Juliet in August

by Dianne Warren

  “Well, I’d do a better job than the alcoholic hobbit,” she says. “He’s so pathetic.” Her tone is completely dismissive. “Anyway, someday I could be the foreman of a crew like this. Then they’d have to watch their own asses instead of mine.”

  Such confidence, Blaine thinks. Only the young. They reach the end of the construction and Blaine angles the truck around the barricade and onto the pavement.

  “Do you want to grab a cold beer somewhere?” Justine asks, as though they were old friends.

  Well, they are, sort of, he supposes. Still, he doesn’t know what the suggestion means. She might be playing with him. He decides to ignore the question.

  “So, you’re a university student,” he says. “How’d you end up in Juliet?”

  “I applied on that government Web site for summer jobs and this is what I got. I don’t mind. I’m staying with a pretty nice family. Room and board.”

  Blaine asks her what she’s studying and she tells him engineering.

  “No kidding,” he says.

  “There are girls in engineering these days, you know,” she says. “I heard they have a quota, but I’m not sure if that’s true.”

  “Hey,” Blaine says. “You’re in Juliet. It’s going to take us a while to catch up, guys like me, anyway.” He adds, “Old guys like me,” with emphasis on the word old.

  He half waits for her to tell him he’s not old, but then is glad when she doesn’t.

  She says something else, though, that makes him doubt his own hearing. She says, “We should just keep on driving. Or maybe head south. We could go across the border into Montana for a beer.”

  “Why would we want to do that?” Blaine asks. Carefully. Something is coming back to him here, some knowledge of a game he hasn’t played since he started dating Vicki. There’s a skill to checking out a situation like this without committing yourself.

  “No reason,” says Justine. “Just for something to do. Something crazy.”

  Blaine looks at Justine and thinks how young and pretty she is. She’s wearing lightweight coveralls with her white T-shirt underneath, stretched tight across her small breasts. The T-shirt is so white, it’s practically luminescent even though it’s dusty from her day on the highway. Is she young enough to be his daughter? He calculates. Yes, she’s that young. Or he’s that old, depending which way you look at it. If she’s genuinely asking him to take off down the road with her—and she appears to be—he’s in the middle of a serious wet dream. Either that or a beer commercial.

  “I’m a married man, Justine,” he says.

  “I know that,” she says. “I asked around. Kids, too. Anyway, I’ve seen your wife and kids in town. You’re lucky.”

  Blaine snorts; he can’t help it. “If you think I’m lucky, you’ve got a shingle flapping on the roof. If I were lucky I’d have a million dollars instead of a pile of debt.”

  “Oh,” Justine says. “I see. Well, I’m pretty lucky. You can hang around with me for a while and see if it rubs off.”

  When they get to Juliet, Blaine turns onto the access road into town.

  “Where do you want dropped off?” he asks.

  “So we’re not going to Montana, I guess,” Justine says. “Too bad. You can drop me at the post office, then. I’ll pop in and get my mail. That will have to be fun enough for today. Maybe I’ll have a letter from my boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, and then, “No, of course not.”

  Blaine doesn’t know what of course not means, why she said that. He angle-parks in front of the post office and turns off the ignition. Justine makes no move to get out. It’s like they’re teenagers parked out in the country on a side road, only they’re in the middle of downtown Juliet. Blaine gets self-conscious, sitting on Main Street in full view of the world with Justine sitting next to him. If she stays in the truck, it’s more than just a ride. To anyone walking by, there’s something going on.

  Justine says, “It’s just that you’re the only one out there who seems to have a soul. The others are all about, well, you know, watching my ass.”

  All Blaine can think of to say is “You’d better get out. People talk.” He doesn’t mean to sound rude but it does sound that way, at least to him.

  Justine opens the door to get out and she’s half in and half out of his truck, looking at him with her big dark eyes, and she says, “You were serious, I guess, about being married.” There’s a moment, then, when he knows that he is capable of making a bad decision, comes so close. He wants to slide across the bench seat and grab her, pull her to him and take a break from his life of attachment and worry and, yes, if he could forget all that he might feel good again. Never mind that he’s too old for her. Never mind that her interest in him makes no sense. What she’s offering, from his perspective anyway, is escape—if only momentary—and he would so badly like to accept.

  But he doesn’t. He’s lost almost everything, but he still has a family and he knows for certain that Vicki would never, ever betray him with another man. “Forget about married men, girl. You can do way better than the likes of me.”

  “That’s honorable,” she says. “But I’m not sure about that. Anyway, see you tomorrow. Same as always.”

  Blaine watches as she goes into the post office and then comes out again flipping through several envelopes. He wonders who they could be from. Not her girlfriends, in this age of e-mail and text messaging. She crosses the street and takes the first right onto a block of new houses, split-levels with double garages and landscaping. He doesn’t want to know where she lives, but he can still see her and so he watches as she turns up the walk of the second house from the corner.

  She was just playing with me, he thinks. Now that she’s gone, it’s as clear as day.

  Blaine steps out of the truck and goes into the post office to pick up his own mail. He gets out his key, opens the stainless steel mailbox, and finds it empty. Just then Mrs. Bulin walks by and sees the open box.

  “Hi there, Blaine,” her voice says from behind the wall of boxes. “Vicki was already in for your mail. Do you think we’ll get rain anytime soon?”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Blaine says under his breath. “When was Vicki in?” he asks Mrs. Bulin.

  “Quite a while ago,” Mrs. Bulin says. “Early afternoon, I think. Did you hear they had rain north of the river? Andy Patterson went to a sale at Elrose on Wednesday and he said they had three-tenths up there. He said it’s too late for the crops, but a good rain might help the pastures. I didn’t think Andy looked too well. He probably shouldn’t be running around the country to sales.”

  Jesus Murphy, that woman never shuts up, he thinks. He slams the mailbox shut and goes back to his truck, fuming. Not about Mrs. Bulin’s chatter, but about her eyewitness report that Vicki was on the move. As usual.

  Penance

  In the late-afternoon heat of the Juliet School staff room, Norval waits—along with the principal and the director of education, who are both dressed in golf attire—for their job applicant to show up for her interview. “She probably got lost,” Norval offers by way of explanation. He once again peruses her letter of application, thankful that her qualifications trump Mrs. Baxter’s. He can’t understand why the other two on the hiring committee are so unconcerned about Mrs. Baxter’s campaign to weasel her way into this job, despite the fact that she has never been to anything remotely like a teachers college and would surely force the girls of Juliet into a time warp marked by crocheted toilet-roll covers and family values rhetoric as outdated as Elvis Presley.

  He checks his watch. Their candidate is now twenty minutes late. Half an hour passes, the director and the principal obviously impatient for their golf game, forty minutes, and finally they are forced to give up. There is no discussion about Mrs. Baxter. They all know the c
onsequence of this no-show. The director gets his car keys out of his pocket and says to the principal, “Tee time, then,” and to Norval, “One of these days you’re going to join us and discover the pleasures of golf.”

  Once they’re gone, he tosses the candidate’s resumé in the bin for shredding and considers resigning from the school board.

  The staff room phone rings. Norval hopes against hope that it’s the late job applicant calling with a good excuse, but it’s Lila.

  “Good,” she says, “I’m glad I caught you. Your cell phone is turned off, you know.”

  Norval feigns surprise at that.

  Lila wants to know if he’s done what he said he would do, which is go to the church and talk to the caretaker about the renovations. “You promised,” she adds.

  Norval doesn’t remember promising exactly. What he would really like to do is go to the hardware store and buy a lawn mower and forget about Lila’s plans. He says, “You’re talking as though these renovations of yours are a done deal.”

  “They’re not a done deal, Norval. That’s why I want you to speak with Joe. Everybody knows he runs the maintenance committee. That church is a disgrace. We can’t have the wedding there with things the way they are. Surely you agree with me.”

  Norval stops himself from saying that weddings take place in the church pretty regularly with things the way they are.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

  “I know you,” Lila says. “You won’t want to be too pushy, but you can’t expect a caretaker to have any sense when it comes to decorating.”

  To get Lila off the phone, he promises to give Joe all of her suggestions.

  “Don’t call them suggestions,” Lila says. “Insist. Speak with authority.” Then she runs through her list of what needs renovating before the church is good enough for the wedding that she has in mind, even though she’d already written it all down for him: new carpet in the foyer (or ceramic tile might be nice), new light fixtures in the basement reception hall, the pews need refinishing, and of course everything needs paint. Be specific about the colors, she tells Norval. Those are the main things. The kitchen could certainly use new china, she says, but they can rent something decent for the reception if that’s not possible. Norval knows that the maintenance committee is concerned with the moldings on the four stained-glass windows in the church, which have been leaking in heavy rain. Perhaps, he says, their priorities are already set, what with the state of the windows. He doesn’t say that the chance of any renovation happening before October is next to none.

  “Well, that’s fine,” Lila says, “but cosmetic upgrades are what will bring people into the church. It makes sense from a business perspective. Use that argument.”

  Once Lila is finally through (though not before reminding him to turn his cell phone on, what good is it otherwise?), Norval calls the caretaker to see if he will be around. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to embarrass himself, but he suspects he will be more embarrassed if he doesn’t talk to the caretaker and Lila does.

  No one answers. Joe’s awkward voice message tells him that he is in the church somewhere, or perhaps in the yard, or perhaps out on an errand, but he is in and please leave a message. Norval waits for the beep and then tells Joe he will be by at five to talk about the wedding plans, knowing that Joe’s hours at the church commonly run into early evening. He doesn’t mention Lila’s renovations.

  Norval decides to turn Joe’s temporary absence into his opportunity to stop and buy his new lawn mower. The heat of the day isn’t waning at all and as he walks the few blocks to the hardware store, he recalls how good the pool water felt earlier, which causes him to recall that he left his wet bathing suit sitting in his office. He decides to leave it there rather than go back to the bank for it.

  As he opens the door to the hardware store, Vicki Dolson and her pile of kids come screaming out, almost knocking him over. One of the kids is literally screaming, and Vicki is trying to comfort her as she ushers the kids to the car. It’s the second time today he’s seen Vicki Dolson, and he feels the worry and responsibility once again. He watches as she gets the kids into the car and the doors closed, the little girl screeching like she’s being murdered, Vicki’s life the very picture of chaos. She backs the car out too quickly and almost slams into the side of a half-ton coming down the street.

  Norval notices Mrs. Jackson watching through the hardware store window. He steps inside and Mrs. Jackson says, “Oh dear,” and he soon sees that oh dear is in reference to the barn paint that has spread like a spill from a wound all over the floor at the back of the store. Right in the spot where his new electric lawn mower is located. Its wheels, along with the wheels of a gas mower and an old-fashioned manual push mower, are now sitting in paint. Mrs. Jackson looks as if she has no idea what to do.

  “I just don’t know where to start,” she says.

  Norval doesn’t want to help Mrs. Jackson clean up the paint, doesn’t want to at all, but he offers just the same. She thanks him, but says Mr. Jackson will be by soon, he’ll know what to do.

  “Still,” Norval says, “I think we’d better wipe up the worst of it before it starts to dry. Then you’ll have a real mess on your hands.”

  Mrs. Jackson stands staring at the spill. Norval can see that she already has paint on her shoes and her pant legs.

  “You might want to get your clothes cleaned up,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”

  “I imagine it’s already too late,” Mrs. Jackson says. She hands Norval the opened package of paper towels, and retrieves a pack of heavy-duty garbage bags from the store shelves. He gives the pool a swipe with a wad of paper towels, trying not to step in it. The paper towels push the paint around without actually absorbing much. When Norval lifts the wad of paper towel off the floor, red paint drips onto the toe of his loafer and he has to get a clean sheet to wipe it off. Again Mrs. Jackson suggests leaving the cleanup for her husband, but Norval insists, perhaps beyond reason. Mrs. Jackson wonders aloud if it would help to sprinkle wood shavings over the paint and Norval agrees that this might be worth a try.

  While she moves out of the way whatever merchandise she can manage—the lawn mowers, some garden tools, the other cans of paint that fell, thankfully, without the lids popping off—Norval walks down the block to the lumberyard and buys a bag of shavings, which he carries back to the store on his shoulder, sweating profusely into his shirt and jacket. Mrs. Jackson finds him a pair of rubber boots—again, new merchandise off the shelf—because it is apparent that it will be impossible to do this job without stepping in paint. Norval takes off his sports jacket, puts on the boots and stuffs his pant legs inside, and then he wades right into the mess and struggles to drag the refrigerator and spin dryer aside. Of course they drag paint with them, but at least the extent of what they’re dealing with is now revealed. Between the two of them, they get shavings sprinkled all over the spill and they do, indeed, absorb at least some of the paint. Norval shovels up the now red shavings and dumps them in garbage bags, and then he attacks the floor with paper towels. When they have the worst of the disaster taken care of, Norval steps out of the boots and back into his leather shoes and carries the bags out back, leaving them against the brick wall of the building. The same stray dog that he’d seen earlier is now sniffing at trash cans in this alley, and he stares at Norval just as he did before.

  Mrs. Jackson keeps saying she can’t thank Norval enough and insists that she and Mr. Jackson can take it from here, and so Norval finally does what he came to do, which is maneuver his shiny new lawn mower up the aisle toward the front of the store. He notices that it’s leaving red tire tracks, so he flips it upside down and gives the tires a rub with more paper towels. Mrs. Jackson, who follows Norval up the aisle wiping paint marks from the floor, tries to convince him to leave the lawn mower until she can get it properly cleaned, but Norval doesn�
��t want to wait. He tells Mrs. Jackson that the paint on the tires won’t make a bit of difference to how the mower cuts the grass, so she gives him a whopping discount and thanks him again for helping with the paint.

  “That Vicki Dolson is a nice enough girl,” Mrs. Jackson says, “and she’s got her hands full, that’s for sure. She offered to help clean up, but of course she won’t be back. How can she afford to buy anything . . . well, I’m sure you know all about that.”

  Once again Norval feels the weight of what he knows, and Mrs. Jackson must recognize the look on his face because she says, touching his arm, “Such a difficult job you have, Norval.” He simply nods and leaves the store, wheeling the lawn mower in front of him, with his jacket draped over the handles. He has red paint on his hands, and when he looks down he sees a spot on his pant leg, another on the sleeve of his shirt. Red for guilt, he thinks; how damned obvious. He wonders if, now that his clothes are probably ruined anyway, he should go back to the store and have Mrs. Jackson daub sample spots of all Lila’s preferred colors for the renovations on him. Come to think of it, the red color he’s already wearing would probably fit with Lila’s idea of a more modern look for the church. He recalls seeing cranberry on the list, along with taupe and olive green.

  Norval pushes the lawn mower along the sidewalk, over cracks and gouges and through unmarked intersections, until he comes to the neat-looking United church, with its beige lap siding and its caragana hedge on three sides. An arch-shaped sign on the lawn names the church as St. Andrews, and informs of Sunday service at eleven o’clock with the Reverend Mary Marshall at the pulpit. Juliet shares the reverend with three other communities and gets her only once a month. The other Sundays, a lay minister takes the service. Sometimes, the lay minister is Norval.

  Norval looks up at the roof of the church and sees that the shingles on the south side are curling up. The paint is peeling on the south side, too, and Norval has the reluctant thought that perhaps Lila is right, the church is in need of a touch-up, although not because of Rachelle’s wedding. He wheels the lawn mower around to the side of the building and parks it by the door that leads to the basement reception hall and Joe’s office. Norval tries the door and it’s open. Joe must be here, then. Norval wonders briefly about the wisdom of leaving the new lawn mower outside unattended, but it’s hidden from the street by the caragana hedge.