The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  Earl let a moment pass, as if to allow air to come back into the room. “You should go to one of the meetings here. You really should.”

  Jack drank the last of his Coke, took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, and stood up. “Maybe I will. If I have the time. Maybe.”

  Amelia Westland, age thirteen years, six months

  Butler Orphan Asylum

  Butler County, Pennsylvania

  January 5, 1876

  I have a place to sleep, adequate food, and necessary work. My needs are met here. My first weeks, admittedly, were sad and confusing. Anxiousness came upon me whenever my thoughts would travel to our farm in Glade Mills, and to Mother and Father and Aunt Willa. Many others here were in worse states than I, but that knowledge has done little to curtail the great melancholy that threatens to steal over me at times.

  There are many rules at the Asylum, but the Headmaster, Mr. Stevens, while stern, not smiling often, is fair, as is the Headmistress, who is more amiable. Breakfast is porridge with bread and blackberry preserves. After chapel, lessons are held in the morning; the boys’ classroom is across the hall. And in the afternoon, we all work—the boys to the fields or barns, hauling water, logs, and large branches, tending animals; the girls to cleaning or cooking or sewing. Even the little ones are given small tasks. The work is less than I endured on the farm, but city girls complain much about soreness from cleaning and scrubbing, their more delicate constitutions demanding much rest. My life, I suspect, has toughened me, made me strong. I regard that as a blessing.

  The same I must say about my faith. Despite my lamentable circumstances, these last months have been when God has been present most evidently, strengthening me and offering me peace in a sea of sorrow and despair and sadness. I pray, with diligence, in the morning and the evening, and God has placed His hand on my heart. And despite my surroundings, I strive to believe again that my future is without limits. I hear my father’s voice, saying, “Be of good courage.” I see my mother’s smile, offering me encouragement of spirit.

  I pledge to be joyful, more now, and in the future.

  Now therefore ye are no more stranger and foreigners,

  but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.

  —Ephesians 2:19

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ON FRIDAY, JACK TAPPED AT the door to Leslie Ruskin’s apartment. He brushed whatever sawdust and dirt he could from his denim work shirt, wiped his hand on his blue jeans, and swept his hair away from his forehead.

  Time for a haircut. I wonder where I should go.

  Jack heard the metallic rustling of a chain being undone. The door opened halfway. Inviting, but cautious.

  “Mr. Kenyon. What can I do for you? Do you need your check this morning?”

  Jack had not forgotten about being paid, and he did need the money, but that was not why he was standing at her door this morning.

  “This afternoon will be fine, Mrs. Ruskin … or would you rather I call you Miss Ruskin?”

  The question both disarmed and charmed the woman, Jack saw. Her smile was validation of his politeness.

  “You know, Mr. Kenyon, I don’t really have a preference,” she said as she opened the door fully and stood just on one side of it, her left hand on the doorframe, as if to give balance, or for protection. “I guess Ms. Ruskin solves all the problems. I know lots of women like Ms. Mizzzz. But I don’t like the way it sounds. You can call me Mrs. Ruskin. That was my name for a long time. I’m used to it.” She paused, as if considering one more thing. “But Leslie is fine as well. In fact, call me Leslie. We don’t need to stand on formality.”

  “Then call me Jack.” He smiled. “I have a question for you, Leslie. It’s about the trim in the bigger bedroom.”

  She stood and waited for his explanation.

  “It would be easiest if I showed you,” Jack said. “If you have the time, that is. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “No, I can come. I’m just writing some letters. Job application letters.”

  Not knowing what to say, Jack remained silent and led the owner into the larger of the two bedrooms in the apartment on the west side of the building. He walked to the center of the room and turned, then pointed to the corner. “There’s a problem with the trim.”

  Leslie looked in the corner, back to Jack, then back to the corner. “Problem?”

  Jack picked up two short pieces of trim and held one against the corner of the door. “If I put the trim on the door, that doesn’t leave enough space for the trim around the closet door. They’re really too close together, but I know we don’t have the budget to move either of the openings. My question is, do I leave the door trim full-size, and leave only a sliver of trim on the closet door, or do I split the difference and cut both trim pieces equally?”

  Leslie cocked her head, as if deep in thought. She walked closer to Jack, who stood in the corner, holding both pieces of trim against the wall. He smelled something floral. Lavender, maybe. She smelled fresh and clean, and Jack was taken back, for an instant, to a time long, long ago. He felt that familiar lurch in his heart. It was a good feeling at first, until he began to remember what he had lost. Then it became painful.

  “I … I don’t know. What’s more proper?” she asked.

  Jack shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “What’s more proper is not to build a closet so close to a door, but that’s a boat that sailed long ago. I don’t know what’s proper in this situation. Where wrong things were done, sometimes there just isn’t a right way to make them better.”

  Leslie crossed her arms, then looked from the trim pieces to Jack. “Why don’t you do what’s easiest—which means least expensive—and whatever won’t be as noticeable? Wouldn’t full trim on the door be easiest? You really won’t see that the closet trim is thinner in that corner unless you close both doors.”

  Jack shrugged in agreement. “It will be easier that way. Thanks.”

  They walked back into the living room, and Leslie turned to the front of the apartment. “Oh, wow. You have the new wall up! It looks wonderful.”

  Jack had finished with the wallboard two days earlier and had put the tape and wallboard compound on the day prior. That alone made the room look fresh and clean.

  Leslie walked over and let her fingertips glide over the new wall. Jack followed.

  “This is so nice. You’re making such fast progress,” she said.

  As she swept her hand over the sleek surface, her fingers ran into his fingers, just for an instant. It was the first time in so long that he’d felt the gentle touch of a woman’s skin on his, even accidentally. When his heart lurched again, he vowed this was business, all business, and that any images in his head were officially banished.

  She stepped back, smiling, almost beaming. “I’m so happy with the way this looks.”

  Jack smiled, and Leslie turned to leave.

  As she had her hand on the door, she called back, “I’ll have your check this afternoon. If I have to go out, I’ll make sure to leave it for you.”

  “That works fine for me, Mrs. Ruskin … I mean, Leslie.”

  He saw what he thought was a momentary slip of longing in her smile. Or was he simply projecting his own wants onto her? He watched the door close, then sniffed the air one more time before heading back into the bedroom to face the trim issue.

  It was lavender; he was sure.

  Mrs. Stickle took the kettle off the stove and carefully poured the boiling water into an old, nicked flowered teapot. She added in two large scoops of loose tea. “Teabags are just terrible,” she had said. “No flavor. No ritual, either.”

  She covered the teapot with a tea towel to steep, then shuffled toward the kitchen table, her once-pink slippers making a sloopish sound with each sliding step.

  “I’m so happy you stopped t
his morning, Leslie. I keep telling Arthur that we simply have to have you and your sweet daughter over for dinner, but Arthur can be a tad forgetful these days.” Mrs. Stickle, broad shouldered, broad waisted, broad hipped, chuckled to herself. “I suspect he’s only half of who’s forgetting. By the time I think of inviting you over, you’re gone. So, let’s say that us having tea counts as at least a half of an invitation.”

  Leslie’s grandmothers had both passed away when she was very young, so she’d never really had a relationship with them that she could remember, but Mrs. Stickle was Grandmother personified. Her teased white hair, done once a week at a salon, Leslie was sure, framed her gently wrinkled face, and she never went anywhere without wearing makeup and large clip-on earrings. Her spotless kitchen was scented with oranges and cinnamon, with a hint of chocolate chips and Vicks, and maybe a bit of cabbage. There were more doilies in her living room than any apartment had a right to have—each one white as blank stationery and primly protecting some surface from harm, as only a doily can do. Glass candy dishes on the coffee tables and end tables were always full. A calendar with a picture of a kitten in a basket hung on the side of a cabinet in the kitchen. Each day was marked off as it passed by, and in each square of that day was a reference to the weather, written in pencil, in a shaky hand—cold, windy, sunny—a daily weather report in retrospect, always perfect, without error. The small pocket of the calendar was stuffed with coupons. A Domino’s Pizza ad dominated the thicket of money savers.

  There was a flower arrangement on top of the refrigerator, with plastic tulips in harsh yet hopeful colors.

  Mrs. Stickle brought out a small carton of cream, a small lemon, cut into slices, a china plate of gingersnaps, and two delicate bone china cups and saucers.

  “Where is Mr. Stickle this morning?” Leslie asked.

  “He’s at church. That big old stone church on Diamond Square. Used to be the Second Presbyterian Church, but they changed the name. They have a seniors group three times a week. They wanted to call it a senior day-care program, and they did, for a while, but no one wanted to attend a day-care center at the age of eighty, so they changed it to Busy Hands. To me, it still sounds childlike, but Mr. Stickle likes it better now, so I’m happy. It gives us both a break from each other for three mornings a week, and I don’t have to worry about him for a few hours.”

  The tea came out, thick, dark, rich-looking. For tea, that was an accomplishment, Leslie thought. Mrs. Stickle loaded six sugar cubes into hers and snagged six gingersnaps. Leslie did the same, but with half the amount of her older neighbor of both sugar and cookies. She sipped, realizing this cup probably contained double the caffeine her morning coffee offered. The warmth—more hot than warm—unfolded in her stomach, like hands warmed against a blazing fireplace.

  “So tell me, what are you having done in the empty apartment? I hear banging every now and then.”

  “It’s not too loud, is it?” Leslie responded quickly.

  “No, dear, it’s fine. At my age there isn’t much of anything that’s too loud.” Mrs. Stickle grabbed one of her gingersnaps.

  “I’m having the place updated,” Leslie explained. “The kitchen was so old. And the leak in the roof ruined one wall. He’s patched that already. New fixtures in the bathroom. Then I’ll paint and try to get it rented.”

  Mrs. Stickle waved her hand as if chasing a slow fly. “You’ll have no trouble at all. The place is big and bright and clean and close to downtown—but I guess downtown is less important than it used to be. Seems as if everyone works somewhere else nowadays.” She paused. “Who is doing the work? I’ve seen a very attractive young man come and go, but I don’t recognize him.”

  “Jack Kenyon. Kenyon Construction.”

  Mrs. Stickle’s brow furrowed, as if thinking caused contractions. “Is he from Butler?”

  Leslie shrugged. “I don’t think so. I haven’t asked him. He’s just starting out.”

  Leaning forward, the old woman patted Leslie’s hand. “I saw on the news about how workmen can take all your money to do repairs that you don’t need. Or was it that they take your money and then don’t do the repairs? Well, either way is bad, I guess. He isn’t one of those, is he?”

  “I’m sure he’s not. He always answers his phone. He’s always at work early. He’s very neat.”

  Mrs. Stickle had already eaten her six cookies and Leslie caught her sneaking a glance at the two remaining on Leslie’s plate.

  “Would you like these last two cookies, Mrs. Stickle? I had a very big breakfast.”

  “Well … only if they would be going to waste.”

  Leslie nodded. “Mrs. Stickle, you’ve lived here a long time, right?”

  “All my life in Butler, that’s right.”

  “Do you know a family by the name of Reidmiller?”

  The old woman’s brow furrowed again. “Yes, I know a Reidmiller family. Agnes and Merle. Live just up the hill by Ritts Park—or they used to. They might have moved out to that retirement place on Route 8. I could check my address book.”

  Leslie shook her head. “No, I just wanted to know if you knew them.”

  “If it’s Agnes and Merle—well, they’ve been around for years and years. Nice people. They have a son, Mike.”

  Leslie brightened. “Yes, that must be them. I met Mike Reidmiller. He has a son in Ava’s kindergarten class at school.”

  “That’s him. Divorced, though. I guess that’s pretty normal these days.”

  Leslie had never told Mrs. Stickle that she herself was divorced, though she was pretty certain that such news would have spread rapidly. She nodded. “He mentioned that.”

  “Did he mention that his wife was a witch, pardon my French? She was simply a horrible person. He is much better off without her. Much better off. No one was surprised when he got custody of his boy. No one.”

  Leslie could tell Mrs. Stickle knew more—much more—but Leslie didn’t want to appear too inquisitive, or worse yet, a gossip, so she remained silent.

  In good time.

  “Mrs. Stickle,” Leslie said, changing the subject completely, “do you know anyone in town who might be hiring? I need to find a job.”

  Jack switched the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled and jumped for a few seconds, as if it wasn’t quite ready to stop moving. With a final hacking chug, it vibrated once more, then grew still. He reached for his clipboard and list of supplies.

  Cook Brothers Brick may not have offered the absolute lowest prices in the area, but it was convenient, quick, and easy to get in and out of, and most important, the owner went out of his way to be pleasant and offer a warm greeting every time Jack shopped there.

  And there was free coffee. Not great coffee, but free, offered from an old stained Mr. Coffee coffeemaker, with a stack of white Styrofoam cups, and a loose assortment of sugar packets, cream packets, and sugar substitute packets.

  “Mr. Kenyon, how are you?” came the booming greeting from the back room. Burt Cook lumbered out from the small office. “Quiet morning today. Been looking forward to some company.”

  Jack waved as he poured a cup of coffee.

  “You still working at the Midlands place?” Burt asked.

  Jack nodded. “I figure maybe a month in the apartment. If I had a crew—a couple of weeks. The owner might want me to do some work on the downstairs. It’s empty, but the space is really nice. It would make a great restaurant. Do you know anyone who wants to start a restaurant?”

  Burt leaned on the counter, both him and the wood groaning slightly. “Does that place have brick arches in it? And a fireplace?”

  “It does.”

  “I thought I remembered that. I did some work on that space. Remodeling. Back when I was still doing actual brickwork. When I was younger and everything didn’t hurt so much.”

  Jack put his cl
ipboard on the desk. Burt leaned sideways to look, then shouted toward the back. “Hey, Rudy! Come on out here. There’s an order to fill.”

  Rudy, a short middle-aged man in a plaid flannel shirt and wearing a name badge more crooked than straight, came out with a wobbly cart and grabbed the clipboard, nodding, his lips moving, as he carefully read over the list.

  “Burt, what was the Midlands Building?” Jack asked. “I mean, what was it when you worked on it? It’s an interesting-looking place, but I can’t figure out its history. Sometimes you can tell in old buildings. Sometimes it’s a mystery.”

  Burt scowled, as if thinking was painful. “Well … it was empty when I worked on it. I think it was some sort of insurance agency before.”

  “Originally?”

  “No. Not from the start. I think it was a variety store when it was first built. Maybe. Way back when … when they still had variety stores. After we did the brick repair work, a locksmith moved in.”

  “Big space for a locksmith.”

  “I think he only used half of it. It was there a long time, but I never saw much traffic there. Even back then, not much calling for a locksmith store.”

  Jack drained his coffee and dropped the cup into the trash can.

  “You say a young woman bought it?”

  “Yep,” Jack said. “Divorced. With a young daughter. Real cute.”

  “Divorced, huh? And real cute? You have to be very careful around situations like that.”

  “I meant the little girl is cute,” Jack said, then added, “well, they’re both very cute. They’re living in the middle apartment. It’s really nice too. She wants to rent everything else. Know of anyone at all who might want to rent the ground floor—or the apartment?”

  Burt shook his head. “Naw. But if I do, I’ll let you know.” He turned and headed for his office.

  Rudy pushed the cart, now full, to the register, and Jack pulled out his wallet and took out a credit card. If Leslie paid him today, he would have more than enough for the next week. And the charge card bill wouldn’t come for another two or three weeks. He signed the receipt, walked to the back, and leaned into Burt’s office.