Sand Castles

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "I can't believe it. We're here less than two days, and the place is going to be as torn up as our lot on Sheldon Street. Maybe it's us," she moaned good-naturedly as she pulled out the Yellow Pages.

  He waited, although he had no reason to, while she called the few listings and, needless to say, had to end up leaving messages with each of their voice mails. Either trees were attacking drainpipes all over town, or all of the contractors were out bowling.

  Her smile was resigned. "Well ... I appreciate your sticking around this long, Zack. But you really shouldn't waste any more of your time. Eventually one of them will call back. Worst case, we can always go back to our house."

  "Yeah, okay," he said. But something was nagging at the back of his mind.

  In the meantime, she was glancing at the front door with a puzzled frown. "I can't imagine where Jim got lost today."

  Zack could. It couldn't be easy, stealing that kind of change from your wife. Your alleged wife. He might be going through financial somersaults even as Wendy was fretting about him.

  "Will they have to tear up the bricks?" she asked. "Because that would be a disaster. I guess I should call the real estate agent and warn her," she said, going to the refrigerator to read a business card on it.

  "Hold it. Wait a minute." The nagging little something at the back of Zack's mind stepped forward and formed a hunch. "Something like this happened on a house rehab I was involved in. It's a long shot, but: it could be that someone got sloppy during the upgrade of the guest bath and flushed some construction debris that made it as far as the trap and then got stuck. Drywall, a piece of lath, who knows? Yeah; it's possible."

  Zack trotted down the stairs again, wondering why in God's name he was trying so hard to ace some guy from Roto-Rooter, until he realized that it was Wendy he was trying to score points with. If she ever found out what he was up to—if things didn't go well in his high-risk plan—he wanted Wendy Hodene to know that at least once, he'd been willing to move hell and high water for her. Literally.

  She stood right behind him, all ears as he explained where the main sewer drain could be tapped into and examined. "I'm going to have to uncap the grease trap. You might want to close the basement door behind you when you go upstairs," he warned her in an understatement. "It's not going to smell real great down here."

  "I'm not going anywhere," she said steadfastly. "You're going to operate? Then you'll need a nurse."

  Chapter 11

  "Hand me the bucket, would you?"

  "Yessir."

  "And the flashlight, please. Shine it right ... there; yeah, like that. Good."

  Wendy had changed her share of diapers in life, but she was definitely breathing through her mouth on this one. She wanted this exploration over with so much.

  She watched as Zack poked around the trap with a long screwdriver, thinking, this guy's a definite hero, whether or not he manages to pull this off. She felt incredibly grateful to him for his effort.

  "This is the single nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me," she said as she stood above him with the flashlight. Laughing softly, she added, "Does that make me weird, or what?"

  He didn't answer except to say, "I think I feel something."

  Oh, please, let it be so. "How are you going to—"

  "Breadbag, please."

  She stepped back and fetched him the outer plastic wrapper that she'd filched off her Pepperidge Farm bread. He slipped the bag over his hand—her rubber gloves had been far too small for him—and plunged it into the trap. After a poke here and a stab there, he grabbed at something and worked it out of the hole.

  "Ta-dah," he said in a deadpan voice. He dumped a blackened strip of what looked like a very large splinter of wood into the bucket, then peeled off the wet bread wrapper and dropped it in the bucket as well.

  "Believe it not, this isn't that unusual an occurrence. You generally give the newest kids the demolition work, and sometimes they don't know to close the lid on the toilet before they go knocking down the wall behind it. The toilet gets flushed, the wood jams the trap, and the backup starts."

  "That explains it. Kids. Why does that not surprise me?" she said, watching him walk over to the basement sink holding up his hands like a surgeon in pre-op.

  Taking the obvious cue, she jumped to turn on the water for him and then pumped half a bottle of liquid soap into the upturned palms of his hands. God only knew what germs were assaulting him.

  In fact, he was filthy. It must have been bad enough to have sweated in the heat all day, but to top it off on your knees in a dank, spider-filled basement clearing out a sewer line....

  "I feel so bad for you," she blurted. "You must feel so ... yech."

  He was soaping his sinewy arms all the way up to his biceps, proof enough that she'd got it right. He turned to her and winked. "All in a day's work," he said with a barely there but wonderful smile.

  It was the oddest thing. Something inside of her took a tiny little hop, like a sparrow that's been scratching for food. She smiled back, but very shyly, and said, "Do you live close, at least?"

  "Uh, no," he said, rinsing one arm, then the other, under the high-spout faucet. "Worcester."

  "That's a long drive. Do you want a blanket—a towel or something—to throw over the seat of your truck?"

  "Because—"

  "Of germs! People get cholera doing what you did. I'd feel terrible if—"

  "I got cholera? I don't think you need to worry about that, Wendy."

  She was acutely, surprisingly aware that he'd never called her by her name before. Somehow, whenever he had looked at or said something to her, the word "ma'am" seemed to be hovering unspoken.

  "You know what I think?" she began.

  There were times in her life when she went entirely by instinct, and this turned out to be one of them. "I think you should shower here first before you drive all the way back. Really. I'd feel so much less guilty if you did."

  "No, that's nice of you, but—"

  "Please" she said over his protests. "If Jim were home, I know he'd insist on it. That was such a generous thing you did—and your deductions, I think, were brilliant. I'm so impressed. The only thing is, your clothes. I don't have anything in the house that would fit you. You're broader than Jim and maybe ... smaller around the, the ..." She whirled a finger in a little circle. "Middle," she finished up, embarrassed to be sizing him up like some tailor.

  "For that matter, I carry a change of clothes in the truck," he said after considering her offer.

  She had watched the look on his face progress from "Dumb idea" to "Why not?" as her own feelings went from misgivings to relief. It was the obvious, the civil, the only thing to do.

  "Good! Then that's that. I'll bring you fresh towels; Tyler's are undoubtedly—well, Tyler's," she said lamely, unused to having guests. "And you can test the water flow, so you'd be doing me a favor, when you get right down to it."

  He laughed and said, "Anything to oblige."

  She washed in a hurry and they went upstairs together, and while Zack went out for his duffel, she grabbed an armful of towels for him. On the second floor they were intercepted by a very curious Tyler, who stared at Zack, looked at his mother, glanced at the towels, and said, "Can I use the toilet yet? Otherwise I'm gonna have to go to somebody's house."

  Wendy said, "The answers are yes and use the downstairs bathroom; Zack will be cleaning up in this one."

  Wendy hadn't been at the new house long enough to stock a toiletries basket for overnight guests, but she figured that Zack would be ahead of the game even without deodorant and a toothbrush. She didn't want to seem to be overly hovering, after all, because technically he wasn't a guest, but she did take the time to check for soap and shampoo.

  Nuts. All she had there was kids' shampoo. Would Zack mind? Too late to switch. Maybe she should switch. No. Too late to switch. Nuts!

  "If there's anything you need, just, you know, holler," she said, trying desperately to sound casual.
/>   "Thanks. I will do that," he said with a bemused smile at her before he closed the door.

  It really was a nice smile.

  He really, really, was a nice guy to have plunged into that muck for her—for them. Wendy went back downstairs, pleased to be able to return a favor and wondering how she could ever have thought that Zack was aloof and rude.

  She was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher from Tyler's supper and trying to decide whether she should put out an extra plate next to Jim's, when Jim himself finally returned. The front door slammed loud enough that she felt prompted to poke her head around the corner and say, "If you break it, it comes out of our deposit."

  Jim was not amused. In fact, he was furious. "Where is he? Where the hell is he?"

  "If you mean Zack, he's taking a shower," Wendy said, wondering. "What's the matter? Where were you?"

  "A what? Where?" Jim said, stunned.

  "Not in our room, don't worry. He's using the guest bathroom. You would not believe the bullet we just dodged. I heard this weird glugging sound, so I went—"

  Jim had started up the first two stairs, then backed down them again and grabbed her by the arm. "What did he say? I want to know: what did he say?"

  "Shhh!" she hissed. "My God, he'll hear you! What's the matter with you? Have you been drinking?" she said, trying to yank her arm out of his grip. "Let me go, Jim; you're hurting me."

  She kept her voice down low, but her eyes were wide with shock and outrage, and Jim either wasn't angry enough or wasn't dumb enough not to see it. He released her, his anger faltering in the process, and then tagged after her into the kitchen.

  "Well—what do you expect?" he said, trying to recover some kind of advantage over her. "I come home, a contractor's truck is sitting in my driveway, the contractor's in my goddamned shower—what do you expect?"

  She blinked at the implication and whirled around on him. "Are you insane? Tyler's upstairs. What could you possibly be thinking?"

  She was projecting an image of outraged innocence and had color in her cheeks and the shaking voice to prove it. But underneath all that outraged sense of virtue, one thought loomed: at first glance, it did look bad. She felt it, too, though she had refused to admit it to herself.

  Jim scowled and said petulantly, "I thought Ty had a sleepover."

  "Canceled. He's in his room in a semi-sulk. And in the meantime, the sewer drain got plugged. All the water came to a screeching halt down in the basement—which you would have discovered if you'd been home tonight instead of out dreaming and scheming about God knows what."

  "So what does Zack have to do with it? He's a carpenter, not a plumber."

  "Zack knows about everything," she shot back. "I couldn't get anyone to come here, and he volunteered because he's a good guy and for no other reason. He knew exactly where to look and what to look for and how it got there. The job was disgusting and messy, but he fixed the problem and saved the owners a bundle—not that that matters to you!—and more important, has made it possible for us to hold the party we've promised my mother. And if you weren't such an irrational ... knucklehead ... you'd thank your lucky stars that his truck is in our driveway and that he is in our shower even as we speak."

  Without waiting to see how her impassioned speech was received by her husband, she turned away from him, threw a small pan of lasagna into the oven, slammed the door (wincing belatedly at the thought of the damage deposit), and made a big deal over hand-washing the three spoons, two forks, and two mugs that were still in the sink.

  All the while she was thinking, Why am I at his throat like this? Why am I overreacting?

  Why was he overreacting?

  She grabbed a towel and dried her hands and turned, unsuspecting, right into his arms.

  "I am so sorry, Wen," Jim said in a low voice. "So he ... fixed it? Well, obviously: you're running water and he's showering. That's great. That's great. I, ah, I was tense. I've had a really shitty day. I don't know what came over me. It's a tense time: all the money; the construction; the move. If it's not one thing," he murmured sadly as he pulled her a little closer, "it's another."

  She wasn't in the mood to feel pliant. "It's called life, Jim. Deal with it."

  "No, you're right; you're right. I blew this one big-time," he said abjectly. In an even softer murmur he said, "You know, you made a similar mistake the other night."

  She stiffened in his embrace and he said quickly, "I'm not blaming you, Wen. I'm just saying, this is a really tense time. People don't always think right when they're tense."

  She sighed and said wearily, "You know what? You can be exhausting."

  "I know. I know."

  She heard a sound and so did Jim; they turned to see Zack—she didn't even know his last name!—standing there in clean khakis and a black polo shirt, his wet hair still dripping in dark ringlets, his five o'clock shadow surrounding an attractively sheepish smile.

  "That did the trick," he said to both of them after a nod at Jim. "I'm glad you let me impose."

  Wendy jumped to his defense. "You didn't impose; we did. We're both so happy that you could rush to the scene the way you did. Really. Would you like to sit down to dinner? There's more than enough. Tyler and I have already eaten, but Jim—"

  "No, no," Zack said, still smiling. "But I appreciate the offer."

  Jim didn't. Without even looking at him, Wendy knew that his face was locked into that frozen, polite expression he reserved for time-share salesmen and telephone pollsters. Well, tough. He deserved a little smack on the nose. Maybe next time he wouldn't go finding wildly melodramatic situations where there were none.

  Moving past her husband, Wendy went up to Zack and extended her hand. "We really are grateful; I can't tell you how much."

  She didn't know how she was going to pay him for what he had done; his gesture seemed beyond price. In any case, she thought it would be incredibly insensitive, even insulting, to whip out her checkbook just then. They had literally spent time in the trenches together, and Wendy considered it a bonding moment.

  Zack took her hand and shook it, with none of the self-consciousness that she sometimes sensed when she initiated the gesture first. She liked that in him.

  As for Jim, he seemed to prefer to keep things on a master-slave basis. Declining to step forward, he said behind her, "Nice job, Zack."

  Something about her husband's flat tone of voice made Wendy turn around and glance at him in time to see him shooting a look of pure hatred at Zack.

  Caught, Jim was quick to snap his mouth into a congenial smile—but Wendy saw what she saw.

  My God, he really is jealous, she thought.

  Zack said good night and began heading for the door. Wendy accompanied him, with Jim close behind them. It was Jim who closed the door, Jim who threw the bolt, Jim who said, "I don't want him in this house again. Ever."

  But it was Wendy who said, "Don't tell me what to do. I don't work for you."

  ****

  Zack hadn't dared tell Zina the bad-news lie in a public place; but he was more than willing to tell her the good-news lie there. He invited her out for breakfast at Sunnyside, a local eatery where they were known, but not by name. The atmosphere was country casual, with blue gingham café curtains that hid a view of the parking lot, and vases of polyester daisies that virtually insisted you perk up and smile.

  Over Canadian bacon and three fried eggs, Zack said, "Well, I found out what that registered letter was all about. You remember old Aunt Louise?"

  "Mom's great-great-whatever aunt? The one out west somewhere?"

  "Mm. She died."

  Zina was distressed; she wanted nothing and no one ever to die. "Oh, that's too bad," she said with feeling. "But I suppose it was inevitable. She was really old, wasn't she?"

  "Ninety-nine."

  "Oh-h-h ... so close to a hundred," Zina said with a sigh.

  In fact, old Aunt Louise (who wasn't their mother's aunt at all, but some cousin quadruply removed), had died years ago, Zack had
learned; but that was neither here nor there. Family legend had it that she was wealthy and tight and eccentric and unwed, and that made her an ideal candidate for the good-news lie.

  "I was right; the registered letter was from a law firm," he explained as he bent one of the daisy petals into a more natural form. "It was from Aunt Louise's attorneys. Guess what it said?"

  This was the tricky part; he had to seem to be suppressing excitement, not behaving as if he'd just run over her cat. So he compressed his lips and tried to act as if he were trying not to smile, after which he had to act as if he couldn't help himself from bursting into a grin.

  Which he did. "She's left us some money," he said. "A pretty fair amount."

  "Us?" said Zina, her blue eyes opening wide. "Why? We didn't even know her!"

  "True enough. Maybe that's why. The favored heir was a great-nephew, but he got disinherited when he pissed her off. He was a broker, and he sank a lot of her money into couldn't-miss biotech stocks," Zack said dryly.

  "And they missed?"

  "They tanked. Why she was in such a speculative venture when she should have been in nice, conservative investments is beyond me. The guy must have been really smooth. And stupid, of course. So she cut him out of her will—and she cut us in."

  "Wow!"

  Zina was a little otherworldly, but she was basically of this planet, after all. Zack was tickled to see the spark of interest lighting up her face.

  "So-o-o?" she coaxed. "Tell me, tell me."

  "So-o-o ... how would you like to own your own quilting shop?" Zack said, breaking into a genuine, unrehearsed, unreserved, altogether happy grin.

  "Zack!" She returned his delighted look with one of her own. "Oh, my God ... really? That much?"

  "It's a lot of money, Zina. It really is a lot."

  All Zack actually had in his possession was the hundred thousand that Jim had handed over at lunchtime on the day before. If Jim didn't deliver on the balance, Zack was going to be utterly screwed. He had thought about it all night—whether he should tell Zina that her "inheritance" was three hundred thousand dollars; and when he woke up, he was convinced that he should. If Jim ended up stiffing him and Zack had to blow up his so-called marriage and then pick the pockets of his dead body—well, there were less pleasant things to do in fife.