Second Hand

by Heidi Cullinan

  She knew what I meant. Her question had more to do with filling an awkward space than with needing an explanation, but I gave one anyway. “She left me.”

  It made me sad how Mom almost sounded relieved. “Did the two of you have a fight?”

  If only it had been that simple. “She decided we were going in different directions.” What that really meant was that she’d decided I couldn’t give her what she wanted, but no need to be too blatant about my shortcomings. I shut my eyes, hating that I had failed like this, hated what my mother was about to think of me. “She met somebody else. A professor at the university.”

  “Oh, Paul. I’m so sorry. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine, Ma,” I lied.

  “You’re such a nice boy, honey. You’ll meet somebody else. I know you will. Somebody who truly appreciates you.”

  Leave it to my mom to pull out the most clichéd mother speech ever. And yet, it helped a bit. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “How’s the clinic?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you still like it?”

  “I do. My boss is a great guy, and I love all the animals, you know?” I wished I hadn’t disappointed everybody by failing so miserably, though. I should have been the veterinarian. Instead, I answered the phone for Nick and sent out bills.

  No girlfriend. No fiancée. No real job. No real life. Just some secondhand makeshift number I’d pulled out of the wreckage of what should have been.

  Mom interrupted my pity party with a depressingly upbeat tone that screamed Bright New Idea. “Do you have any plans for the summer?”

  “Not really. I can’t afford to go anywhere.” I could barely afford to stay put, either, but that made me think about the pink flier. “My neighborhood is having this contest for nice yards. The prize is $500.”

  “That sounds like a good way to get outside,” she said. “Get some sun. Maybe you’ll meet someone nice.”

  “In my front lawn?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  I laughed. My mother was an optimist and a hopeless romantic. She called me a pessimist, but I didn’t see it that way. I dwelt closer to the land of reality. “I’ll settle for the cash prize, but thanks anyway.”

  “I’m thinking about coming to visit you in a couple of weeks. Your dad’s busy, but I could come.”

  I found myself smiling. “There’s not really that much to see here.”

  “You’re there, honey. That’s enough for me.”

  I started on the yard that day. Mowing was easy, but there was tall grass around the base of Stacey’s sculptures that I couldn’t get to with the mower, and bushes and abandoned flower beds all around the base of the house. I pulled plants that I hoped were weeds and left ones that I hoped weren’t. It immediately became apparent that the mower and my hands were insufficient tools.

  I went into the detached garage. It had been set up as Stacey’s studio, and a few pieces of scrap metal still lay on the floor. I could have put my car in the garage if I’d put a bit of effort into it, but so far, it hadn’t been necessary. I’d probably want to deal with it before winter came, though.

  We’d lived in an apartment building back in Fort Collins and so hadn’t ever needed landscaping tools, but that was the type of thing tenants sometimes left behind, so I checked the corners of the garage. I did find the snow shovel that had died from the previous year’s epic snow, a plastic rake that was missing more tines than not, and one very rusty hoe, but that was it.

  I got in my car, intending to hit the nearest hardware store, but El’s flashing “BUY - SELL - PAWN” sign caught my eye, and I looped around the block to find a parking space. I had no idea if people pawned gardening tools, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.

  El was right where he’d been the last two times I’d been in the shop, reading a magazine with his feet up on the counter. He smiled at me and stood up as I came in.

  “Tell me you’re not here to buy more jewelry for your girl.”

  I tried to smile back, although it was harder than I would have liked. “No jewelry,” I said. “I’m actually looking for yard things.”

  “‘Things’? We talking ‘things’ like gnomes and plastic Bambis?”

  “I was thinking a little less tacky and a bit more utilitarian.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. What’d you have in mind?”

  “I need one of those spinny weed-chopping things.”

  He rubbed the short hair at the nape of his neck. “It so happens I have not one, but two of those ‘spinny weed-chopping things.’” He gestured toward the back corner of the shop. “You want gas-powered or electric?”

  I hadn’t realized there were different types. “Whichever’s cheapest, I guess.”

  He seemed to find that funny. He smiled and touched the rectangular bulge in his shirt pocket but didn’t pull the cigarettes out. “Not exactly aiming to make yourself my favorite customer, are you?” The way he said it wasn’t mean, though. His tone was light.

  “Don’t take it personally,” I said. “I’m broke.”

  He laughed. “You and everybody else who walks through that door.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was home with my electric weed whacker. My neighbor Bill, a man only a few years older than me but missing most of his hair, stood watering his front yard by hand. I tried to look like I actually knew what I was doing with the tool and prayed I wouldn’t make a total fool of myself by chopping my own foot off.

  The outlet in the garage didn’t work, but after hunting around in the bushes, I found one near the front porch that did, and after only a few minutes, I’d successfully spin-chopped the tall grass around Stacey’s sculptures and all along the base of the house. Unfortunately, when I stood back and examined my work, my heart sank. The grasses and weeds had been overgrown, but with them gone, the cement foundation of the house was left exposed. The barren flowerbeds looked even more pitiful than before.

  “You should plant some flowers.”

  I turned around to find a cartoon character come to life. A young woman who could have been Velma from the old Scooby-Doo shows was standing behind me, using her hand to block the sun from her spectacled eyes.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Irises would be perfect, but it’s not the right time of year. Maybe something tall like lilies or columbines. Sunflowers are nice, too.”

  Flowers would help hide the gray foundation of the house, and the flier had said the judges would be on the lookout for yards that were well-kept, colorful, and inviting. Of course, flowers would also cost money. How much could I justify spending in an effort to win $500?

  I glanced over at my neighbor, who stood watching me, his hose hanging forgotten in his hand. He was clearly hoping to win the money, too.

  “That’s a good idea,” I said to Velma. “Thanks for the advice.”

  She smiled at me. “You bet.”

  Too bad the pawnshop didn’t sell flowers.

  “So,” Denver said as he shoved his laundry into the washing machine next to El, “what’s up with Strawberry Shortcake?”

  El laughed, less at Denver’s description of Paul than at the fact that El knew exactly who his friend meant. “Nothing.”

  “Not like you to date, is it? Always thought you were more about quick and easy.”

  “It wasn’t a date.”

  “It looked like one.”

  Choosing not to answer, El finished loading the washer and put his money in.

  “Not sure what I thought your type was,” Denver said, “but that skinny kid sure wasn’t it.”

  His words annoyed El, but the fact that he was annoyed at all annoyed him even more. “Lay off, man.”

  Denver leaned against his machine. “Don’t get touchy. Kinda got a thing for that type myself. Just not what I imagined you being into, that’s all.”

  “That’s because I’m not,” El said, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it.

  El couldn’t
really say that he’d ever had a “type” the way Denver meant it. For him, real attraction had never been about age or size or the color of their hair. It was more complicated than that. It had to do with gentleness and vulnerability, and the truth was, Paul had both those things in spades. He was the only thing El had thought about for days. Something about his confused eyes and his freckled nose made El smile. The thought of his pale lips and the soft skin of his throat made El’s heart pound and his blood race for his groin.

  “You’re smiling,” Denver said, interrupting El’s thoughts. “Cut it out. You’re giving me the creeps.”

  “It’s not that unusual, is it?” El asked as they headed for the booth to wait out the wash cycle.

  “It’s not that you’re smiling. It’s the way you’re doing it.”

  That brought El up short. “What the fuck’s that mean?”

  Denver sat down and regarded him across the mustard-yellow Formica of the table. “Nothing wrong with admitting you like him, you know.”

  “I have an idea.” El turned to stretch his legs out along the length of the plastic bench. “Let’s talk about your love life.”

  Instead of answering, Denver flipped him the bird. Which was exactly what El had expected. Denver Rogers was not the kind of guy who sat around laundromats chatting about his personal life.

  “Fine,” Denver conceded. “Forget Strawberry Shortcake. Tell me the latest about your sister.”

  “She’s in love. He’s wonderful. He’s the best thing that ever happened to her. For now.” El’s fingers itched for a cigarette but had to settle for drumming irritably against his thigh. “This one isn’t an ass to the kids, which is a nice change.”

  “Maybe it will work out this time.”

  El couldn’t decide if Denver was deliberately trying to rile him up or if he truly was that secretly romantic. With Denver, one never really knew. Threading his hands behind his neck, El regarded Denver. “So what about you? When you moved to town four months ago, you said you were passing through. You look like you’re settling in.”

  Denver shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe. Jase’s still paying me, and I got plenty of ass on tap. What more is there?”

  They’d had this conversation before, and El always got some version of that answer. Except it wasn’t entirely unlike watching Paul and thinking there was something more there, something that hadn’t woken up yet. Denver wasn’t exactly Sleeping Beauty. El did think, though, that he was looking for something, waiting for something.

  Which was pretty normal. Everybody was, and nobody was ever going to find it.

  “What there is, Mr. Rogers, is ten more minutes on my spin cycle, and I’m going to spend them smoking a cigarette. Care to join me?”

  “Nah. I’ll just sit here and hope Mr. Right stumbles into my arms.”

  El patted him on the shoulder as he rose. “Good luck with that.”

  I went to a couple of local nurseries on Sunday in search of plants. After returning the necklace, I had a bit of cash, and I bought a few canisters of lilies and hostas. It seemed like a lot of plants until I got home and lined them up in front of my house. I had hoped to hide the cement foundation of the house, but the plants I had were barely enough to fill the gap next to the front porch.

  Of course my next dilemma was how to plant them. The only shovel I owned was made for shoveling snow, not digging holes. I wondered if El had shovels at his shop and whether or not he was open on Sundays. Next door, Bill was using some kind of tool that looked like a spur on a stick to trim the edges of his lawn where the grass met the sidewalk. I considered asking him for a shovel, but it seemed a bit wrong to ask the competition for help. In the end, I drove to the hardware store and spent my last bit of cash on a shovel.

  By the time I went to bed on Sunday, I was sunburned and sore, but the flowers were happily settled into the corner by the porch. They looked better than I’d expected them to.

  Monday turned out to be a good day at the office. Nick’s veterinary technician, Brooke, called in sick, and on the third patient of the day, Nick asked me to help him examine a nervous shepherd mix named Samson.

  “He’s a stray,” Nick said. “Going up for adoption soon, hopefully.” Nick did free exams for the local Humane Society, and we had several animals a week who had to be cleared physically before they could enter the adoption program. “He seems friendly enough, but he’s obviously scared to death, so I’d rather have some help. Do you know how to hold him?”

  “Of course.” I remembered that much from veterinary school, at least. I wrapped one arm around him to hold his legs, and used my other arm to pull him tight against me, with my hand around his muzzle in case he tried to bite. I talked quietly to him while Nick checked him. “Such a good boy. You’re a good boy. Such a pretty dog, going to find a forever home soon, aren’t you? Because you’re so good, not fighting while the nice doctor checks you out.” Nick rolled his eyes at me, and I couldn’t exactly blame him, but Samson settled in against me, and his trembling eased a bit. I kept up my inane drone of words while Nick did the exam. “Good, good boy. We have treats for good dogs, too. Then you’ll go find a home, won’t you?”

  Samson passed the exam with flying colors, and I hoped he really would find a home soon.

  I helped with several examinations that morning: a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a surly gray rabbit, and two cats.

  “You’re good at this,” Nick said at lunchtime. “You have a real knack with the animals.”

  “I always have,” I admitted. “That’s why I went to vet school.” Too bad I hadn’t been able to finish.

  After lunch, one of Nick’s regular clients came in with an entire litter of puppies to be checked. Nick didn’t necessarily need help with puppies, but there were six of them, and wrangling them gave me a perfectly good excuse to pet them all, and nuzzle them, and blow gently so they’d flap their tongues toward my face.

  “There’s no better smell in the world than puppy breath,” I said to Nick.

  He laughed. “True enough. It’ll cure what ails you.”

  I spent so much time helping Nick that half of my regular work didn’t get done. “Do you want me to stay late?”

  “Your call. Stay, if you’d rather do it today, but there’s nothing there that won’t keep overnight.”

  Yes, it would be a bit more work the next day, but it had been worth it. Working in the exam room with him had cheered me up. I was in a good mood until I pulled up in front of my house. Bill was nowhere to be seen, but across the front of his house, where the day before there had been only grass, stretched a long line of rose bushes. Leafy and beautiful and so fragrant I could smell them when I got out of my car.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumbled. “He would have to buy flowers, too.”

  The next day at work, I was pleased when Brooke called in sick for the second day in a row. I knew it was a bit sadistic of me to be happy about her having the flu, but I was thrilled to have a second day helping with the animals. I rushed to get my other work done in between the times Nick needed me. It was draining, but worth it. I was more than a little disappointed when Brooke showed up for work on Wednesday and I had to go back to answering the phone and shuffling papers.

  Bill’s lawn was looking better than ever, which annoyed me to no end. I eyed the rest of the houses on my street. I wasn’t sure if they looked any different than they had last week or not, and of course there were two more blocks of houses in our neighborhood I couldn’t see from my own yard.

  On Thursday, I logged into the Curb Appeal site. Houses in the neighborhood were rated one through ten, ten being the ideal, and one meaning burnt couches and rusty cars on cinderblocks in the front yard. Nobody had tens yet, presumably to give everybody incentive. In fact, the highest rating in the entire neighborhood was an eight, somewhere on the next block over. There were a few sevens. Bill was one of them.

  I rated a six.

  There was still plenty of time for me to win. But where would I get the
money?

  I spent the last half of the week worrying over my bills. Between credit cards, student loans, rent, and utilities, my finances were a disaster. I could pay everything, but with very little to spare for non-essentials. My mind kept returning to the Curb Appeal contest. Five hundred dollars would come in handy, but in order to beat Bill, I’d need to invest what little cash I had left in more flowers. Was it worth it? I wasn’t sure.

  One night I wandered into my pantry, looking for dinner. The light switch was fussy, and it took me several tries to get the lights to stay on. Fiddling with it reminded me of how Stacey hadn’t ever been able to get it wiggled into the mysterious halfway point where the connection would take, of how I always had to do it for her. It was probably one of the few real assets I’d brought to our relationship.

  Larry’s house had great wiring and no trick light switches. I was sure of it.

  Dodgy wiring aside, the real issue on my mind that night was food. I wouldn’t be able to go grocery shopping until after payday, so I had to make do with whatever I had. Sadly, what I had wasn’t much. A box of Rice Krispies and one of Cheerios. Some stale hotdog buns. Half a box of Girl Scout cookies. A package of Ramen and three cans of tomato soup. The rest of the pantry was taken up by small appliances. A George Foreman Grill, a waffle maker, a cappuccino machine, a bread maker, a food processor with a billion attachments, a wok, and a turkey fryer. A rice cooker and two different crockpots. A panini press, a funky little hand-blender that confounded me, and a fondue pot we’d used exactly once. They were all things Stacey had insisted we needed at one time or another in our six and a half years together. I’d bought them for her because I’d wanted to give her the life I thought she wanted. I’d wanted to prove I could be what she needed.

  Somehow, they’d all been status symbols, and yet, how could any of it matter if nobody knew about them anyway? What good did they do us?

  How often had she used any of them?

  I thought about the things Emanuel had said about possessions. Stuff. Now it was nothing more than wasted money on a shelf.