The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  “Thanks again for the coffee.”

  He noticed, in a frame behind the desk, a picture of a thinner, younger Burt, standing next to a gleaming Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The face was leaner, but the smile just as expansive as it was today.

  “You still have it?” Jack asked as he pointed to the picture.

  “I do. I don’t get to ride as often as I used to.”

  “Pretty bike.”

  “Do you ride?” Burt asked.

  “I … I used to. I had a big Electra Glide. ’82. Deep blue. Lots of chrome.”

  “Used to? What happened? Everyone I know hangs onto those bikes forever.”

  “I would have too. But I sold it. Had to finance my truck and tools.”

  Burt looked both sad and impressed. “That must have been hard.”

  Jack wanted to nod, but didn’t. “Well, it was no harder than all the rest.”

  And with that, Jack tapped on the doorframe with the tops of his fingers, as if signaling the conversation was over, waved good-bye, and walked to his truck to help Rudy load the supplies.

  Mrs. DiGiulio looked up from her desk. She thought she heard a soft tapping, but no one at this school tapped so quietly. You tap that softly and no one would ever hear you over the hubbub of twenty-five small children—even if they had been told six times to be quiet. There was a shadow by the kindergarten door.

  “If you’re someone out there—come on in,” she said in her best loud-but-not-angry schoolteacher voice.

  “I’m not disturbing you, am I?” the shadow said as the door opened.

  “No, not at all. A kindergarten teacher doesn’t have a lot of papers to correct. I’m just getting things ready for tomorrow’s lessons.” She peered over her reading glasses, tilting her chin down toward the desk. “You’re Trevor’s father … is it Michael?”

  “It is. You have a good memory. At church, with people I’ve known for years and years, I still come up empty when I’m trying to remember their names.”

  Mrs. DiGiulio laid her pencil down. The pencil had hearts imprinted on it, along with her name in gold. Thirty of the exact same pencils rested in an apple-shaped cup at the far side of her desk.

  “Remembering names comes with this job. You have to learn how to do it,” she said firmly and clearly. “With kindergarten students, their names are critical. But then again, I have their names written in big bold letters and taped to their desks. That helps a lot.”

  Mike Reidmiller smiled in agreement. “That would make things easier. Maybe I’ll suggest that at church.” He walked carefully to her desk, as if unwilling to bump into something small and important.

  “I know it’s not time yet for parent conferences. But, well, I’m a single dad.” He said the words without a trace of pity or sorrow but rather a statement of fact that might help explain things. “I guess when you have two parents, you get to talk about things together. And I guess that if I were a single woman, I might be more likely to talk to another mom about these things. But I guess I’m not either … a single mom or a married couple. I mean … you know what I mean. Men don’t talk that much.”

  Mrs. DiGiulio looked up at him like a grandmother and offered an understanding expression. Not a smile, but something more knowing than that. “I’m pretty sure I do know what you mean. Your parents … Agnes—”

  “And Merle. They’re out at Sinclair House. North of Butler.”

  “Yes. Merle. I remember them. Your father was a councilman for a while.”

  “He was.” Mrs. DiGiulio could hear the pride in the son’s voice.

  “Now they’re both a little … lost. Some good days. But more bad days than good. So talking to them is out too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “But that’s not why I’m here … to talk about my folks. I just want to know: How’s my son doing?”

  Mr. Reidmiller’s words came as close to a plea as any words Mrs. DiGiulio had heard recently.

  “Trevor? He’s doing fine.”

  “No, I mean, really, how is he doing? Sometimes he doesn’t follow directions so well. I’m used to repeating myself a dozen times to get his attention. But I was worried about how he would do on his own. Like, with strangers all around. Sometimes he gets real distracted.”

  Mrs. DiGiulio folded her hands on top of one another in a gesture so precise and perfect, it was like a pair of kittens coiling up for a nap. Doing so provided her a few extra seconds to think and respond.

  “Yes. You are right. He can lose his focus at times. But in boys this age, there is nothing to worry about. Not yet, for certain.”

  “And that’s the truth? No ADD or HDAD or whatever they call it nowadays?”

  Mrs. DiGiulio remained firm. “No. No ADHD. He can get excited, but from what I have observed, he’s just a regular boy.”

  Mrs. DiGiulio watched Mr. Reidmiller. He reacted as if a weight had been lifted or a veil removed or he’d found that his shoulders were suddenly now relaxed and limber.

  “That’s a relief. I couldn’t tell if what Trev is—is normal.”

  “He’s fine,” Mrs. DiGiulio repeated. “Really he is. He can be a bit wound up at times, but we’re working on that. And Ava seems to settle him down. Ava Ruskin. I’m sure you’ve met her mother by now. She’s a single parent too. Ava sits behind him, you know.” Mrs. DiGiulio gestured to the third row of desks. “Something about her, Ava, brings him back if he does get a little hyper. She never raises her voice with him. She never sounds upset. Her being in class really helps him.”

  Mr. Reidmiller nodded in a gracious, thankful manner.

  A few seconds passed.

  “I don’t want to gossip,” Mr. Reidmiller said, “because I’m not very good at it. I get lots of names wrong. But do you know anything about Mrs. Ruskin … Leslie?”

  It was gossip, Mrs. DiGiulio thought, but not that kind of bad gossip at all, not the prying kind. More like … information.

  “Well, Mr. Reidmiller, I don’t know much. She’s from Greensburg. From what Ava’s said, I gather they lived in a big house before they moved here. And I know that she bought the old Midlands Building on North and Cedar. She’s rehabbing one of the apartments. I run into Mrs. Stickle now and again—she’s one of the tenants there—at Friedman’s Market. She says that Leslie … Mrs. Ruskin … is a very wonderful person. Likes tea, she says. And cookies.”

  When he heard the word tea, his expression fell, but when he heard cookies, it brightened again.

  “Thank you, Mrs. DiGiulio. Trevor loves this class and says he loves you. Thank you very much.”

  Mr. Reidmiller waved, and rather than walking out, shuffled backward to the door. He waved one more time as he closed the door after him.

  No … thank you, Mr. Reidmiller. Thank you.

  Amelia Grace Westland, age thirteen years, eight months

  Butler Orphan Asylum

  Butler County, Pennsylvania

  March 5, 1876

  Catherine Sorenson has become my dearest friend. “You are so like my dear older sister whom I lost. In you, God has given her back to me,” says she, upon which I reply, “God has surely given you to me as a little sister.” She calls me “Mellie.” She will be twelve years old upon her birthday in two months’ time. She has the curliest mane of red hair I have ever seen, her skin almost as porcelain, as though lit from within. It is a chore to keep her tresses tame while working on certain tasks. When candles are snuffed out at night, she and I, in our iron beds with quilts piled high, whisper to each other, sometimes long into the night. We see our breath as small exhaled clouds in the darkness. Having such a friend makes my fears lessen and she helps me when I feel anxious about the morrow. Nor have I had any of the spells, which had prevented me from leaving my bed, since Catherine is by my side. The Headmistress n
oted the improvement in my outlook, and I give all the credit to Catherine, for she is calm and gay and pretty.

  Even though I have prayed to our holy God to strengthen me, my weakness of spirit and my fears had bested me on many occasions, reducing me to near muteness. But increasingly, I have found the renewed assurance that God desires we all have. “And this is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us …” 1 John 5:14.

  I take great comfort in the Sunday sermons, some given by great preachers who travel through the land, bringing God’s Word to people without the blessing of a church nearby.

  With God’s provision, and because of His steadfast protection, my life shall surely have purpose and meaning.

  I will be glad and rejoice in thy mercy:

  for thou hast considered my trouble;

  thou hast known my soul in adversities.

  —Psalm 31:7

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE CELL PHONE ON JACK’S belt warbled. He could have changed the ringtone, or downloaded a more unique one, but he left the ring exactly as it was when the phone was first activated. To change the ringtone, he’d have to find the manual and read it—both chores he was pretty sure would never be accomplished.

  He flipped it open. “Kenyon Construction.”

  He listened for a few moments.

  “That’s great. I’ll be able to start at the end of the month, if that’s okay with you. I’ll call with the exact date when I know for sure.”

  He knew he wouldn’t be completely done with the Midlands Building at the end of the month, but the overlap of a few days wouldn’t be stretching his promise of “one-job-at-a-time” too much. Stretching just a little, maybe—but not breaking.

  “Well, the kitchen I’ve just finished is almost exactly like your kitchen. If it’s okay with the owner, I could show you what you could expect. Much easier than trying to draw it out, or show you in a store.”

  He waited a moment, then said, “I’ll call you back if and when it would be okay to see the kitchen. And thanks a lot. I mean that.”

  He slipped the phone back in the holder, feeling a bit more secure. One job in progress, one more scheduled at the Pettigrews’, and a few other estimates still pending.

  Maybe I can make this work. No—I can make this work. And I will. I will.

  Later that afternoon, after a full morning of hanging the final cabinets in the apartment kitchen at the Midlands Building, he brushed himself off, unfastened his tool belt, and tapped on the door that led to Leslie Ruskin’s apartment. The door opened and Jack could hear the music for Dora the Explorer in the background.

  “How’s it going, Mr. Kenyon?” Leslie asked.

  “Jack. If I get to call you Leslie, you have to call me Jack. That’s the contractor’s rule.” He stood outside on the landing and explained that he’d landed another job and wanted to show the young couple the new kitchen in the empty apartment. “I’d never take anyone inside unless you said it was okay. After all, it is your place.”

  “Why sure, that would be perfectly okay with me,” she said. “It’s kind of a compliment, isn’t it—that someone else wants to see how nice the kitchen turned out?”

  Jack leaned his head just slightly. He caught Ava, sitting at the edge of the sofa in the living room, staring at the door. She ducked backward, out of sight, but a second later, she reappeared, and this time she waved.

  “Dora’s on,” she called out, as if explaining her absence at the door with her mom.

  “Her favorite show,” Leslie said softly. A look passed over Leslie’s face, indicating that perhaps she was considering something more complicated.

  “Jack, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot. Or do you have to run? Are you done with work for today?” Leslie asked as she glanced at her watch. “I heard you start early this morning.”

  Jack was never good at maintaining a poker face. In that split second, he wondered what emotion his face was showing. He was surprised, to be sure, that Leslie was inviting him in. Excitement? He couldn’t tell exactly what he felt most. He was pleased, too. What she’d just said was a compliment, in a way, since she was obviously paying attention to his comings and goings on the job.

  But maybe she’s just making sure the job gets done on time. She probably wouldn’t be watching me for any other reason … well, maybe there are other reasons …

  He hoped he kept his voice in check. “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble. Fresh-brewed coffee sounds good. I guess I’m still not used to instant. I mean, there’s only one of me, so making a pot of real coffee seems like a big commitment.”

  Leslie laughed—a clear, crisp laugh, gentle, genuine, rich. “I know what you mean. It’s the same debate I go through every day: Now, how many cups am I going to drink? How many should I drink? Will I muster up the nerve to reheat it later?”

  Leslie closed the door behind him and led him through the living room and into the kitchen. They both hurried past Ava, not wanting to stand too long between her and the television. Ava bounced one way, then the other, not willing to miss a second of the show. But as Jack passed, she did stare at him, at least until he and her mother were in the kitchen.

  Leslie measured out cold water into the carafe and poured it into the coffeemaker. Jack watched, trying not to stare, but it had been so long since he had been around a beautiful woman in a normal setting—a little family, a normal kitchen, an everyday activity like making coffee for two.

  He took a seat at the table as politely as he could. He tried not to shed any sawdust.

  It was a normal kitchen, with good light coming in through the dining area from the balcony facing the street out front. There was a vase of flowers on the table—not real flowers, but nicely done artificial flowers, in a simple glass vase. There was a stack of napkins in a metal holder, and on the front of the refrigerator, an explosion of papers and artwork, each signed in tiny block letters: AVA. Jack had a flash of the same melancholic mood that came over him whenever he was reminded of what he was missing … what he’d never have again. All the papers of his daughter’s that he’d never see on a refrigerator door.

  Leslie saw him looking. “They seem to do a lot of art projects at this age.”

  Jack nodded. Some papers were all but hidden by more recent acquisitions.

  Leslie busied herself with cups and sugar and spoons. “Do you like milk with your coffee? Or I have cream. It’s one of my few luxuries.”

  “Cream, if you don’t mind. That would be great. I use the powdered white stuff when I’m by myself. It’s nice when you can use the real thing.”

  She sat down, and they both watched and listened as the coffeemaker dripped and sputtered, the final elongated hiss indicating it was done with its brewing business. Neither of them moved for a moment. Jack didn’t know why exactly, but he stood and reached for the coffeepot. It was not his job as host, but Leslie had hesitated.

  “May I pour?” he asked.

  Leslie, appearing grateful, smiled. “Why, thank you, Jack.”

  They both added in more than one serving of cream and sugar.

  Leslie hoped Jack had not seen her hand shake as she reached for the container of cream in the refrigerator nor heard her take three deep breaths while standing behind the refrigerator door in an attempt to calm her pulse. She had turned away from him as she’d readied the cups and all the rest on a tray, delivering it to the kitchen table in a swift turn. She hoped he didn’t know she was trying to make sure that the cups and spoons didn’t rattle on their journey from the counter to the table.

  “So, you have another job lined up. That’s good, isn’t it?” Leslie asked.

  Inwardly she winced. The question sounded like one a girl asks on her first date with a boy she likes.

  An image flas
hed into Leslie’s mind—of an old etiquette column she’d read as a teenager. You must get the boys to talk about themselves! They love talking about sports and cars. If you want date number two you must feign interest in all those topics.

  Jack didn’t seem to mind being asked to talk about himself.

  “It is. I knew it would be hard starting up in a place where I didn’t know anyone, but I’ll be busy for at least a couple of months.”

  “I really like the way the other apartment is shaping up. You’ve done a great job.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble renting it. I mean, I would rent it—if I could afford it.”

  For a moment Leslie felt a nervousness … not the bad kind, but the giddy kind of nervousness.

  “But it would be too big for me,” Jack quickly continued. “I don’t need all that space. And I want to find a small old house to renovate. Then sell it and find another to work on and sell.”

  Leslie did her best to hide her feelings, slowly turning her coffee cup, making small ceramic grating noises on the wooden table. “The ground floor looks great too. Just cleaning it up made a world of difference.”

  “Have you found any tenants?” Jack asked. “I let all my suppliers know about the space.”

  “Why, that’s so sweet of you, Jack. I haven’t started to advertise it yet. After we get the bathrooms finished, I’ll put an ad in the paper.”

  “There is that one big wooden door in the back that I couldn’t get into,” he reminded her. “I can’t tell if the lock is jammed, or if I don’t have the right key for it.”

  “I’m pretty sure I gave you all the keys I had. But I’ll double-check with the realtor at the bank.”

  Jack finished his coffee well before Leslie. He wondered if he should stand up now and leave, or if he should wait for his host to finish. Too many years had passed since he’d had to worry about such things. He decided to wait.