Let Him Cry Pt. 01

As I pulled off the shirt, I glanced back and met the return gaze as she did the same. She gave a small "see you" wave and continued on her way.

When I got back, John introduced me. "Matt, this is Bela Navarro. She's the homeowner putting in some sweat equity."

"We met," I said at the same time she said, "We bumped into each other at the end of the driveway." I smiled, partly out of social nicety, partly because I was pleased that she resisted having a little fun at my expense, limiting herself to a grin as her eyes met mine.

"Oh, okay. We're framing out the extension. Join us when you're finished with the floor registers?"

"One more."

During the morning, the team had gotten the joists in place and John had me direct a bunch of teenagers assembling the walls while he helped a couple of others knock out the subflooring. It was a small room and, with the crew we had that day, the plywood went down and the walls went up quickly. The ridge and rafters came next but, as I started up a ladder to put in some temporary braces so we could install the ridge, John called and waved me over.

"Hey, you just had a head injury," he said quietly. He saw my back stiffen and my glance over at Caitlyn. "Matt, come on; be real. Everyone can see where the shaving hasn't grown in and the scars are still fresh. Maybe leave the ladders to others for my peace of mind until you're a little more healed, okay?''

I nodded reluctantly.

"I cut the template rafter. Why don't you do the rest? Have Bela help you since she doesn't like heights."

When I told her we were making rafters, she said, "Okay, show me what needs to be done."

After I explained, she asked, "Are you good with a hand saw?" I nodded and she picked up the circular saw. "Okay. My cuts go wobbly with them, but this thing's my bitch." She laughed at my expression. "When I first started this, I was scared to death of everything including a drill. Now, the only thing that makes me nervous is that stupid table saw that keeps binding."

We fell into a nice rhythm. She made the main cuts and I used the hand saw to finish them.

"How long have you been working on this?" I asked.

"Since the beginning. I have to put in four hundred hours of sweat equity as part of the deal."

"Ouch! That's a lot."

"It's hard sometimes," she admitted, "with a job and a kid."

"Where's ..." It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about the father when I remembered that Caitlyn had said she lost him and did a fast save, "... your kid when you're here?"

She didn't notice the hesitation. "He's with my sister. On her days off, Rafi stays with her and I come here after I get out of work. My parents help out when they can, but they both have jobs."

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I have a small coffee shop. Basically, a glorified barista with a set of keys." She laughed. "What about you?"

"Well, nothing right now," I responded. "I had a company that did high-end electrical stuff: network installations, automation, that kind of thing. But there were some issues between me and my partner, and he ended up buying me out." I saw her glance up at my face. Did I let some of the bitterness creep into my voice? I forced my tone to be more lighthearted. "It gave me a nice chunk of money, and I figure I don't have to do any real work for six months to a year. Nice, huh?"

She smiled and I enjoyed the way her entire face lit up when she did. "Hell, yeah! I want me one of those jobs."

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, but I was starting to develop a bad headache by the end. I was using too many neck and shoulder muscles with an injury that wasn't long healed. When John finally called for cleanup at four, I was glad. "John, I'm starting to hurt here. Mind if I bolt?"

"No problem, Matt. Take care of yourself."

"Tuesday?" He nodded and gave me his thumbs up.

Bela put her hand on my arm lightly, staying my turn. "Hey, Matt, thank you for helping. I'll see you on Tuesday. Now go get some aspirin, you pobrecito." She gave me a comforting pat and let me go.

"Guess you spit in our eye on Saturday," was Ruth's greeting the next week.

I just shrugged. "Hi, Ruth."

She took my arm as we walked down the driveway. "Well, it's not like you were on the make for her anyway, right?" she teased.

I rolled my eyes. "Caitlyn's pissed?"

"Heh!" she cackled. "She should stay out of the kitchen if she can't stand the heat."

"I just don't like being poked."

She paused, forcing me to stop with her while she sized me up with a level look. She started walking again, saying, "You gotta drive some people; others find their way with maybe a little leading. Caitlyn does better with the first. Something tells me you're the second. Well, once you decide it's time to get your head out of your ass, I mean."

I fought for nonchalance, but those last words were an echo of something bitter. I must not have hidden my reaction well. "What was her name?" she asked so abruptly that she startled me into answering.

"Olivia."

"Parents saddled her with an old-lady name, huh?"

Outrage surged, a plug stopping the sudden whirlpool of depression sucking me down. My mouth opened to spit out a retort. The more rational part of my brain knew I'd probably regret whatever came out, but that part wasn't being consulted.

Then I saw her face. The lips were curled in a teasing half-smile, but I caught something in the set of her eyes, something watchful and compassionate. It gave me pause. And, in that brief second of perfect balance between anger, misery, and surprise, I realized I could choose. She held my gaze, waiting.

"You would know all about old ladies," I said finally, choosing flippancy as an armor against the whirlpool, deliberately tamping down everything else.

Her eyes crinkled in true good humor and she wrapped both of her arms through mine. "Damn straight I do! Come on, sheathing that addition today. I—"

"I know," I interrupted. "You get the nail gun. I cut."

"You lift, too. Plywood's heavy and I'm an old lady, remember?"

Several times that day something swam up from murky depths of my brain. Fortunately, there was always someone wanting my attention or advice on what to do: Ruth at first; Bela when she showed up later. John worked on replacement windows with some others whose names I never got. After our conversations last week, he turned me loose on framing work, assured I knew what to do or knew enough to ask.

I laughed my first laugh in months later that day. I don't mean one of the socially acceptable ones I counterfeited so as not to seem a total grump, a real one. We'd started with another guy helping us: he and I lifted the plywood in place, and Ruth and Bela nailed it home. Then he had to leave.

"I'll help you lift. Ruth can nail," Bela said.

"I can get one of the guys from John's team to help."

She smirked at me. She didn't say anything immediately and I started to head around the house. "Hey, Matt." I turned back. "I'm thirty-one years old. My hair and eyes are both dark brown. I'm five six and never mind my weight. I'm very slightly near-sighted."

I'm sure my expression was quizzical. I glanced at Ruth, who looked just as puzzled.

"My ears are pierced. No tattoos or major scars. I get hay fever in the fall. Oh, and I'm right-handed. That about describe me?"

"Umm ... what?"

"That about describe me?" she insisted.

"Umm ... yes?"

The smirk got bigger. "Whew! 'Cause I was starting to think maybe the word wimp should appear in there somewhere given what you said. Grab an end unless you're tired, viejo." She hefted one end of the sheet of half-inch and waited. "That means old man if you're wondering."

I had to laugh at that. Ruth had to cackle.

"So, you're working on Abode during the week? I think that's great." Caitlyn's voice on the phone was encouraging. Whether that was real or feigned to cover some irritation left over from Saturday's little joust, I had no idea.

"Yeah." I buttered the slices I had just toasted, passing each to Nia who was sitting at the counter and had declared herself in charge of jellying.

"I don't have a client scheduled for tomorrow, so I thought I might help out myself. Are you going?"

"Yeah."

"Can I get a ride? My car is going in for service."

Tatyanna looked up from supervising -- making sure that the entire jar of raspberry didn't get allocated to four slices of toast -- and commented, "This is a regular thing now?"

"Sort of seems that way." After a moment, I added, "Not like I'm so busy and all that."

"Like I said," she agreed. I was learning that dry tone.

The next day, I was a couple of rungs up on a ladder, nailing in the top strip of siding when Caitlyn came up. "I'll wait by the car."

I glanced at my wrist reflexively, shook my head that I still wasn't over that habit, and asked, "What time is it?"

"It's a little after four, but we got the insulation done in the new part, so John called it a day."

John came around the corner. I saw him look pointedly at my feet on the ladder. I put up a hand to forestall him. "No higher than this. When we get to the gable end, someone else will go up high and nail."

He gave me a thumbs up. "Whenever you want to call it quits. We'll pick up tomorrow."

As we pulled out of the driveway, Caitlyn said, "I'd offer to buy you a drink in return for the ride, but I don't think bourbon's a good idea. How 'bout a Starbucks?"

I ignored the implied commentary and focused on the offer. "I'm kind of dirty and stinky." It had been a hot day and I'd been working in direct sunlight for most of it.

"And I've got paint on me." Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her dabbing at some spots on her front. I didn't pursue the unbidden thoughts that brought as she continued. "We can sit outside."

We leaned back in our chairs, she with her iced Americano, I with my iced black tea. "Not a coffee fan?" she asked.

"I love coffee, just not Starbucks coffee. It's a little bitter for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I went to Italy once ..." That slipped out before my brain could censor it. I fought off the memories, deliberately focusing on the now. I allowed myself to notice the nice glow of the sun in her red hair rather than think about the past. I'd always had a thing for that color.

Her eyebrows went up expectantly as she waited for me to finish.

"I went to Italy once," I started again, "and got totally spoiled. I'm an addict of espresso and a macchiato is probably my favorite drink in the world. I like them strong, but not roasted to a crisp so that they're bitter."

"Hmm. I like Starbucks coffee. A white chocolate mocha is probably my favorite drink. Though I have to watch myself or my ass would grow to the size of Texas."

"I don't think you have to worry," I responded automatically.

She tipped her head in acknowledgment. "Good with a hammer and gallant," she laughed.

As she walked around the car to the passenger side, I couldn't help but notice the ass. Definitely no worries so far. Guilt over those thoughts materialized again, milder this time. Hard on its heels came a brief flash of anger. Huh? I thought those issues were getting better. I focused on the road and the idle chitchat.

"See you Saturday," she said when I stopped in her driveway. She touched my arm lightly as she said it. It brought a curious blend of emotions: my reluctance to be touched by a woman, which started a year ago, warred with my desire to be touched by a woman, which started long about puberty.

I thought about it on the drive home. I was pretty sure what psychobabble I'd hear about my aversion to contact with a woman. Well, not all women. Ruth didn't seem to trigger it. I guess her age made it different. Something caught at my memory when I thought that, but then it was gone, lost in the continued rush of thoughts.

The dislike of watching affectionate displays would fall under the same category. "It triggers memory, Matt, and you don't want to remember," some shrink would say. "That's understandable."

I understood that I was slightly screwed up. What I didn't understand was why I was suddenly noticing tits and ass after a year of quietness. And, more curiously, why was anger rearing its head when I did?

It was a large crew that Saturday. The drywallers had been in Friday and I went inside to start the next stage of electrical work. Ruth and three others John assigned to start on trim followed me. The guy scooped up the finishing nailer and handed it to Ruth, saying, "Since I bet nothing has changed since last time." She grinned.

One of the women stuck out her hand, "I'm Kim. You're new?"

"Matt," I replied. "Been doing this a few weeks."

The other two introduced themselves, the guy adding, "We do it one Saturday every couple of months. It takes us that long to recover from being around this one." He jerked his thumb at Ruth. Even if he hadn't said anything, I'd have known he had done this before because he twisted away before the knuckles could land, laughing and shaking his finger at her.

It was a sociable morning and went quickly, though the progress on the trim was slow. Ruth seemed to know what she was doing, but I found myself making the occasional quiet suggestion to the others to avoid a lot of wasted, and costly, molding. Occasional turned to frequent and soon I was driving half the trim effort, Ruth the other.

The call for pizza came and we dusted ourselves off.

"Hey, hon, I need to switch cars with you."

I turned to see Kim standing in the doorway with a man. He leaned in to give her a quick kiss and I started to turn away, the now-familiar aversion rising, when a small figure rocketed up and threw her arms around Kim's leg.

"Mommy!"

Kim turned to the group and said, "This," she said, scooping up the munchkin, "is my little Olivia."

Five short words. That's all it took. Five words for my world to start dissolving: "This is my little Olivia."

I didn't know why this time was different from every other time I had heard that name. It was not an uncommon name anymore, and I'd heard it a few times since last September with no reaction beyond a desire to not listen.

I didn't know why ten months ... no, eleven now ... hadn't inured me to the pain.

I didn't know why a chubby blonde six-year-old would evoke a slender brunette thirty-year-old.

All I knew was that, one second, I was seeing a young girl run into her mother's arms and the next moment I was sobbing.

I turned away from the stunned gazes and blundered blindly through the door into the kitchen area, from there out into the extension where I dropped onto a sawhorse.

I heard the consternation, the voices asking, "What's wrong? What happened?" Someone started out the door after me. It was Ruth, her voice brooking no argument, who ordered, "Shut the damn door! Let him cry. It's time."

I sat there for maybe half an hour. I wasn't sure. About that long.

Finally, the tears stopped. My body just didn't produce anymore. I stood up and realized I couldn't face them: the questions, the pity. I dropped my tool belt onto the floor and walked out the side door and around the house to my car. Just before I got there, I heard a voice behind me: "See you Tuesday."

It was Ruth, looking at me with eyes that had seen a lot. Then, in a voice gentler than I had ever heard from her, "For distraction." She turned back into the house.

Maybe I shouldn't have been driving with eyes that were blurry half the time, but I made it home. As I walked in the door, Tatyanna stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Oh, you're early. Dinner will—" She saw my face and broke off. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak as I felt another wave coming on and blundered through to my bedroom.

She didn't follow or call out a question, which surprised me. Instead, I heard, "Mr. Brennan needs some quiet. I want you to turn the TV down so low that I can't hear it and keep this door closed. Okay? If you do that, I'll let you have some ice cream with dinner."

I lay there in kind of a blank state, barely able to sustain a train of thought for more than a moment before a burst of sadness or some baffling anger derailed it and my mind flitted off in another direction. My phone rang within minutes: Caitlyn calling again as she had twice on the drive back. As I did those times, I silenced it, but this time I toggled on the Do Not Disturb setting. I gave it better-than-even odds I'd hear her at the door soon, a thought I welcomed like a root canal.

As if some malevolent spirit was listening, I heard the door buzzer, followed by Tatyanna's voice. Seconds later, that minor sense of imposition I'd felt about my houseguests -- I didn't begrudge their presence, but it disrupted my routines -- faded away forever as she said, "I'm sorry, but he's not available right now."

"Oh, I thought I saw him come in. I want to—" It was a neighbor's voice.

"I'm sorry." I could picture the expression on Tatyanna's face that went with that tone of voice. It was the expression Terrell and Nia saw every time they decided they didn't want to do what mommy asked. "Now is not good. Please come back some other time."

Caitlyn -- yes, I won my bet with myself -- didn't fare much better than my neighbor.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

Caitlyn's voice was softer, and I couldn't make out her side of the conversation.

"Ahh. It's nice to meet you. No, we didn't talk but, yes, he's upset."

The soft side went on for quite a while this time.

"Well, thank you for explaining. I bet that was shocking for everyone. Is the little girl okay?"

More muted buzz.

"Well, I think he's sleeping and he's sometimes a light sleeper" -- I was? -- "and opening his door might wake him. But, definitely, call tomorrow. I know he'll appreciate it that people are concerned about him. It was nice to meet you."

I lay there for hours. I think I fell asleep once or twice, but it was fitful, haunted by unpleasant dreams I couldn't remember upon awakening. That curious mixture of sorrow and anger I was feeling gradually faded into depression and, finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I got up and took a quick shower to wash the construction site off me, then wandered out into the living area. Tatyanna was sitting on the couch, watching some movie.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Almost eight." That surprised me. "I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I can heat some for you if you're hungry."

"Oh." I thought about it. "I'm not hungry."

"A Caitlyn McCarthy stopped by."

"Thank you." She knew what I meant and nodded.

My gaze passed over the bourbon bottle on the sideboard. I'd been good lately but fuck it! I poured a stiff one and dropped onto the other end of the couch. I saw her glance at the drink in my hand, but it wasn't judgmental like Caitlyn's looks had been, just noticing. "Would you like one?" I asked.

"Do you mind?"

"Of course not."

We sat and watched a movie. I have no idea what it was. I was well into my third pour when Tatyanna flipped the sound off. I turned my attention away from the corner I was staring at. She asked, "Do you want to talk, or would you just like to sit?"

I could see the reaction on her face caused by whatever that question did to mine. She nodded, "Quiet's okay then." She flipped the sound back on.

I was feeling the bourbon now. "I don't understand," I said eventually.

She looked at me in puzzlement. The sound flipped back off.

"I don't understand why," I clarified -- at least, it seemed obvious to me that was clearer.

"Understand what?"

"I came down to a stickie on my phone with two words: Press Play."