomorrow, I can put in permanent posts. Treated ones. That won’t rot. I’ll wrap them. Tapered.” He points across the street. “Kind of like that.”
“And you never once thought to ask?”
He dips his head to one shoulder. “It’s bugged me,” he says. “Ever since we first looked at this place.”
“We didn’t look at this place.” She is not smiling. “You did once. Then I did.”
He’s usually more careful with his pronouns. “I know,” he says.
“It’s not your house.”
“I know.”
“This is not cool.”
Taz looks down at his concrete. “I just thought I could kind of repay everything—”
“You don’t owe me a thing. I have a job. We have a deal.”
He stands up. Hoses off his trowel, then keeps going, the wheelbarrow, the shovel. His water shuts off halfway through.
He looks up. She’s standing, hose kinked in her hands.
He says, “I’ll make it look exactly like it used to then. Except without the sag.”
“Or you could ask me what I want.”
He waits. “What do you want?”
“To be asked.”
He drops the hose, wheels the barrow toward the truck.
“You know, this is something Tazmo and Rude should be knocking out.”
He runs the barrow up the plank. Stands in the bed of the truck.
“Bring Midge over tomorrow. The three of us can take turns with her. You can show me how to make those pillars.”
�
��Okay.”
She lets go of the hose, the water cannoning, the nozzle whipping. She jumps out of its way, but, Taz notices, keeps herself between the spray and Midge. Once the surge dies out, the hose still, she moves out into the sun. She shields her eyes, looking up at him.
“Why don’t you go home?” she says. “Take a shower, clean up. I’ll bring Midge over later. You can make us dinner.”
He’s still standing in the bed of his truck. Hands desiccated from the concrete. He scrapes them against the thighs of his jeans. “Okay,” he says, and Rudy pulls up, jumps out of his truck, pulls a cooler out of the back. “Am I late?” he says. He holds up the cooler. “Had to stop for beer.”
He looks back and forth between Taz and Elmo, lowers the cooler. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I’ve been parked down the block the whole time. Waiting.” He glances at Taz. “You know I hate concrete.”
Elmo says, “We’re all done for the day. Dinner at Taz’s, though.”
“Perfect!” Rudy says.
DAY 263
It takes only a few days with the three of them. Then a few more in his shop, on his own. Rudy comes over to help babysit. He considers flat-paneling the posts, tells her, but it’d be too much, she says, wouldn’t really fit the house. He goes back to look at it. At dusk. When she won’t see. She’s right.
With Elmo watching after class, Rudy out in the yard with Midge, Taz cuts the tapers, joins three sides in the shop. They drive it all over to Elmo’s, and they biscuit and clamp the fourth on sight, wrapping the posts. She climbs the ladder, holds the other end of the fascia board, which is usually Rudy’s job, but he’s taken Midge to the park, experimenting with the baby-as-girl-magnet hypothesis.
Elmo lets him add some detail up high. No gingerbread, but just half-inch rectangular blocking, a pattern, some relief.
She does the painting. Careful. Drop cloths. Primer. Color, field, trim.
He realizes, halfway through, that his shoulders have been tensed, waiting, but as soon as Rudy’s back, she tells Taz to go home, that she’ll call him for the unveiling. She sends Rudy home, too, says she can’t pay him, and that nobody works for free. Rudy glances to Taz, lifts an eyebrow, and says, “I do. All the time.”