The problem with his grandmother, it seemed, was not going away easily.
As he entered the house, Jon could hear voices from the kitchen.
“Can’t you just order a replacement part?” his grandmother was asking.
“Well, that’s the rub,” came the sound of a man’s voice, one that Jon did not recognize. “I wouldn’t know what part to order.”
Stepping into the dining room, Jon could see through the kitchen door that the refrigerator had been pulled away from its usual spot against the wall. A man Jon had never seen before was in the process of returning tools to a wooden box.
“The problem is with the compressor,” the man continued. “Those are specialized pieces of equipment. You’ll need to contact an authorized service provider. Maybe someone can come up from Terre Haute.”
“So what you’re telling me is you don’t know how to fix it.”
“Ma’am, I don’t think even Ernie would have known how to fix it.”
His grandmother made a snorting sound, but said nothing further.
At dinner that night, his grandmother was more voluble than she’d been since he’d arrived. The failure of the refrigerator was distressing, and it had her fretting about the imminent spoilage of the food it contained. But to Jon it seemed she was more upset at the handyman for his suggestion that his grandfather would not have known how to make the necessary repairs.
“As if he has any idea,” she harrumphed, more to the room than to Jon.
#
The next morning, after confirming that his grandmother was not in the house, Jon slipped out the back door and entered the work shed. It has to be here, he told himself. His grandfather was far too organized not to have kept it. On a shelf near the door, he found a series of catalogues. Electrical supplies. Plumbing fixtures.
And there it was.
In large block letters on the cover it read “General Electric Monitor Top Refrigerator, Manual for Repair and Service.”
He slid the manual out and re-straightened the remaining volumes on the shelf. Then he did a brief check to make sure he had left no evidence of his entry, and he quickly exited the shed. He returned to his room, where he closed the door, sat down at the desk, and opened the manual to the first page. As he scanned the introduction and took in the technical jargon, he realized this was not going to be easy. He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, and set to work reading.
#
Tom Anderson was just finishing a phone call when he heard the front door to his office open, and he called out, “Come on back.” When Marvella Wilson walked in, he rose, came around the desk to great her, and held a chair for her to sit.
Anderson knew better than to try to make small talk with Marvella, so, returning to his seat, he retrieved a manila folder and said, “I’ve got your file right here. First, let me say that settlement of the estate was easier than I thought it might be. I’m very impressed with how thorough and organized your son-in-law was.”
He could see Marvella’s lips tighten at this.
“The house has been sold,” he said, consulting his notes. “The proceeds, after payment of the mortgage and closing costs, have been placed in the trust account I set up for you. Same thing with the furniture. A second-hand dealer took the whole lot. Pursuant to your suggestion, clothes and other personal items were inventoried and donated to the Red Cross.
“Frank and Claire had one investment, a few shares of stock in the Pennsylvania Railroad. Those have been sold. There were two life insurance policies, a small one for Claire and a more substantial policy for Frank. Payments have been issued directly into the account.
“After deducting my expenses and fee, the total amount in the account stands at just a little over $29,000.”
It was a staggering amount of money, more than most men would make in ten, maybe twenty years, and he could see that she was surprised. Though she endeavored to maintain her stoic pose, the rapid blinking of her eyes gave her away.
#
Jon had been reading for a couple of hours when he suddenly stopped and sat more upright. He flipped back a couple of pages. It can’t be that easy, he asked himself, can it?
Shaking his head, he got up and walked to the kitchen. The refrigerator was still plugged in. He unplugged it. Then he leaned back and twisted his torso so he could put his ear next to the large round compressor assembly on the top of the cabinet while reinserting the plug into the wall socket. As soon as the plug was in, he heard a short, low hum, then a click. He stepped back from the unit, seized with a nervous excitement.
He returned to his room, took a notebook from the desk and opened it to a blank page. Referring to the manual, he made a notation. Then he tore out the page, folded it and put it in his pocket. He opened the cedar chest, removed a stack of clothes, and placed the manual at the bottom of the chest. From his coat, he retrieved the $1.50 he had stashed a couple days before, and he put the money into his pocket next to the folded note.
#
“This is what you want to order?” Walt looked at Jon with a bemused expression.
Nodding, Jon replied, “That’s it.”
A grin split Walt’s face. “Ok, I got it. I mean, I don’t got it, but I get that there’s something I should get.”
“No, I’m serious. I need it as soon as possible, too.”
“All right,” Walt said equably. “I can get the boss to order it, and we can have it in a day or two. But you know, even though the part won’t cost much, the rush will add a lot of expense.”
Jon reached into his pocket, pulled out the dollar bill and placed it on the counter. “Will that cover it?”
“Oh, yeah. That’s more than enough.”
Walt fixed him with an impish look. “You sure you’re not just fooling with me?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
#
The last of her students had gone, and Marvella Wilson sat at the piano, absently tapping out a melody with one hand. She felt spent. It had been a trying afternoon, and she had found it difficult to concentrate.
Earlier, she’d had a testy telephone conversation with the owner of the home appliance store in Ridley, the nearest General Electric dealer. Apparently, no one would be able to look at her refrigerator for several days. And then they’d have to come all the way from Indianapolis.
It was a while before she even realized what song she was playing on the piano.
It was one of her own compositions, something she had written many years ago, primarily as an exercise for her students. It was a simple tune in the key of C minor, but it had a pleasing lilt and could be played with either hand in slight variations. When performed with both hands, it was quite beautiful, even she had to admit. It was a relatively easy piece to play, and, over the years, she had taught it to all of her students early in their lessons.
She’d never been able to complete it, however. The problem was finding the right transition for the bridge. Try as she might, she was unable to piece together a combination of chords that would do justice to the melody. As a consequence, the tune was simply a never-ending refrain, one that could be played as a round with alternating hands.
She called it “Claire’s Song.”
For a moment, the years fell away, and she was sitting on the bench next to Claire. The little girl was hunched over the keys, an intense expression on her face as she struggled to mimic the motions of her mother’s hand. The small pink tip of her tongue protruded between her front teeth as it always did when Claire was concentrating. Marvella could smell the faint scent of lilac on the child’s freshly shampooed curls.
A movement on the other side of the room shattered the moment, and the music came to a crashing halt as she dropped all five fingers onto the keyboard.
Her grandson was standing in the entrance to the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that I heard the song you were playing. It’s always been one of my favorites.”
“Always?” she asked, after a moment.
“Well, ever since I can remember, yes. My mom taught me how to play it. But,” he added, “I’m not very good. My brother, Sandy. Now, he was a whiz. You should have heard him. He could play anything.”
She thought about that. “And your mother taught you this song?”
“Yes. The part you were playing just now I can play well. It’s the rest I find hard.”
She wasn’t sure she had heard that correctly. “The rest?”
He nodded. “The next part. The bridge.”
Eyes blinking rapidly, she said, “Can you show me?”
A look of surprise crossed his face, but he stepped forward without hesitation. “Sure. I’m a little rusty, but I’ll give it a go.”
Feeling a bit shaky, she slid off the bench and stepped away. With obvious self-consciousness, her grandson took a seat. He opened and closed both hands, flexing the fingers, then placed their tips on the keys. He stayed that way for a moment, head nodding in thought. Then, slowly, softly, he began to play.
He had a light touch, and she couldn’t help but notice his technique was quite good. She followed along absently.
Suddenly, she realized what he was playing was different. Not completely different, she amended. A transposition of the original chords, but it worked, and it slid seamlessly from and back into the original melody, staying faithful to the tune, while providing a logical and interesting transition. Hearing it played now, it was so obvious to her.
How could she have missed it?
She stepped back, her legs catching on the front edge of the divan, and she sat down heavily. After some time, it dawned on her that the music had finished and her grandson was looking at her. She took a deep breath. “Did your mother have a name for that?”
“She just called it ‘Mom’s Song.’ I’ve never heard it anywhere else. We didn’t have sheet music for it.” He paused, then looked at her with concern. “Are you ok?”
She squared her shoulders. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little tired. I’m going to sit here for a few minutes. Then I’ll get dinner.”
He nodded, rose, and started walking toward the hallway.
“Thank you,” she said, softly.
He stopped, turned, and looked at her with an earnest expression.
“You’re welcome.”
#
When Jon entered the store late Friday morning, Walt was behind the counter as usual. Holding up a small item, he called out, “One relay switch, as you ordered, Mr. Meyer.”
A jolt of excitement shot through Jon. Excitement tinged with trepidation.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” Jon said, affecting a calm he did not feel. “Excellent service. I guess I won’t have to drive down to Ridley Hardware after all.”
“Bite your tongue, sir. Say, are you ever going to tell me what this is for?”
Jon accepted the small device from Walt and turned it over in his hand. “It’s for a project I’m working on,” he said. Then, as much to himself as to Walt, he added, “I’m not a hundred percent sure it’ll work.”
“So, what’s the project?”
“Oh,” Jon said with a slight smile, “that’s top secret.”
“You mean like one of those military things?”
Jon nodded. “Exactly. You know how it is. If I told you…”
“Then you’d have to kill me,” Walt concluded. “Well, ok, Admiral. But don’t keep ol’ Walt in the dark too long, you know?”
“No, I won’t,” Jon replied, again fighting nagging doubts.
#
Jon had spent considerable time making his plans for the attempted repair of the refrigerator. He’d studied the manual carefully and identified the tools he would need. Earlier in the week, when his grandmother was out of the house, he again slipped into the work shed, located each of the necessary items and set them aside on a corner of the bench. All was ready for Saturday morning.
When he arose that morning, however, he found that his grandmother was still at home, a rare occurrence. He spent an anxious half hour in his room, hovering just inside the slightly open door, listening to the sounds made by his grandmother as she moved about the front of the house. With some misgivings, he eavesdropped on a pair of phone calls, one to a friend with whom she planned to get together, and another to the manager of an appliance store. Apparently, she had previously spoken to the manager, and, from the half of the call Jon could hear, he was not able to tell her when a service technician would come out and look at the refrigerator.
Finally, he heard his grandmother gather her things from the table and leave by the front door. He waited a few seconds. Then, stepping quietly from the bedroom, he tip-toed to the front window, lifted back the curtain, and watched as she turned up Main Street.
Now, it was time.
He went to the shed, retrieved the small collection of tools he had previously assembled, and carried them to the kitchen, where he arranged them on the counter. Then he unplugged the refrigerator and, with a small screwdriver, carefully detached the decorative ring surrounding the base of the compressor unit and pulled it away. Loosening the screws holding the unit to the cabinet, he lifted the assembly, located the terminals cover, and removed it, exposing the starter relay.
He referred briefly to the manual, and then, one by one, he disconnected the wires holding the relay to the compressor terminals, noting the locations for each. When he’d loosened each one, he gave a firm yank on the old relay, and it came away. Turning the piece over in his hand, he could see a slight deformation on the back. Upon closer inspection, the flaw appeared to be the result of copper melting into the housing. His spirits lifted.
He positioned the new part in the same location as the old, and, being careful to match the connections, attached the wires that dangled from the new unit to the compressor terminals. He then straightened, closed his eyes and said a quick prayer.
Holding his breath, he reached down and reinserted the plug into the electrical socket. After a tantalizing second, the compressor motor began to hum, there was a slight gurgling sound, and the hum settled into a steady rhythm. Jon released the air that he’d been holding in his lungs in a long, grateful expulsion.
He had done it.
He reached down once again to unplug the refrigerator, and, with a renewed sense of purpose, he methodically reassembled the compressor unit and reattached it to the top of the cabinet. When he was finished, he wiped down all of the surfaces with a soft cloth. He then plugged in the cord and stepped back.
The only evidence of his handiwork was the wonderful sound of an operating refrigerator.
#
Marvella Wilson led the young man from the market up the steps and held the door for him. He stepped past her, turned sideways and eased through the opening with a large box full of groceries.
“Just set it on the counter,” she said briskly, taking off her hat and placing it on the dining room table next to her purse. “The refrigerated items will need to go down in the basement. There’s an old ice box at the foot of the stairs.” One finger at a time, she began removing her white gloves.
“Why don’t we just put them in the refrigerator?” the young man called from the kitchen.
She made a sour face. “Unfortunately, the refrigerator is not working.” She shook out the gloves, positioned them so that the fingers were matched up, and laid them across the top of the purse. “We’ll have to make do.”
“Seems ok to me,” came the reply.
She turned and straightened. “What did you say?”
“I said it looks like it’s working fine to me.”
She walked to the kitchen door, where she saw the young man bent down in front of the refrigerator, one hand on the open door, and another inside the empty space, waving back and forth.
“It’s plenty cold.”
Eyes blinking rapidly, she stepped over to where the young man stood. She could feel the cold air escaping from the refrigerator.
; “Oh my,” was all she could say.
#
While Jon’s meals with his grandmother continued to be awkward affairs, the overt hostility he had sensed when he first arrived in Jackson had faded over time, replaced by what Jon could only characterize as studied ambivalence. It seemed to Jon almost as if his grandmother was trying hard not to show any emotion. He, in turn, had learned to match her mood as a defensive mechanism. They’d essentially found an equilibrium, and neither was willing to upset the status quo. Their evening pas de deux might even have been comical, Jon reflected, if it hadn’t been so downright uncomfortable.
His grandmother still hadn’t acknowledged the money he’d been bringing home each week now for almost two months. Not that it bothered him terribly. While the cash represented a lot of money to Jon, he suspected it was not nearly enough to fully compensate her for the cost of taking him in. At least, he told himself, he had the knowledge that he’d made a reasonable attempt to lessen the financial burden he represented.
She had also never acknowledged his repair of the refrigerator. That, too, was ok with Jon. Had the matter come up in conversation, it would have necessitated addressing the question of where Jon found the tools to effect the repair. He’d not known for sure how he would handle that. Ironically, he had the sense she also did not know how to deal with it and had decided that silence on the subject was the safer, more expedient course of action.
Then, one evening late in August, to Jon’s surprise, his grandmother actually initiated a conversation.
“I understand school will be starting in two weeks,” she said as she spooned some peas onto her plate at dinner time. “Have you given any thought to how you’ll get there?”
Surprised by the question, it took Jon a moment to react.
“I guess I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”
“The school is over a mile away. You do know that, don’t you?”
Defiant Heart Page 5
