She was wearing a blouse he recognized: the white one with little purple flower things all over it, the one she’d worn the first time she let him touch her breasts. He remembered fumbling with the little plastic buttons in the cramped back seat of his mom’s Datsun and pulling open that thin material to reveal the smooth velvety bra beneath. It was a moment of his life he would never forget.
Tonight, someone new was going to be unbuttoning that blouse.
Steve no longer wanted to see the movie. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be back in his bedroom, in the comfort of his bed, far away from Cheryl and her studly new boyfriend who, in the car after the movie, was probably going to take off that bra, gently massage her pert little breasts, and then, as he was kissing her, sneak his hand down her pants and slide a finger inside her.
Maybe she’d let him do more than that.
He felt sick to his stomach. Right at that moment, Cheryl happened to glance in his direction, and for a second their eyes locked. She looked away, but not before he saw the expression of satisfaction on her face. She made a big show of kissing the new guy, and Steve turned his head.
Brian must have seen it, too. “Hey, isn’t that—?” he began, pointing.
Steve knocked his hand down. “Yeah,” he said. “Ignore her.”
Brian and Roland exchanged glances, but neither of them said anything. Once inside, in their seats, in the center of the theater far away from the back row where Cheryl and the guy with the hair had stationed themselves, Roland leaned over and whispered, “Fuck her, man. She’s a bitch. You’re better off without her.”
It was still too soon. He wanted to agree with his friend, but his first impulse was still to defend her, and he forced himself to pretend as though he didn’t care one way or the other and simply nodded.
The movie was good (Great! both Roland and Brian excitedly pronounced on the way out), but Steve had a hard time focusing on it. All he could think about was Cheryl, and it took every ounce of willpower in his body not to turn around during the show and try to see what she was doing. Afterward, they went to Pup ‘n’ Taco to get some drinks and fries, and talk about the flick. Pup ‘n’ Taco was the Friday night hangout for kids from their school, but neither Cheryl nor her date showed up at the fast food joint, and Steve couldn’t help wondering where they were.
They left Pup ‘n’ Taco, and after an hour of aimless cruising, the three of them decided to call it a night. Brian, who had borrowed his parents’ station wagon, was the driver, and he dropped Steve off first. “Sorry about Cheryl, man,” he said as Steve got out.
“Me, too,” Roland told him.
Steve waved them away, pretending it was nothing, though they all knew it wasn’t. He slammed the door shut, then cringed as his friends peeled out loudly, knowing that in the morning he’d get an earful about that from old Mr. Hopkins next door.
The house was dark, the driveway empty. His parents were gone, at a party with friends, so he walked around to the back of the house to get the extra key his dad kept hidden under a rock. As soon as he opened the side gate, however, he sensed movement, a man-sized shadow that disassociated itself from the house and started across the backyard.
Steve’s heart leaped in his chest, and a vision of the alien popped into his head. He was about to turn and run, when the man drew closer, waving at him.
Mr. Walton.
The handyman.
Steve stood nervously in place while the man approached. What was he doing here when no one was home? Especially at this hour. Was he planning to rob the house? His parents had hired Mr. Walton to put in a new sprinkler system, and though Steve hadn’t said anything, it seemed to be taking a long time to finish the project, and he thought his parents were getting rooked.
Now the man was lurking around the backyard in the middle of the night? Something was definitely not right about this, and Steve was fully prepared to run like hell, screaming his head off, if anything weird happened.
Mr. Walton stepped closer. He was wearing his usual attire, what looked like an engineer’s uniform: black-and-white pin-striped overalls with matching cap. It was odd in the daytime but downright creepy at night. “Your friends dropped you off, huh?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. It was the first time Mr. Walton had talked to him, which made this conversation all the stranger.
The only thing he wanted was for the man to leave so he could get the key out from under the rock and go inside.
There was a long awkward pause. “I can give you a ride if you ever need one,” the handyman said. “Plenty of room in my pickup.”
Alarms were going off in Steve’s head. This wasn’t just a little creepy. It was full out Polanski, and he was about ready to haul ass when Mr. Walton brought things back from the brink. “I finished those back sprinklers today. Put them on a night timer to help your parents save water. I just wanted to check and make sure they were working.”
Steve nodded. It was plausible. And it did explain why the man was here at this hour.
But Steve still didn’t believe him.
Mr. Walton smiled, and in the darkness his teeth looked too white. “I’ll get out of your hair now. Let your parents know that everything seems to be working. I’ll be back in the morning to finish off the front.”
Steve stood there, unmoving, watching him go. He was surprised when the man reached the sidewalk and started walking down the street. Where was that pickup? Maybe he had parked down the block.
Or maybe he was homeless and spent his nights wandering the city, looking over the odd jobs he’d done.
The thought didn’t seem as ludicrous as it should have.
Steve waited a few more minutes to make sure the handyman wasn’t going to return before heading into the backyard to get the extra key from under the rock. He quickly let himself in and locked the door behind him, turning on every light in the house. Placing the key on the kitchen counter so his dad could put it back under the rock later, Steve frowned. Where was Harpo? He looked around. The cat always came out to meet him when he walked inside, but tonight the house was silent, and there was no sign of the tabby.
“Harpo!” Steve called.
Silence.
That was weird.
He opened the cupboard and took out the Friskies box, shaking it. That always made Harpo come running, but this time there was no response.
“Harpo!” He walked from room to room, looking under furniture, opening closets.
Nothing.
The front door opened as his parents returned, and the sound made him jump.
“Steve,” his mom said, surprised, “what are you doing up?”
“Harpo’s gone,” he said accusingly. “You let him out.”
His dad had the pleasant, half-amused tone that indicated he was drunk. “He was sleeping on the couch when we left. We didn’t let him out.”
“He was,” Mom confirmed.
“Well, he’s not here now. He must have gotten out somehow—”
The handyman.
Steve cut himself off in mid-sentence. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Mr. Walton may not have had a key to the house, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have found some way to let the cat out. He wanted to tell his parents that he had encountered the man in the backyard tonight, but something kept him from it.
“Harpo’s around,” his dad said. “We’ll find him in the morning.” Giving a distracted wave, he started down the hall.
Disgusted, and more than a little worried, Steve went into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
By the next morning, there was still no sign of Harpo, and the family spent until noon searching the house, yard and nearby neighborhood with no luck. Mr. Walton did return to finish the front sprinklers, and this time he came in that pickup truck he’d mentioned. Where had the truck been last night? Steve wondered.
; After lunch, they went to the pound to see if anyone had found Harpo and turned him in, but no one had, and though Steve helped his mom make flyers and put them up on trees and telephone poles around the neighborhood, he’d already begun to resign himself to the fact that their cat was probably gone for good.
It was a quiet, depressing dinner they had that evening, and after halfheartedly watching TV for awhile, Steve decided to turn in early and go to bed.
****
The sprinklers came on in the middle of the night.
With his windows open to let in the cool air, Steve heard the sprinklers the instant they started, the tss-tss-tss sound loud enough to awaken him from a fairly deep sleep. But that wasn’t what caused him to sit up. There was a splashing/dripping noise as well, and even before he knew what it was, he knew it was not supposed to be there. Opening his eyes and looking over at the source, he saw, backlit by the street lamp in front of the house, water shooting through his window screen, hitting his drapes and dripping onto his desk below.
With a cry, he bounded out of bed, pulled the cord to open the curtains and slammed shut his window.
But not before he could see, outside, on the grass, behind the sprinklers, the silhouette of Mr. Walton.
Steve quickly shut the drapes. He told himself that the man had only come to make sure everything was working properly, although he knew that was a lame rationalization. The handyman could have and should have tested the timers before leaving earlier today. He also should have tested the arc of the sprinklers to make sure water wouldn’t hit the house.
But he hadn’t.
Or maybe he had.
Steve had the feeling that the sprinklers had been specifically set to hit his bedroom window, and that the man had come over tonight to watch it happen.
Was he still out there?
Steve was afraid to look. In even, ten-second intervals, spray hit the glass, the splashing sound even louder than before. In the spaces in between, the drip-drop of water from the soaked curtain continued to dribble onto his desk.
Why was the handyman doing this? Steve had no idea, but seeing Mr. Walton out there tonight, after that bizarre encounter the previous evening, left him feeling like a frightened little kid. He thought of calling for his parents, but he knew he was too old for that, and the prospect of embarrassment was more of a deterrent than his fear was an incentive. Hopping back into bed, he pulled the covers over his head, plugging his ears with his fingers so he couldn’t hear the sound of the water hitting the window. It seemed as though an hour had passed, and his fingers were tired, by the time he finally fell asleep again.
****
In the morning, he lay in bed after he awoke, not knowing how to tell his parents that the sprinkler had come through his window in the middle of the night and soaked his drapes and desk. They would blame him, even though it was not his fault, lecturing him that he should have kept his window closed, that he should not have put his desk by the window in the first place, that he had done something wrong.
Steve could hear them in the kitchen, chatting in alternating currents beneath the monotonic drone of the news radio they listened to while eating breakfast. It would be easier to tell his dad, Steve decided. His old man wouldn’t care as much about the drapes and might understand that the real problem was that Mr. Walton had screwed up the alignment of the sprinklers, a distinction that would probably make no difference to his mom. He’d just wait until she went to the bathroom or something, and catch his dad alone.
Steve sat up in bed and looked toward his desk. He’d been hoping the damage wouldn’t be as bad as he feared, but he could see in the morning light that it was actually worse. Water had ruined the books and papers on top of his desk, and sitting puddles had already discolored sections of the wood. He should’ve gotten a paper towel and wiped all that up last night. Now it was too late.
His parents stopped talking, and moments later he heard the click of the front door being unlocked. His dad was going outside to get the newspaper, and Steve leaped out of bed, pulling on his pants. His old man had to walk all the way across the lawn to the sidewalk where the paperboy threw the paper, then walk all the way back to the house. If he intercepted him in time, he could point out the errant sprinkler and explain what had happened without his mom getting involved at all. If his dad was the one to tell his mom about it, he might even get off scot free.
He hurried down the hall, through the living room and pushed open the screen door—
Just in time to see his dad trip over a raised metal sprinkler, fall forward and hit his head on another sprinkler.
He lay still, bleeding into the grass, onto the lawn.
“Dad!” Steve rushed forward, calling for his mother even as he did so. “Mom! Mom!”
The whole neighborhood probably heard him, but he didn’t care. He just hoped that somebody had the presence of mind to call an ambulance. He couldn’t do it because he had to see if his dad was okay—
still alive
—and he dropped to his knees, grateful to hear a wet gurgling sound coming from his father’s throat. The sound was horrifying, but at least it meant that his dad wasn’t dead. He tried to roll his dad over, away from the sprinkler, so he could see the damage, but it was harder than he thought it would be, and when he did finally manage to roll his dad onto his back, blood gushed from his split forehead. Steve put his hand over the wound to try and stop the bleeding, but the feeling of warm sticky wetness made him gag.
He was still screaming for his mom. She had come out by now and was running over, as was Mr. Hopkins from next door and Mr. Gonzalez from across the street. His mom took over the first aid, pushing Steve aside and wadding up the hem of her bathrobe, pressing it against the wound to staunch the blood flow.
Had someone called for an ambulance?
Now that his mom was here, he no longer had to yell for her, so he started shouting, “Someone call an ambulance! Someone call an ambulance!”
His hands were wet and sticky with blood. He wiped them on the grass, not wanting to get his clothes dirty, and his gaze focused on the metal sprinkler next to his dad’s head. Something was wrong here. He glanced around the lawn. Shouldn’t the sprinkler heads have been spaced farther apart? And more evenly? Looking at them now, they seemed almost haphazardly installed…
No.
Not haphazardly.
One sprinkler was aimed at his window. Another was apparently aimed at their car in the driveway. They were all too high, easy to trip over; it was no wonder his dad had stumbled. Several sprinklers, in fact, seemed purposefully placed so that they would facilitate just such an accident.
Steve looked toward the street, suddenly overcome by the certainty that he would see Mr. Walton in the growing crowd of people congregating on the sidewalk. Although it was the last thing he wanted to do, he scanned the gathered faces, looking for the handyman, grateful not to find him there.
Suddenly, the sprinklers came on again, and, as if by intent, a stream hit Steve full in the face. Another hit his mom and dad. Still more were aimed directly at the neighbors. People were shouting, backing up, moving away.
From somewhere not so nearby came the sound of a siren—someone had called for an ambulance.
“Turn it off!” his mom cried. He could hear the panic, fear and frustration in her voice. “Turn it off!”
The manual sprinkler controls were next to the hose and faucet in the backyard, and Steve stood up and ran to turn off the water. The spray had washed some of the blood from his hands, but not all of it, and thin pink drips followed him as he dashed across the grass, up the driveway and along the side of the house. He found the controls, but had no idea how to shut off the water, so he did the only thing he could think of to do: he unplugged the timer.
He heard the hiss of the sprinklers stop and the tumult of voices from the front subside. The approaching siren gre
w ever louder, but instead of immediately rushing back to check on his dad, Steve stood where he was for several seconds, shocked and staring. Because in the dirt next to the series of metal and plastic switches connected to each other and the timer by crisscrossing wires, jutted a little gray cat leg.
Harpo’s.
The ambulance had arrived, and Steve tore himself away from the sight of his dead pet’s limb, speeding back out to the front of the house. Standing neighbors were wiping water from their faces and pulling cold wet clothes away from their skin, but his mom was where he’d left her, kneeling by his dad and holding the section of blood-soaked bathrobe to the wound. Two paramedics rushed from the ambulance onto the lawn, one wearing a stethoscope, the other carrying a white case with a red cross on it. They not-so-gently pushed his mom aside and crouched down to check his dad’s condition, the one with the stethoscope listening to his dad’s heartbeat, the other opening his case and quickly applying some sort of bandage.
A third paramedic had unfolded a gurney from the open rear of the ambulance and was wheeling it across the grass, moving quickly. In his mind’s eye, Steve saw the three paramedics rapidly and efficiently transporting his father to the nearest hospital, where calm professional doctors immediately diagnosed the head wound as nothing serious. He understood almost instantly, though, that that was not going to happen. The man with the stethoscope was shaking his head slowly, removing the twin-pronged instrument from his ears, and at that signal the man pushing the gurney almost imperceptibly slowed down.
Steve dropped to his knees next to his father and noticed that he didn’t hear that wet breathing sound anymore.
“No!” he screamed.
And started crying.
****
The next several days were a blur, a hazy half-understood amalgam of disjointed images from various places around the city: his home, a mortuary, his home, a church, his grandma’s house, a cemetery, his home, his home, his home…
The pain of seeing Cheryl with another boy faded into insignificance against the loss of his dad, and even looking back at how he’d felt at the theater that night, he realized how shallow and naïve his feelings had been.
The Handyman Page 17