The Handyman's Summer

by Nick Poff

  THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER

  NICK POFF

  The Handyman’s Summer

  2019 Old Spruce Productions

  © 2019 Nick Poff All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced without written permission from the author

  Cover Design: Matt Cresswell

  www.inkspiral.co.uk

  ALSO BY NICK POFF:

  THE HANDYMAN’S DREAM

  THE HANDYMAN’S REALITY

  THE HANDYMAN’S PROMISE

  THE HANDYMAN’S HISTORY

  LUCKY (A SHORT STORY)

  This book is dedicated with gratitude to the humans: Barb, Brad, Cari, Marjoleine, Mark, Matt, Nigel, Randa, and Tim. It’s also dedicated with much furry affection to Abner and Jasper.

  Don’t worry about the lonely nights

  When there’s no one there

  Don’t worry about the emptiness

  There’s one who cares

  --- “I’ll Stay With You”

  Willie & the Red Rubber Band

  1968

  THE HANDYMAN’S SUMMER

  JUNE, 1987

  It's a beautiful mornin'

  I think I'll go outside a while,

  An’ just smile.

  Ed Stephens, eyes closed, leaned back against the park bench as the mellow harmonies of one of his old favorites from The Rascals echoed through his mind. He opened his eyes as a shaft of golden sunlight suddenly penetrated the tree canopy. Ed glanced at his surroundings once again and sighed happily. It was indeed a beautiful morning.

  He looked at the man sitting next to him, his partner in life, Rick Benton. Ed felt the beginnings of a grin on his face. He’s looking pretty beautiful himself, he thought.

  Rick took Ed’s hand for a gentle squeeze. “We did it, baby.”

  “No, you did it.”

  “Well…you helped. You managed to keep me sane through the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? That was a chore. Hell, they should have named this park after me.”

  “Smartass.”

  “You bet, mister.” Ed used their clasped hands to pull Rick closer to him. He landed a soft kiss on Rick’s mouth. They looked into each other’s eyes, smiling; in tune, in touch, and in love.

  The bench on which they sat was in the middle of Porterfield, Indiana’s newest park. Two years earlier, Rick and his boss, Realtor Vince Cummings, had proposed revitalizing the ridge land on Stratton Creek into a multiuse area in order to capitalize on the new housing across the creek. It had taken a lot of cajoling, a lot of money, the cooperation of the entire town government, and a good many citizens to make it happen. Rick had even headed a nonprofit group to raise money to complete the project as envisioned by Vince and the city architect. After all of that hard work it was now finished. The north end was fitted with both basketball and tennis courts. The south end, where an old plant nursery had once been, was easily transitioned into a natural amphitheater, practical for all sorts of outdoor entertainment. Between these anchors were gardens, playground equipment, and natural clearings under the old growth trees for family gatherings. It all was connected by walk and bike paths that met in a circle where a small fountain gushed out of a sculpture created from native rock and stone.

  Due to its location in the Creek Town section of Porterfield, the original name was to be Creek Town Park. However, since the grounds had been purposed to be a sort of outdoor classroom for science classes studying Indiana flora and fauna, Ed had suggested a name change that was unanimously approved by all involved. Therefore, a bronze plaque affixed to the fountain bore the words: HILDA J PENFIELD MEMORIAL PARK. It was a fitting tribute to one of the town’s most beloved educators.

  Ed and Rick, of course, were especially pleased to have Mrs. Penfield’s legacy on record. She was not only their teacher, but a counselor of sorts, benefactress, and dear friend. They had inherited her nineteenth century home upon her death and were determined to keep the Penfield house and her memory as bright and inviting as she herself had been for everyone who knew her.

  Although the park had been completed and opened in the spring, the official dedication had been put off until the day before, the first Saturday in June, after Porterfield’s busy month of May with Porterfield Days and high school graduations.

  Ed and Rick had awakened earlier on this morning to discover a late spring Sunday so picture perfect that Rick had suggested they walk across town in the early morning stillness for a private dedication. Ed had agreed. It was the first day of what they were calling their “stay-at-home” vacation, and a long, lazy walk on a cool morning seemed as good a way to begin it as any other. Besides, Ed had thought, maybe they’d work off enough calories to justify a hearty brunch. Ed, who’d been a skinny beanpole in high school, had been disgusted to realize he now had to keep an eye on his weight and what he ate. He glanced down at his midsection, which seemed to be hanging over his shorts. He sat up straighter and sighed.

  Rick watched this with amusement. “You’re not fat, baby,” he said teasingly. “Not yet, anyway. Actually, you’re looking mighty fine these days.”

  “Yeah? I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  Happily, it was true on both accounts. Both of them had suffered through gawky and painful adolescences. Slowly but surely they had fought to grow up and beyond those painful years, emotionally and physically. Now, Ed at thirty-four and Rick at thirty-six seemed to have reached a pinnacle in well-being; they were both healthy, rugged, attractive men, successful at their work, respected for their community participation, owners of a stately home, and best of all, still crazy about each other. As Rick had said on the walk across town, “For whatever reason everything now is about as good as it can be. We’d better not question it, or we’ll jinx it.”

  “Or bitch,” Ed had added, thinking of what they referred to as The Great Facial Hair Argument from earlier in the spring. “There shall be no bitching.”

  “Agreed.”

  The end result of The Great Facial Hair Argument was a radical change in appearance for both men. Rick had been dismayed by the increasing silver threads in his dark brown beard. He claimed he wasn’t ready to start looking like his dad, so he was going to shave it off.

  Ed was horrified. He strongly protested, but one day when Rick was alone in the house he did indeed shave away the beard, leaving just a mustache. Ed was annoyed to be presented with this fait accompli, but upon closer inspection, began to grudgingly approve.

  “You kind of look like Tom Selleck on Magnum P.I.,” he said.

  Rick modestly looked down. “Oh, c’mon, I’m not that handsome.”

  “No, you’re not,” Ed said quickly, before Rick’s head had time to swell. “But you do look like him with that big ole mustache. I hate to admit it, but it’s a good look for you.”

  Still, Ed retaliated by letting his own facial hair grow out. His sandy brown mustache was now part of a neatly trimmed beard. He let the rest of his hair grow longer than he had allowed it to in years, and now had it parted and styled back in true eighties fashion.

  Rick had tried to appear disgusted by these changes, but his admiration was obvious. “You kind of look like some of the new pop stars on MTV,” he said, running his fingers lightly across Ed’s beard.

  “Aw, shucks,” Ed said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that handsome.”

  “No, you’re not,” Rick said with a grin. “But you are one sexy man now, baby. I’m going to have to be careful.”

  Ed pulled Rick to him for a hug. “I only have eyes for you, darlin’. Want me to prove it?”

  “As often as possible,” Rick replied with a long, searching kiss.

  These changes did not go unnoticed. Most everyone in the
ir circle was on board, but of course Ed’s mom, Norma, had to show some sort of disapproval. The first time she saw them together with their new looks she had grunted and mumbled “you two,” her new fallback comment for whenever she wanted to give them a hard time.

  The Great Facial Hair Argument had taken place while the Penfield Manor housekeeper, Effie Maude, had been away on her annual spring vacation. She took one look at them on her first day back and exclaimed, “What are you tryin’ to do, gaslight an old woman? What in tarnation have you boys been up to?” Like Norma, she thought it was so much nonsense and vanity, but she finally got used to it.

  Now Rick got up from the park bench and stretched. “I think we’ve done our duty by this place. I’m hungry.”

  Ed stood. “Me, too. Let’s head back.”

  They made their way down the path that led to a new walking trail that connected the park to downtown Porterfield.

  “Well, there’s one thing for sure,” Rick said as they ambled along, “I don’t mind turning my back on that park for the rest of the summer. It was worth the work, but I’m ready for some quiet time.”

  “Yeah,” Ed agreed. “Hopefully we’ll get plenty of that this week, but I’m sure I’ll be busier than ever when I go back to work. Ever since you slipped my business cards into the Welcome Wagon baskets for all the new residents in Doster Meadows I’ve almost got more work than I can handle.”

  Rick smiled. “Not only are you the cutest handyman in Porterfield, Indiana, you’re the most popular. You’re really good at what you do, but you know what, baby? I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time for you to think about subcontracting some of that work, maybe hire an assistant.”

  Ed stopped dead and looked at Rick. “Huh?”

  Rick stopped as well. “Now, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

  Ed shrugged. “Not seriously.”

  “Well, maybe you should. You were absolutely wiped out last month, trying to balance your job and your commitments for Porterfield Days.”

  “True,” Ed admitted, “but that’s another year away. I’m not going to worry about it now.”

  “It is not a year away,” Rick said sternly. “You know as well as I do that by January you and Bill Wormcastle will have your heads together, scheming something bigger and better for Porterfield Days ’88. Listen, just think about it. We’re doing okay. We can certainly afford for you to hire someone at least part time to help you with all the basic stuff you do.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll think about it.” Ed gave in. “But not until next week. I’m on vacation, remember?”

  “Yes, dear. I will now shut up about it.”

  They walked up a steep embankment to an abandoned railroad line the town had cleared for the middle section of the trail. Ed glanced around with interest. “Boy, does this all take me back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh huh. You’ve heard Laurie and Mom and me talk about goofy Great Aunt Marjorie. Well, she lived about two blocks south of here on Cooley Street. I’d get on my bike and pull my lawn mower over here to take care of her yard. Then I’d go around the corner to my friend Steve’s house. We’d walk down to the Cooley Street dead end and climb up the bank and mess around back here in the woods around the railroad tracks, looking for trouble.” Ed chuckled. “It’s probably a good thing we never found any.”

  Rick smirked at him. “What was that, your Huck Finn phase?”

  “Oh, hell no. That was just two bored kids with nothing better to do.”

  As they approached the clearing at the Cooley Street dead end Ed walked slower and finally came to a halt, looking down at the two rows of houses lining the street. The homes were modest and a bit time-worn, but well kept, except for one. Ed glanced to his right and pointed at a paint-peeled house all but hidden by a jungle of overgrown bushes. “You wouldn’t believe it now,” he said, “but twenty-five years ago that was the prettiest place on the block. Somewhere under all that neglect is a gorgeous Dutch Colonial.”

  Rick gazed at the seemingly abandoned house. “Isn’t that Evie Fountain’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. What happened to that place?”

  Ed shrugged. “Evie Fountain happened,” he said and began to walk again.

  Every small town has at least one character, that person everyone watches, laughs at, gossips about, and avoids like the plague. Until her sudden death several months earlier, Evie Fountain held that distinction in Porterfield. She endlessly wandered around town, a shabbily dressed, wild-haired figure, occasionally rooting in garbage cans, usually muttering under her breath. If anyone dared approach her, she darted away, running back to the safety of her house on Cooley Street. As she didn’t bother anyone, there was an unspoken agreement in the town to let her be. She wanted to be left alone, so she was.

  “You know,” Rick said. “Back when she died I meant to ask you what her story was. How did she end up in that broken down house, crazy as a bedbug?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.” Ed paused and looked back. “Over the years I’ve heard rumors and stories, but I don’t have a clue as to what’s true and what isn’t. I just know her family lived in that house, and she was the only one left.”

  “I wonder if the town will have it torn down,” Rick said thoughtfully, his real estate agent’s look on his face. “Whatever Evie’s situation was, something has to be done about it.”

  Ed grabbed Rick’s arm and pulled him forward. “C’mon, Mr. House Hunter. We’re on vacation, remember? Look! I can see the giant ice cream cone up ahead. I wonder if Neal and Judy are working today.”

  That giant ice cream cone was the huge neon sign atop the Iceberg Ice Cream Stand, relocated a year earlier to a convenient parking lot between Stratton Avenue and the new trail. The small white building with its two serving windows had been a Porterfield tradition for decades when it was one of the few businesses north of the highway bridge. Competition had driven it out business in the mid-seventies. An enterprising yuppie, seeing the nostalgic potential of the soft-serve ice cream business, had bought the derelict building, renovated it with all new equipment, and moved it away from the highway fast food restaurants to a location easily accessible by customers on foot. Grown-ups who remembered being taken to the Iceberg for treats as children now flocked to the new location with their own children. After a hugely profitable first year, it was now open for another warm weather season.

  Rick, who conscientiously had his ear to the ground concerning any and all real estate changes in town, had learned about the reboot early in the process. He had quickly floated the names of his niece Judy and their young friend Neal Soames as potential teen employees. Thanks to glowing recommendations from their teachers, they had been the first hired. The Iceberg quickly became the new “in” place among the high school crowd – the midway point on their cruising circuit through Porterfield – and Judy and Neal found their street cred rising as many of their classmates openly envied their jobs at a major hive of social activity.

  Neal and Judy, both members of the class of ‘87, were back at the Iceberg for one more summer to earn some extra bucks before making the big move to Bloomington to attend Indiana University in fall.

  As the familiar white building decorated with blue outlines of icebergs and polar bears became more visible, Ed could see both young people at work; Judy opening umbrellas over the metal lawn tables, and Neal sweeping the parking lot. Ed was still surprised yet very pleased with their close friendship. Judy had been inseparable from her best friend Angie Toland all through school; however, Angie had acquired a serious boyfriend the previous summer and had drifted away from Judy, who turned to her uncles’ young buddy for companionship. They had similar interests and a shared disdain for “conventional” Porterfield. Now, with Angie busy planning a late summer wedding and her life in Porterfield, Neal and Judy were busy planning for futures away from their hometown.

  Once Ed and Rick were within shouting distance, both Neal and Judy had disappea
red inside the building. Ignoring the stern sign – EMPLOYEES ONLY – on the side door, the men barged in to find Judy carefully loading the cone dispenser. Ed smiled at the sight of the once gawky kid who despaired of ever getting the braces off her teeth. Judy had fulfilled every early promise of beauty. The mouth hardware was long gone, her figure had developed, and with her dark hair styled in a careful copy of the Gimme A Break girls, Ed doubted she would lack male attention at I.U.

  Level 42’s latest, “Lessons In Love”, was blaring through the indoor/outdoor speakers. Ed frowned. It was a good enough song, but inappropriate, he thought, for such a place of nostalgia. He gestured toward the stereo receiver, and Judy rolled her eyes and gave him a “be my guest” motion with her free hand. Ed spun the radio dial to the oldies station, and the sunshiny sounds of Edison Lighthouse filled the air.

  “Now, this is the right song for a summer ice cream joint that’s supposed to have a retro groove.” To prove it he began, in his enthusiastic but toneless voice, to sing along. “Love grows where my Rosemary goes…”

  Rick joined in. “And nobody knows like me.” They probably would have continued but the look on Judy’s face brought them to a grinning halt.

  Judy carefully set aside the box of cones, folded her arms across her chest, and gave them her best look of disdain. “Aren’t they adorable,” she said flatly.

  Neal appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on his white work apron. “Well, that’s one word for them,” he said with a smirk.

  “Why, Neal Soames,” Ed said, frowning. “When I first met you in that old parsonage you were a polite, respectful young man. Now you’re…you’re…”

  “A genuine homosexual smartass,” Rick finished for him.

  Neal laughed. “I had good teachers.”

  “And as for you, Miss Romanowski…” Ed began.

  “Oh, bite me!” Judy muttered through a grin. “Here.” She tossed him a box of paper napkins. “If you’re gonna hang around here, you might as well make yourself useful. On a day like today we’re gonna have every sloppy kid between here and West Stratton dribbling on the cash.”