Let Him Cry Pt. 01

It was a good question. I thought for a while. "Mostly my partner, I guess. I was proud of what we built, but basically, it was just a job. I never thought I'd be at it this long."

"What'd you think you'd do instead?"

"I didn't have a plan. Something more meaningful once I figured out what that was."

The smirk came back. She had that amused, faintly sarcastic look down pat.

"Now what?" I asked in exasperation.

She shook her head.

"Spit it out. I hate people who do that."

"I don't know exactly what you do, but it seems to be something with construction or something?"

"Sort of."

"And there've been at least two messages on your answering machine ..." She paused, interrupting herself. "An answering machine? Do you still use a typewriter too, or have you discovered computers?"

She pretended she didn't see my glare. "Anyway, I've heard you swear when you play them back and then you delete them, even though they seemed like they were from a friend, or at least someone you know. And both were something about helping Community Abode Project. That's not meaningful?"

I shrugged.

"A couple I know got their house that way and it means the world to them."

"But ..." I stumbled.

She leaned back on the couch, still smirking. "I mean, you being so busy now and all."

Like clockwork, Caitlyn called that week.

"All right. Whatever," I answered her inevitable urging.

Tatyanna's mockery had made me remember something from that day with the bus, something I'd forgotten in the general fuzziness.

I had realized then that I was dead too. But now, the burning coal of anger was a tiny challenge to that realization.

My phone dinged.

≪ I'm here

Caitlyn had insisted on driving. I doubted that she was concerned about my ability to find an address in a town where I'd lived for most of my life. She wanted to make sure I showed up.

As I walked the fifteen feet across the lobby, I could see her through the door's glass. I noticed that the mom jeans and the white tank top revealed a Caitlyn that hadn't been apparent underneath loose scrubs. A Caitlyn that had some serious curves.

Hard on the heels of appreciating the view came a sudden flash of surprise, followed by a flood of guilt. Surprise because, while I doubted whether any of the guys would believe me, I hadn't checked out a woman for the better part of a year. Guilt because, well, as irrational as it was to be faithful to someone gone, there was guilt.

The familiar jolt that came with thinking about Liv broke my attention and, by the time I pushed the door open, my eyes were on Caitlyn's face. "Hey."

"Morning." I saw her eyes rake down and back up -- I'm certain for a different reason than mine had. "You look the part," she said in approval at my faded jeans, Doc Martens, and black Henley with the B&L logo. I didn't care whether those shirts got ripped or stained on a job anymore.

It was a typical worksite. The lawn was ripped up by heavy vehicles. A Porta Potty stood in the yard. Piles of stuff lay under tarps all over the porch of the 1920s-style house. Scaffolding around the outside. A bunch of people, mostly women, stood waiting to get work assignments.

"I'm John, the construction supervisor on this build for you new faces. I'd like to split everyone up into two groups: pulling down plaster and outside." He peered at the name tag Caitlyn had slapped on me. "Matt, we're putting in a French drain to help with the water that's getting into the basement. Would you mind helping the other two guys on that? They did a little on it last week." I saw him glance at the side of my head. "That work?"

I nodded. "Sure."

In one sense, I was the newbie. The other two had done Abode before even though I had probably been on more construction sites than they had. I didn't think it was hazing, just laziness, but somehow, they were the guys who'd spend five minutes wheeling admittedly heavy barrows of gravel over to the trench. I was the guy down in the trench trying to fit together cumbersome lengths of perforated pipe and then raking gravel around and over it while they jawed. In their eyes, they probably figured they were working as much as everyone else.

I had seen Caitlyn glance over at me from where she was sitting with her friends as John called the three of us for pizza, but she turned back to her conversation with the woman next to her. I grabbed two slices and walked inside to give myself a tour.

John wandered in and saw me looking at the tilework on the fireplace.

"These old houses have some nice bones, huh?" he said.

"Yeah. Though that kind of stuff" -- I pointed to the corner where the rubberized cloth insulation on a stretch of knob and tube wiring had become brittle, flaking away to expose bare metal -- "makes me glad about some parts of modern construction."

He laughed and nodded in agreement. "Plumbing and wiring almost always need work. We'll get the plumber and electrician in soon."

"You don't do it?"

"Insurance requires us to hire a licensed contractor for those."

"Makes sense."

I went back to being a navvy on the drain. Finally, the combination of growing physical discomfort and displeasure prompted me to ask my two coworkers, "Any chance either of you could give me a hand down here?"

It got marginally better: Tweedledum deigned to help push gravel around after I fit the pipes, while Tweedledee made the wheelbarrow trips.

The day finally came to an end. I saw Caitlyn walking out to her car with one of the other women. I started that way, then swung aside to where John was standing. To this day, I have no earthly idea what prompted me.

"I have an electrician's license although I haven't been hands-on in years. If you have the material, I can come back Monday and start doing it for you. You can have your hired guy check my work after if you want. Probably cheaper for you and that's the goal, right?"

He looked surprised and then smiled, the first warm smile I'd seen that day. "How about Tuesday? We take Sunday and Monday off. Bring a copy of your license."

"Why didn't you join us for lunch?" Caitlyn asked once we were in the car.

"You didn't wave me over, so I assumed it was girls' time."

Her eyebrows shot up and I saw her bite back the first thing she was going to say, then ask, "What did you do?"

"Took a look at the house. I didn't feel like sitting and shooting the shit with Tweedledum and Tweedledee."

After a moment, she said, "I was in the middle of a conversation. When I turned back, you were gone. If you're sulking because you didn't get an invite to sit with the girls for lunch, get over it and join us next time. You don't need an invite and it's not girls' time. If you're just irritated that you got a rough job today, then I understand."

I said nothing. Maybe I was sulking, but I hadn't been thrilled to be shunted off to what was, effectively, solo work. I guess it was unreasonable for me to have expected her to say, "Actually, he should be with me," when the work assignments were handed out just because her invitation had been, "Come help me ...," but I had expected it.

Okay. I was sulking.

In my defense, I was tired, my back was sore, and my neck and head were on fire. More importantly, far from being therapeutic, I'd had too much time alone with my thoughts, working myself down an emotional spiral that went nowhere good. So, while I wasn't going to pick a fight with her, neither could I summon any inclination to have a better attitude.

She glanced over at me. She probably saw the annoyed expression on my face and tried to soften her words. "It wasn't what I had in mind when I invited you. I thought we'd work together, and you could get to know some people. Sorry."

I didn't acknowledge her. She paused again, navigating her way through a busy intersection, then continued, "Those guys weren't doing their share, I know. At lunch, John said he'd be surprised to see you come back."

I still didn't say anything.

"Will we see you next Saturday?"

I started to say something about the weekend being uncertain, but I was coming back Tuesday, when she interrupted to persist.

"I think you should. It'll keep you occupied and be good for you."

In retrospect, it was probably my imagination, but I felt patronized. That made me too stubborn to mention my conversation with John. "Right now, I'm exhausted and I hurt. We'll see how I feel in a week." I'm pretty sure my tone said, "How about dropping this conversation right this fucking second?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her frown get deeper, but all she said was, "Fair enough."

Tuesday surprised me. After seeing a dozen people there on Saturday, it was just John.

"I have to clean up some debris so the lumber truck can get in. We're adding a small addition to give the house three bedrooms instead of two. It shouldn't take long. In the meantime, Romex and wire staples are over there. You know where tools are. You'll be okay for a few?"

I got to work. John stopped in after about an hour. He looked around and nodded in approval. "I'll help rip old electrical." He pulled out the old knob and tube while I roughed in modern wiring, dropping in boxes where needed to make sure outlet spacing and switches would meet code.

Around eleven-thirty, he asked, "Taco truck okay? It's pretty good."

Lunch was a quick affair and, when it was over, we got back to work. It was companionable with short conversations as we moved from section to section.

"I've been with Abode for four years," he answered me. "I started when my wife got pregnant because it was more dependable than the old place I was at. How about you?"

"I'm in between right now. No," I said in response to his apologetic look, "I got bought out by my partner. It gave me a nice cushion to think about what's next."

He glanced at the logo of my work shirt. "B&L? That was you?"

"I'm B."

"I never worked on anything fancy-schmancy enough to use them, but now I understand why you have an electrical license but no callouses." He grinned as I have him a mock scowl in response to the good-natured gibe.

At one point, he looked questioningly at me as I brought in the chop saw and some two-by-fours. "I've gotta get wires up to the second floor," I explained. "Putting in firestops would be a pain in the ass around them. I'll knock 'em out for just this stretch by the stairs so I can drill for my runs."

As I set the hammer down after the last one -- it wasn't worth dragging out the compressor to use the nail gun -- he observed, "You seem comfortable at that."

"I should. Some of my family are in construction and I worked all through high school. Mostly framing. A little tile work and roofing."

He shook his head. "Talk about lucky."

"Nah. I was just slave labor for my dad and uncles. It sucked but I needed gas money."

"I meant me," he chuckled. "Lucky for me having you on this job."

We got most of the old stuff out and the new in before quitting time. "Finish tomorrow?" I asked.

John gave me a thumbs up and I headed home, inexplicably feeling more rested.

Over dinner, Tatyanna commented, "You seem in a better mood about it today than you did on Saturday."

I shrugged and nodded. I kind of expected a little mockery, but she just nodded too.

Wednesday, an older woman showed up. Her face seemed familiar and I finally pegged her as one of the women who had been there the previous Saturday. She had shown up a few minutes late that day and I'd hadn't really met her. She turned out to be a pistol.

"Ruth." She stuck out her hand. "Caitlyn brought you, huh?"

"Matt. Yes, she did."

"You on the make for her? That why you came?"

I almost choked on my coffee, but I managed to mutter, "Nope."

She grinned and headed off to help John finish the firestops before the sheetrock went in. I heard her tell him, "I call dibs on the nail gun, sonny. You cut."

At lunchtime, John headed out to Home Depot to pick up a few things, so Ruth dropped down beside me.

"Done with the wiring?"

"For now," I answered.

She looked at me slyly. "So, tell me why you're not on the make for her. She's pretty hot and I know she's single."

"Because she was my nurse."

She snorted. "Every guy I know has a dirty fantasy about a nurse. She wouldn't have invited you here if you weren't an okay Joe, and I don't see any ring on your finger."

My voice was cold. "She invited me because she knew my life went to hell and wanted me out of the bourbon bottle."

All trace of levity left her eyes instantly. "Oh!"

It was awkward. Eventually, I asked. "Are you part of Caitlyn's group?"

"Yes, I am. Though I call them the babies."

At my puzzled frown, "I lost my husband in a war just like they did, but he died in Vietnam, not in the Mideast."

I looked at her again in surprise. Up until that point, I would have guessed she was in her late fifties. She saw me looking and said, "I'll be seventy-one years old next June."

"I'm sorry for your loss." I didn't know what else to say. Despite having heard a million variations on the sentiment, I didn't know of a single one that actually worked.

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment. We sat in silence for a while, then she asked, "When things went to hell, was it because you lost someone?"

I nodded.

"How long ago?"

I could only shrug. My throat closed up the way it often did when I thought about Liv.

"Recently then," she said. She reached out. I thought she was going to pat my shoulder like a grandmother. Instead, she punched me. Jesus! Her bony knuckles hurt! "Then it's time to get back to work."

"I have to say," I said as I stood and rubbed my shoulder, "Working passes the time, but I don't think it's making me feel better."

She snorted, "Don't be a moron!" She grinned at my reaction. "It's not supposed to make you feel better. It's supposed to distract you until your life actually gets better, and then keep on distracting you until that fact sinks in through your skull. God, if nailing a few boards were what made people happier, why would we invent drug cartels?"

She stood up. "Come on. I get the nail gun. You cut."

As we were leaving, Ruth said, "See you tomorrow," like it wasn't a question.

I shook my head. "I have a doctor's appointment."

"Okay, see you on Friday."

"I don't know. It's been a long week. Maybe I'll take a few days off."

She gave that snarky little grin and said, "Don't be an asshat!"

Later that week, an older retiree showed up and the two of us installed ducting for the HVAC. He flirted with Ruth every time she walked by. She just gave him an arch look and said, "You eaten' oysters, sonny? Maybe you need a little me-time with yourself tonight." He flushed and laughed.

"Poor guy," I commented as Ruth and I headed for our cars.

"Oh, he flirts with almost everything that's not jailbait. He's just one of those amiable horndogs some single guys turn into at that age. Besides" -- she took my arm in hers -- "why would I pay attention to him when I could look at your cute butt bent over in some snug jeans and have all kinds of entertaining thoughts for my own me-time?"

Again, the chuckle and punch in my arm as I pulled back and stared at her, lost for words. Finally, I shook my head. "You're one of a kind."

Her eyes got a little far away. "Not really, but a dying breed, I guess. A '60s child: hippie, tie-dye, Woodstock, the Dead, all of it."

"Did you ever re-marry?"

"No. I never felt the need. I probably wouldn't have married the first time, except that he got drafted and wanted it. Pieces of paper are kind of meaningless to me."

"Do you still miss him?"

"Yes and no. We were just kids, you know, so we never really had time to have problems. Good chance we wouldn't have lasted, but the way life happened, it was just this bright little moment. So, I miss him in kind of a fairy tale way." She shook her head, remembering. "It took a while. Honestly, I was stoned and sleeping around constantly through the first part of the '70s. But I got my life together, had some good relationships along the way."

She shrugged. "I dunno, Matt. I'm pretty happy to look forward instead of back." I could see her face out of the corner of my eye. The humor was momentarily gone, her expression considering as she looked at me.

As the Saturday crew gathered for assignment, John pointed my two buddies from last week in the direction of a pile of soil. "Would you two fill in on top of the French drain, please? Matt, I'll leave you to finish up what you were doing inside. I know you've got it under control. The rest follow me."

I don't know who was more surprised at that: Caitlyn, who'd called twice during the week to make sure I was coming, or Tweedledum and Tweedledee, who probably hoped they could have another relaxing day.

Around lunchtime, the pizza arrived. As I walked outside, Ruth said sweetly, "Would you like to sit with the girls, Matt?"

Her usual wicked grin was replaced by a butter-wouldn't-melt smile, but I didn't miss the little crinkles of amusement at the corners of her eyes. I could see the faint echo tugging at Caitlyn's mouth as she intently arranged her food, and I knew she'd said something: some little joking comment at my expense to the women whose carefully bland faces mirrored Ruth's as they pretended to pay no attention. I suppressed my reaction at being the butt of teasing, even if it was good-natured.

"No, thanks," I said, keeping my tone as light as possible and flashing Ruth a smile of my own. "Every guy knows to avoid girls' time like the plague, and I have other plans."

I could see Caitlyn was disconcerted by my answer. Ruth's eyebrows went up, but then I saw her duck her head to hide a smile. I scooped up two slices, folded them into each other the way John Travolta did in Saturday Night Fever -- I said I liked classic movies -- and turned down the driveway for a short walk, striving for that same self-assured stride. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ruth watch me echo the most famous bite of pizza ever, and her smile turned into a snort of laughter.

I suppressed an answering one. She probably saw the movie as a first-run in an actual movie theater, and I found myself picturing a twenty-nine-ish Ruth with big hair dancing the hustle. My pique faded into good humor.

As I reached the end of the driveway, an old Camry put on its turn signal, waiting to pull in. I stepped to the side to give it room, not quite looking where I was putting my feet. I felt my ankle start to turn and did a little hop to keep my balance.

In resignation, I looked down to where the oily slice of pepperoni, taking with it a gobbet of tomatoey mozzarella, had slithered off the slice onto the front of my light blue work shirt.

The sound of a window powering down brought my attention across the pavement to where the car stopped on the torn-up lawn.

"Are you a volunteer on the house?" the driver asked.

"Yeah."

The corners of her mouth quirked. "Are you better at construction than you are at eating pizza?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank goodness," she said as she climbed out. Starting down toward the house, she turned and walked backward for a couple of steps. "I'm Bela and thank you for helping."

Momentarily inarticulate out of embarrassment, I just nodded and veered toward my car. I pulled the work shirt away from me and glanced down the neck. Only a tiny dot had soaked through to my undershirt. "Guess it's the tee-and-jeans look today," I said to no one. "Quite a change from the suits, Matt." Somehow, that didn't strike me as such a bad thing.