by Lola Rebel
Once he'd followed the kid up, he walked over across the gently sloping roof to where the hole had been.
"You ever seen a building going up, Jamie?"
He shook his head.
"They're a bit like you, in a way. You got bones, right? Hold you up, make you move around. And when they break, it hurts like hell, let me tell you."
The boy nodded. "Yeah, I know, I think."
"Well, buildings are the same way. They got bones—the rafters, you seen 'em, I know—and frames, and then everything around them, what you see, is like skin over that. But if the skeleton goes, the skin goes, and the skeleton right there"—He pointed at the patched-over spot—"had gone bad."
"What happened to make it bad?"
"Probably just age, or a little spot that didn't get tarred over, and that made for a leak. Then the timber gets water in it, and it starts to rot out."
"Yeah," the boy said, like he knew what Chris was talking about.
He took a step to look closer and all of a sudden a sick feeling ran through Chris's stomach. If he took one more step—
His hand shot out and grabbed Jamie's wrist. The boy froze, and then real slow, turned. "What's wrong?"
"Stop there," Chris said. He tried to keep his voice even and calm, even as his heart was thumping at a thousand miles an hour. "No further."
"I know," he answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Or you'd fall through, right?"
Chris let out a breath. "Yeah. Just be careful, alright?"
What was it about this kid that had him so on-edge? He should have seen that the boy wasn't moving any further. But that hadn't stopped him panicking. And there was nothing that he could do to explain why he'd done it.
Nineteen
Marie rubbed her eyes and poured herself another cup of coffee. She was a tea drinker, usually. Coffee left her feeling on-edge, and she usually didn't like it.
That said, if she was going to be up another late night, then certain sacrifices had to be made, and her preference for tea over coffee was the first to go. She looked out the window and fought the desire to lay her head down.
If she went through the night, then it would be easier than if she let herself think that she might be able to get a good night's sleep, and then couldn't. It was going to be hard, but she needed to be there when Jamie's nightmares started.
Besides that, she'd brought with her a veritable treasure trove of books when she came out from New Orleans, and she had barely touched them since she got into town. So much had been going on, and she'd nearly forgotten about them.
She opened the book to the ribbon bookmark. None of it seemed the least bit familiar. Naturally; she hadn't read the book in almost four months. With a gentle feeling of resignation, she turned back to the front of the book and started again. If she was lucky, she might be able to make a few chapters' headway before Jamie's nightmares overtook him.
The sound of the clock in the front hall finally pulled Marie out of the trance of reading. It tolled out twelve times, in total, and then went silent. She looked down at the page. She'd passed where the marker had started some time ago, though she couldn't say if it had been minutes or an hour. Time had slipped completely from her mind.
She turned around and stood up. Fatigue hit her suddenly and swiftly, as if she'd been avoiding it successfully up to that point by keeping busy. She dared to risk opening the door, and peering inside.
The light from her lamp, no doubt running low on oil after the hours of reading she'd done, spilled into the room, just enough to see inside. Jamie lay there, as still as a stone. Her heart started to pound hard in her chest. Was something wrong? Was he still breathing?
She stilled herself as much as possible, watching and waiting for some sign that would tell her. The more she remained still, the better she could see, the better she could make out the minute movements of a person in sleep.
Curled softly around a pillow, she could see his back rise gently, just enough to allow the tiniest amount of air in, it seemed. Then, slowly and rhythmically, he let it out again. No sound penetrated the room, but he was fine.
Her heart, though—it thumped in the teacher's ears, so deafeningly loud that if she hadn't known better, she would have thought it might wake the boy up from his slumber, like the story by Poe. The idea itself was nonsense. If anything, the thing to wake him would be the light from the candle.
Marie took her time in closing the door. It would be a waste to wake him, now that he rested so soundly, at the last moment.
She let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding until just then. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears even still, pulsing in her fingertips. He was alright, and he would continue to be alright. That, at least, was some comfort.
Convinced, finally, that she might be able to sleep the rest of the way through the night, and with her eyes feeling increasingly bleary, Marie stripped off her jacket and skirt. Maybe it was improper to be running around in her underwear with a boy Jamie's age around, but then, she wasn't going to be sleeping in her clothes, either.
She laid down on the couch. She was a small woman, she reasoned, which usually came only with problems. She couldn't reach anything above the lowest shelf in the cabinet without having to lift herself up onto the counter top, which was sufficiently un-ladylike that she simply didn't do it at all.
And then there was the fact that her body was anything but over-strong.
Yet, in laying on beds, she had found something else that it served well, as her feet propped comfortably onto the opposite arm, without hanging too far off or having to rearrange her body to fit properly. That was the first thing she had found she liked her size. The first thing that she would admit to, at least.
The other time had been in this room, too, and it was not remotely a thought she was prepared to entertain. The size difference between a man and a woman was a simple matter of fact. There was no reason to take pleasure in it, and particularly no reason to think about it after the fact when the man in question was Chris Broadmoor.
She used her arm as a sort-of pillow and dug into corner where the seat met the back of the sofa. It was soft, there. Warm and comforting, like the couch was wrapping its arms around her. She caught herself when she felt her mind wandering in a direction it shouldn't have.
What, she wondered idly as her mind wandered—so long as it avoided the gutter, she found it always wandered before she let herself sleep—what had made the difference tonight?
Was Jamie too tired for dreaming? It couldn't have been enough time that he'd simply begun to get over it. She wasn't even willing to entertain the notion, because it was laughably wrong from the beginning.
The children, maybe. Being around the children, who'd been in high spirits after so many days of being away from school. Now they got to have time away from their families, away from chores, away from their everyday lives, and maybe that played some part in it.
Then again, she thought, maybe there was something else. When she'd gone outside, wondering where Jamie had run off to, she couldn't help noticing where he'd finally found himself. Sitting on the edge of the roof with Mr. Broadmoor.
She wondered what they talked about. But most of all, she wondered what Jamie thought about it, and wondered why she was so concerned about a bartender she barely knew.
Twenty
True—he had no reason to be doing any of this. There was a strong sense in his chest that he owed the Pearsons, for everything that had happened. And it was true that Jamie was tied up with Marie, now. It was a better plan to have the boy stay with Marie than it was to have the kid staying with him, surrounded by Sarah and her girls.
The sun beat down on him as he checked the tar again, to make certain it was thoroughly coated. It was drying quickly. That was good for the pace of the job, since it meant that he could move on to nailing down the roofing and getting all of it finished sooner.
It was bad, though, because it meant that he didn't have a long time t
o think about what he was doing, and he was well past the point where he was comfortable tarring roofs. He hadn't done the job in fifteen years and though the entire process was familiar enough that he didn't worry about forgetting the entire thing, he couldn't say the same for his level of comfort with it.
The little things kept jumping up and hitting him in the face, little mistakes that he'd never have made when he was apprenticed. What was he even doing? He wasn't cut out for this work. But something kept him coming back, day after day.
Chris let out a breath and put the thoughts out of his mind, leaned over and painted on a thick swatch of tar where he thought it looked a bit thin. Then he wiped away the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead and dropped the brush out of the way.
Reaching into his belt, he pulled a small handful of nails free and stuck them into his mouth, grabbed a short stack of roofing tiles, and got to hammering. The work went quickly and easily. Place it, check the placement, and rap the slat into place with a few easy strikes of the hammer.
The quickness of the work belied its complexity. That, at least, hadn't changed since he was young. The amount of tar that ended up on his face was something he'd forgotten until it started to happen, and then all of a sudden, in a scalding flash of memory, he realized that he'd had the exact same experience as a young man.
He didn't like to think about that time, any more than he liked to think about anything that had happened before he came here. But it was a skill that had proven useful. The thought had occurred to him more than once, sitting up on that roof, that he might be able to pick it all up again, if he so desired. All it would take would be a little bit of effort and some practice.
The notion of a real trade, rather than sitting in a smoky room pouring drinks all day, held an odd but undeniable appeal. It was the antithesis of everything he'd believed for such a long time, and yet now here he was seriously entertaining the notion.
Wouldn't it be nice, he seemed to think, to be able to come home with his hands covered in blisters for a wage that might only be ten cents more a day, rather than sitting around and talking with women who most men paid for their time.
The entire idea was laughable, and yet, it kept coming up, over and over. The sound of steps on the boardwalk below gave him a convenient excuse to stop work for a moment. The hammer was set aside, the sharp nails pushed out of his mouth and into the palm of a waiting hand.
There was a man below, rail-thin with a hat. Beside him was a woman who looked as if she could have fit two of him inside her. Her clothes were modest, but even still, the way that she moved drew attention to breasts that would have been extravagant on any other woman, but seemed proportional on her heavy-set and poorly stayed frame.
Where the man's expression was tired, hers was aggravated. And when Chris moved on the roof, she immediately looked up, like she'd been expecting him. One meaty hand rose to shield her eyes.
"Can I help you folks?"
She didn't respond with anything but a sneer. It wasn't unheard of, not with Chris, but it was unusual that someone would act that way so openly. Her other arm moved to poke the man beside her with one fleshy elbow.
"'Scuse me," the man said. "But I'd like it if you'd come down here, a minute."
Chris did so. The climb down the ladder wasn't much trouble, and the break would be worthwhile. So long as things didn't get too unpleasant, anyways.
"Is there a problem?"
The woman spoke, then. "Of course there's a problem. Harold—"
She cut herself off, then, and stared at the man beside her, as if he ought to have said something sooner. He pulled his face into a grimace before he spoke.
"My wife, well, my wife and I, we heard, I don't want to start any gossip, but—"
His wife evidently didn't like the way that he tip-toed around whatever problem she had, and elbowed him again in the ribs. Her prodigious bust swayed as she did it, and Chris had to turn his head to avert his eyes from it.
"I don't see what you're getting at, sir."
"Well, we came by to talk to the teacher, but I thought we ought to see you first, on account of the talk."
"What talk would that be?"
"It's all over town, the way you and her been gallivanting around," the woman cut in.
"We don't put no stock in rumors, sir, so I thought we'd come and put it to rest."
Chris took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"There's nothing to hear."
"That's not what the padre was sayin', and I wanted to hear it straight from you," the man said. He looked remarkably like he was going to be sick.
"But if you say there ain't nothing to the talk, then there ain't nothing to the talk."
"Talk is cheap," Chris said flatly. "If the preacher wants to know what's going on in my life, or in Miss Bainbridges, then he ought to come and speak to us directly about it. But since you came all this way, I'll put it real blunt for you: there's nothing to talk about. Now, class is in session, so if y'all don't mind, could you just keep on movin?"
The woman looked like she'd never been spoken to like that in her life. Well, if that was the case, Chris thought, then she ought to get used to it.
Twenty-One
Marie usually took note of anything that was going on. She wrote it down in a little notebook that she kept on the corner of her desk, if something happened during the day that needed to be addressed after classes ended.
The two outside, the ones that Chris had gone to speak with, didn't make the list. There wouldn't be any need to write it down, she knew, because she couldn't stop wondering about them long enough to forget to find out what they'd been there for.
Most of the time, she still didn't recognize everyone's face. The folks who she knew well, she knew well. But even in a small town like Applewood Junction, there were still faces she didn't recognize, from social circles she didn't move in. From circles she didn't particularly want to move in.
Marie may not have known the woman outside, or the man beside her, obviously her husband, but it didn't take a mind-reader to know how they were feeling. Even in New Orleans, people got angry. Out west was no different, and the people getting angry tended towards certain patterns. For example, most of the time when folks you didn't know showed up angry, they were angry over something stupid. And stupid or not, they usually had gotten themselves worked up to a fit without any sort of reasonable cause.
But they hadn't come in. In fact, after a few words with Chris, they'd left, and now that the big hole in the roof was patched over, aside from the rapping of the hammer above them, they couldn't hear quite so easily what was being said.
So all she had to go on was body language and the sure knowledge that they didn't come around to welcome her into town with open arms.
When the kids left, she checked the notebook. Nothing for the day. Nothing, because the only thing that she'd noticed, she knew she wasn't going to forget. She stepped outside into the afternoon sun, and as the door closed behind her, Chris pushed himself off of where he'd been standing by the door.
He made a habit, most days, of telling her what sort of progress he'd made that day, what was left to do, and how well things were going. It was a comfort, because the truth was that Marie hadn't the foggiest idea about carpentry, and being in the dark about the entire process wasn't her idea of a good time.
Beggars can't be choosers, of course, so if he was going to do the work for nothing, then she was going to take the status updates that she could get without complaint. That it happened to be daily was a bonus, but it wasn't a bonus that she deserved or even required. It was just something that she appreciated.
"The shingles are up. As far as it goes, the job is pretty much finished, at this point," he told her. "Unless there's something else needs doing."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you—"
"But there is something, then."
"Nothing really," she answered, trying to give him the hint that she wasn't interested in discussing it. Mr. B
roadmoor had already done far too much for her, and she knew it would be some time before she could even imagine having the money to pay him for any of the work he was doing.
"Well, if you say so, then fine. I'm gonna go get ready for work. It's been fun, in a way, doing work like this again. I didn't know how much I'd missed it."
"Well, I'm glad you could find some enjoyment in it." She didn't realize until he'd stepped off the boardwalk and into the grass that she'd lost herself in manners and completely forgotten to ask about the ruckus outside. She stepped off and followed behind. "What was that thing about earlier?"
He didn't stop to answer. "Thing? I'm not sure what you mean."
"That couple. You talked to them for a few minutes, and they walked off all in a huff."
"Oh. That thing. Nothing, really. I dealt with it myself."
"What do you mean, nothing? Were they looking for you?"
"They were looking for you, I guess, but they settled for me. Had some questions, and I answered them."
"What about?"
Marie didn't like being ignored. She could stand being condescended to, if the need arose. She could deal with false praise, or neglect, or disbelief, or even disrespect, but being ignored was simply a bridge too far. And yet, the more Chris didn't stop to talk to her, the more that she dug in her heels.
"Not a big deal. You really oughtn't worry, Miss Bainbridge. You got enough on your plate right now, you don't need some country bumpkins getting you down."
"So they were there for me, then. I'm not a child, Mr. Broadmoor, I can deal with problems as they arise just as well as you."
He stopped, then, all of a sudden, and Marie near walked past him in her hurry to keep up. He turned easily and quickly on his heel, his jaw jutting out in defiance, and he looked her up and down with a mix of anger and blatant sex that sent a shock down her spine.
"No, I suppose you aren't," he growled, his eyes lingering for a moment. She knew that he shouldn't look at her that way. She knew that if she chastised him for it, he'd apologize, and he wouldn't do it again. So she didn't.
