by Nick Poff
This would have been nothing more than something for the adults to grin about, but it had gotten ridiculously out of hand the previous summer. Josh did the yardwork for most of the extended family, but spent the bulk of his time at Penfield Manor, where, with Ed and Rick’s blessing, he experimented with everything from landscape arrangements to fertilizer and mulch. One of his more ardent fans had discovered this and began taking regular strolls by the house trying to get Josh’s attention. Word spread, and eventually there was a regular parade of fourteen, fifteen, and even sixteen year old girls making a daily pilgrimage to the corner of Spruce and Race Streets.
The worst days were the hot ones, when the girls, dressed in their skimpiest bikinis sauntered by like so many Miss America wannabes, ostensibly on their way to the community pool, located clear across town. Josh ignored them. Ed and Rick were embarrassed at the unwanted attention on their property. Josh’s mom and stepdad dreaded phone calls from irate parents. Poor Effie Maude was downright scandalized. She routinely threatened to go out with a broom and scatter them.
It had all come to a head one hot, humid day near the end of July. Josh was mowing and trimming, wearing just cutoffs and boots. When Ed came home for lunch he was horrified to discover an even half dozen female onlookers. Even old Mrs. Grogan next door, who they rarely saw, was outside watching with interest. Ed went in the house to find Effie Maude beside herself, hand on the phone, ready to dial 911. Ed settled her at the kitchen table where she couldn’t see the spectacle, made her a cup of tea, and decided it was time for action. He called his friend Muriel Weisberg. The indomitable Muriel, self-described vision impaired bitch goddess, town troublemaker, and pretty face, was definitely no shrinking violet. He figured if anyone could break this up, she could.
Muriel – big and brassy and her long blond hair pulled into a hasty ponytail -- took in the situation, and began cackling with delight. “I can’t decide if this is a step forward or backward for women’s liberation,” she gasped.
Once she had calmed down she put together a plan of action. Within minutes she was out the back door, arms around a cardboard box containing a bowl of small change and dollar bills, a rubber PAID stamp she’d unearthed from Ed’s invoice drawer, pencils, and a notebook. Rick’s Nikon was hanging from her neck.
“Attention, ladies!” She called, walking toward the throng. “The days of free peeks are over! We are now accepting only paid admissions. C’mon! Cough up a dollar or shove off.”
One snooty-looking blonde sniffed with disdain. “I don’t have any money.”
Muriel sneered. “Well, honey, I guess that’ll teach you to leave home without a purse.”
She turned to the next girl. “How ‘bout it, Freckles? Fork over a buck and I’ll stamp your hand for unlimited viewing pleasure.”
“St-stamp my hand?” The freckled girl stammered.
“Of course! We have to sort the paying customers from the riff raff.” Muriel leered at her. “I’ll even take your picture for the contest.”
“What contest?” A short brunette asked.
“Why, to win a date with Josh! I’m going to take all of your pictures and publish them in the Porterfield Courier. The whole town will vote, and decide which of you lucky ladies wins a date with Josh.”
The brunette gasped. “My mother would die!”
“A small price to pay, my dear,” Muriel told her.
“She’s not serious,” the blonde sneered.
“Wanna bet?” Muriel aimed the camera at her. “Smile, honey. You got enough cheesecake going on to start a bakery.” The blonde backed off, muttering.
A chubby girl in a green one-piece clutching a dollar bill pushed closer to Muriel. “What are you going to do with the money? Give it to Josh?”
“Yep,” Muriel said. “He’ll use it to pay for the date with the winner.”
“Well, I don’t know…” the girl hesitated.
“Snooze and lose.” Muriel shoved her aside. “Who’s next?”
Another girl turned to her companion. “Let’s get out of here, Jennifer,” she said in a low voice.
“Bashful?” Muriel said sweetly. “That’s okay. Candid photos are acceptable.” She raised the camera to her half blind eye and clicked. The two girls took off running. Another followed them.
Miss Blonde Bikini decided to try another tactic. “Just who do you think you are,” she said snippily to Muriel, “to make us pay to stand on a public sidewalk?”
Muriel lowered the camera and gave her a look that plainly said she was done playing. “Think Freddy Krueger in Nightmare On Elm Street.” She made a slashing motion with her fingers in front of the girl’s face. “If you don’t walk away quietly, leaving that boy to finish his work without feeling like a rump roast in a butcher’s window, I will invade your dreams, and I will rip your snotty, over made-up face off.”
And with that, the remaining girls, led by the blonde, dispersed. “The next time you come around here,” Muriel shouted after them, “I want cash in your purses and the Kleenex out of your bikini tops! And you!” she pointed at the blond girl. “For Christ’s sake, get someone with a clue to teach you how to put on eye shadow!”
Josh had been watching this performance, his eyes wide and his mouth partially open. Muriel nodded regally to him as she made her way to the back door. “Carry on,” she said.
Once inside, Effie Maude threw her arms around her. “I knew I liked this girl,” she gushed.
Ed, arms folded, smirked at her. “Nice, but I have to admit I had something a little more subtle in mind.”
“Subtle! Then why the hell did you call me?” Muriel flounced across the kitchen and flung open the fridge door. “Subtle,” she grumbled, grabbing a can of Pepsi. “You want subtle? Wait ‘til you get my bill!”
The rest of the summer had passed without onlookers. Everyone assumed the issue was settled, but now here was Josh, lugging garden tools out of the carriage house with a short, slight, bespectacled girl following him with the wheelbarrow.
“That’s different,” Ed said to Effie Maude. “She’s helping and he’s letting her. You don’t suppose…”
They looked at each other. Effie Maude began to chuckle. “Maybe that boy’s hormones finally kicked in.”
“I think this requires some investigation,” Ed said, heading for the door.
“You can get your drop cloths out of the carriage barn while you’re out there,” Effie Maude hollered after him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ed mumbled.
He ambled down the back walk, cut through the rose arbor, and took a left turn at the peony bushes to where Josh and the girl were quietly talking by the vegetable patch. They were a study in contrasts; Josh tall, now up to Ed’s six feet, and the girl short. Josh looked as good as ever, and the girl, unfortunately, was just on the safe side of homely.
Josh looked up as Ed approached. “Hey, Uncle Ed. This is Tess Blankenship. She goes to West Stratton, and she’s doing 4-H gardening projects, too.”
Does she really? Ed thought. “It’s nice to meet you, Tess.” He smiled cordially.
“How do you do, Mr. Stephens?” Tess solemnly held out her hand for Ed to shake. He did, saying, “Oh, just call me Ed. Everyone does.”
Tess nodded. Ed waited for some sort of response, but apparently she was done talking. Ed looked over at Josh, who glanced at Tess and said offhandedly, “We’re going to weed the carrots.”
“Oh,” said Ed, beginning to feel strangely uncomfortable. “I just came out to get a drop cloth,” he said awkwardly. “I’m going to paint the front porch floor.”
“That’s cool,” Josh said, handing a pair of gardening gloves to Tess, who sank to her knees and began furiously pulling weeds.
“Well, I guess I better get to it,” Ed said, gesturing toward the carriage house door.
“Uh, huh,” Josh said, frowning at the tomato plants.
Ed walked away, turning back once to watch the pair silently working. Geez, he thought. The kid found someone ju
st as inscrutable as he is.
Effie Maude stopped him on his way to the front porch with the drop cloth and a WET PAINT sign. “So? Is that ‘lil thing his girlfriend?”
Ed shrugged, “You got me.”
###
Ed was soon busy slapping paint on the west side of the porch floor, carefully working toward the door and the front steps. As Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam kept him company on the boom box radio with “Head To Toe”, he hummed along; grateful he had not lost complete touch with the Top 40. He figured the day he didn’t like anything on the pop station he would know for sure he was well on his way to old age.
He was on his knees, applying slow and steady strokes to the boards underneath the porch swing when he sensed someone’s presence.
“Ed Stephens! Honestly!” A voice barked suddenly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Ed was so startled he jumped and banged his head on the swing. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was, but he did so he could glare indignantly at his mother, Norma. “Well, honestly, Mom,” he retorted, rubbing his head. “You watched What’s My Line for twenty years. What does it look like I’m doing?”
Norma narrowed her eyes at him. “Watch your mouth,” she said. “I was referring to those disgraceful shorts. Pull them up! I haven’t seen that much of your backside since you were a baby.”
Ed let go of a sigh that was more of a snort. He backed away from the swing and gave his shorts a healthy tug. “Better?” he inquired.
“It’ll do,” she grumbled, settling herself on the front steps. “I decided to stop by on my way home from work to talk to Josh. Mardell’s thinking about new shrubbery in front of the bakery building. I didn’t expect to see him busy with one of his groupies.”
“The jury’s out on whether she’s a groupie, a girlfriend, or an assistant.” Ed moved his paint can. “It’s okay to interrupt whatever they’re doing.”
“Well, okay.” Norma began to get up, but abruptly sat down again. “Oh, by the way; I bought a nice pot roast at Scott’s. I want you and Rick to come over tonight for dinner.”
Ed nodded. “We’ll be there.” This was not an unusual demand. Norma hated cooking for one, and they routinely took meals at her dining room table.
Norma stood up. Ed wondered if she was good to go this time or if she would remember something else. “Well! I guess I’ll visit with Effie Maude for a bit before I take on Josh and that…whatever she is.” She marched across the porch to the front door, eliciting a squawk from Ed. “Oh, hush up,” she snapped. “I know better than to walk through wet paint.” The storm door slammed behind her.
Ed shook his still smarting head and returned to his painting. Fleetwood Mac was now on the radio with “Big Love”, and the song was halfway through before Ed realized Norma had not hollered at him to turn down the volume. I wonder if the old lady’s hearing is beginning to go, he mused.
He’d advanced beyond the front door to the east side of the porch before he sensed another intrusion. “Ed is not here,” he said without turning around. “This is merely a hologram for your viewing pleasure.”
“I’ll say it’s pleasurable,” Now Ed turned to find Rick grinning at him. “I’ve never seen a hologram with such a hot ass before. Damn, I’ve heard of ‘plumber’s crack’, but is this ‘handyman’s crack’?”
Ed looked at his paint-splattered shorts and vowed to throw them in the garbage the moment he was done. He narrowed his eyes at Rick. “You know, I’d probably have to deck anyone else who said that.”
“And me?” Rick teased.
“You,” Ed said, seductively pulling the ill-fitting shorts ever lower. “You I’ll take care of in private.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Handyman?” Rick adjusted his own shorts. “Like maybe after lunch?”
Ed pulled his own shorts back into place. “We’ll see. You can help scrub the paint off me in the shower, if you lock the bathroom door.”
Rick sighed. “Yeah. It is a little crowded here today.” He placed the package he’d been holding onto the steps. “I was going to put up the hammock I bought, but somehow I felt like I was intruding in my own backyard. What’s up with that?”
“Who knows? And Mom is in the house yakking it up with Effie Maude.”
Ed heard a bumping sound from the storm door. One black paw appeared in the glass panel, then another, and then Jett’s anxious face. “Oh, great; Mom didn’t bother to push the front door closed behind her. If that cat tracks through this wet paint I will end up decking someone.”
Rick sighed. “Well, considering that both of our families have a tendency to treat this place like Grand Central Station, I think we’ve learned a lesson.”
“What’s that?”
“The next time we decide to do a stay at home vacation we’ll tell everyone we’re going away, then lock all the doors and hide.”
###
That evening Ed and Rick walked the three blocks to Norma’s house on Walnut Street. The nice weather was holding; the crowd had dispersed at home, and after what turned out to be a very long shower indeed, both of them were feeling a good deal more amiable toward the world in general.
“I forgot to tell you I ran into Clyde this morning,” Rick said, kicking a stone on the sidewalk.
“Oh?” Clyde Croasdale was a dear friend and part of their extended family.
“Yeah. He told me about his neighbor, a Vietnam vet named Sherm Crossett. He’s had an awful struggle with PTSD. Clyde says the guy could really use some low pressure work, kind of as therapy. Maybe we could help him out by letting him help you out.”
Ed sighed. He knew Sherm Crossett. He’d been a few years ahead of Ed at Porterfield High, and had been a bully’s bully. Ed was not the only student who’d breathed a sigh of relief when he graduated. “You remember that Kennedy kid the other day at The Iceberg?” Ed asked. “Well, go back twenty years and that was Sherm Crossett.”
Rick looked troubled. “Oh, I see. Still, the guy’s been through hell, like so many Vietnam vets. Is it fair to hold his behavior in high school against him now?”
“No,” Ed admitted. “It isn’t fair at all. I know I should be big enough to forgive and forget, and I have. He’s paid more than his share of dues. But I don’t have to work with him. The idea of me having an assistant is supposed to reduce stress, not increase it.”
“Well, after a trial period…”
“No,” Ed said. “Let it go, darlin’.”
“Okay, okay,” Rick sighed. “Someone else will come along.”
Ed managed a grin. “You’re not going to let this assistant thing go, are you?”
Rick grinned in return. “Nope.”
Once they’d reached Norma’s house she welcomed them inside, bustled around pouring iced tea, and told them to sit down. “I’m sorry, boys, I’m running a little late with dinner. I got caught up on the phone with poor Irene Booth.”
“Who?” Rick asked.
“President of the garden club,” Norma told him.
Ed snickered. “Poor old Irene. Is there trouble with the Porterfield Posies?”
Norma shot him a look. “Don’t be picking on poor Irene. Yes, there’s some political nonsense going on, and she doesn’t have the backbone to handle it. Let’s not get in to it, though. I had enough of it on the phone. What’s going on with you two? What have you got planned for the summer?”
Ed and Rick looked at each other. “Not much,” Rick admitted.
“Do we have to have something?” Ed asked.
“Of course not.” Norma shook her head impatiently. “The two of you have been racing around, busier than one-armed paper hangers the past few years. I was sure you’d be stirring up something now that that park is done.”
Rick shrugged. “Well, that’s all the more reason to do nothing for a while.”
Ed, whose back was still stiff from painting, agreed. “Yeah.”
The oven timer dinged. “All right,” Norma got up. “Come on in to the dining room. It’ll be ju
st a few minutes.”
Ed and Rick settled at the table in their usual places listening to Norma clattering in the kitchen. Ed was reaching for the iced tea pitcher when his stomach seemed to rumble and he missed his grip on the pitcher handle. What the hell, he thought.
At that moment there was a shriek from the kitchen. “Oh, dear Lord, what was that?”
Norma appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “I think the house is coming off its foundation.”
Rick, a look of wonderment on his face, said: “No, no, I think it was an earthquake.”
“Earthquake?” Ed echoed.
“Nonsense,” Norma retorted, sounding like her usual self. “We don’t have earthquakes in Indiana. We have tornadoes.”
Rick shook his head. “Yes, Indiana does have earthquakes. There are a couple of serious fault lines in the southern part of the state.”
Ed frowned at him. “Do tell, Cliff Clavin,” he said, referring to the know-it-all mailman on Cheers.
“It’s true,” Rick insisted. “My geology prof in college was a seismologist. He showed us the charts and the historic record.”
Norma looked uncertain. “Well, is it over, or should I stay here in the doorway?”
“I think we’re safe,” Rick assured her.
Norma sank into the nearest chair. “Earthquake! Well, I never.”
“You have now,” Ed teased.
“Watch your mouth,” she said automatically. “I tell you, for a moment I thought the kitchen was going to cave into the basement. I had a picture of myself buried under the refrigerator, hollering for help.”
Ed was feeling rather disappointed. His first earthquake, and he thought it was his empty stomach calling. Thinking of that he asked, “Mom? Now that the excitement’s over, do you think we can have some pot roast?”
“Oh!” she said, still distracted. “Sure.” Norma stood up and hesitantly returned to the kitchen, seemingly in a daze.
“I’ll be damned,” Rick muttered.
“Yeah,” Ed said. “An earthquake in Porterfield. How ‘bout that?”
