The Deadly Kiss-Off

by Paul Di Filippo

  And, in fact, he reminded me a little of Stan.

  I put the photo back and caught up with the others on the third floor.

  Caleb was busy knowledgeably inspecting stains on the slanted plaster ceiling. Stan echoed the expert’s interpretation of the house’s condition. Sandralene nodded her head quietly at the running diagnosis. Eventually, the inspection ended, and we all went down and outside.

  In the adjacent parking lot sat Caleb’s hard-worn black pickup truck, with white lettering on the doors.

  stinchcombe roofing

  and replacement windows

  “we do ’em all, big or small!”

  “It’s like I thought,” said Caleb solemnly. “Whole roof needs replacing. Best I start tomorrow. I’m between jobs now. If I can get up to the Home Depot in Hagerstown before nine, I can be back here by ten.”

  “Sounds fine by me,” Stan said. “I plan to be right up on that roof with you.”

  16

  Caleb Stinchcombe drove off in a cloud of exhaust and the noise of an ailing engine that could use a valve-and-ring job at the very least. I had a hunch then that his business was not doing so well and that his immediate easy commitment to work on the Parmalee homestead was not going to discommode other waiting customers.

  Stan turned to Sandralene. “Okay, babe, where am I sleeping?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, me and Glen got us a room over in Shepherdstown at this froufrou doily-and-doughnut place. But now that you and me’ve made up, I figured—”

  “Well, you figured wrong, mister. What happened a little while ago in the kitchen was very nice, I won’t deny it, and maybe it’s even a step back to our old times together. But I can’t have you here overnight, lolloping around the house like a horny walrus. Mama’s too sick for that nonsense. She needs her peace and quiet, and my first duty is to give her all my attention.”

  “You sure you just don’t want me out of the way so’s you and Stenchy can get together behind my back tonight?”

  “Stanley Hasso! Caleb and I are not an item. He is just my oldest friend and a very, very important piece of my past. And if I ever did want to get sweaty with someone else, I’d do it right under your goddamn nose in the middle of Main Street at high noon!”

  I felt suddenly moved to clean off some road dirt from the Jeep’s taillights.

  Stan raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. No need to pump up the decibel level; I hear ya. In that case, Glen and I are gonna hit the road. But we’ll be back first thing in the morning so’s I can help with the roofing.”

  Sandralene proffered her cheek for a chaste farewell kiss. Then she went back inside the house with perhaps a little more hypnotic swaying of hips than strictly required for locomotion.

  Stan tossed me the Jeep’s keys. “You drive. I got some thinking to do.”

  “I’m not sure I can pilot this vehicle without my Evel Knievel jumpsuit on,” I replied.

  “Hardy-har-har.”

  Apparently sincere about his intention to muse and meditate, Stan remained quiet all the way back to the inn. Even in the room, where he threw himself down on the bed with his dirty shoes on, he kept his silence. I used the opportunity to phone Nellie.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Glen, meu konbósa! I miss you so much! Where are you? What’s happening? Are Stan and Sandy back together?”

  “Stan and I are back in our B-and-B now for the evening. We met Sandralene’s mother and that friend of Sandy’s, Caleb. Stan and Sandy have made some small moves toward getting back together again. They are fine with each other, I’d say. But the big issue is still her mother’s health. Sandy doesn’t want to leave her alone anymore, I think. And that kinda throws a crimp in all of us returning to the city together.”

  “Oh, Glen, you are so smart and Stan loves Sandy so much, I’m sure you will work something out!”

  I looked over at Stan. His brow was furrowed as I had never before witnessed, even when he was plotting the maneuvers involved in conning Barnaby Nancarrow, and he was paying no attention to my phone conversation.

  “I think you might have our roles reversed.”

  Nellie laughed. “What, Stan’s the thinker and you love Sandy? Glen, you are so funny!”

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Algun kuza grandi! I got Gaipo’s Market to agree to carry our line!”

  “That’s great,” I said. “They have like, what, four locations?”

  “Six now!”

  “I hope you have a mansion already picked out.”

  “You joke! But I could make us rich someday!”

  Nellie’s talk of earning honest money naturally inclined me to recall Stan’s assertion, before we left town, that he had some kind of sketchy get-rich-quick scheme at least partially doped out. I resolved to convince him to spill the beans sooner rather than later.

  Nellie and I exchanged some more inconsequential talk before hanging up. When I had finished, Stan suddenly spoke.

  “Let’s get something to eat. My belly button is humping my spine.”

  We tracked down a little bistro, not too touristy, not too hipsterish, called the Blue Moon Café, on the corner of Princess Avenue and High Street. It was airy and friendly and, as it turned out, the source of some tasty food. Stan ate two pulled-pork barbecue sandwiches and a mountain of fries while I had the veggie quesadilla. My meal order prompted the most dialogue from him since we had left Sandralene.

  “You in training for the Fearless Girl Olympics or some such?”

  “My gut is still churning from baloney and synthetic lemonade,” I replied. “I had to put something healthy in my stomach to counteract the effects of your woman’s ‘cooking.’”

  “Well, this barbecue sauce is righteous. Burns like Sandy’s kisses. It would restore your probiotic balance.”

  I laughed. “Do you even know what ‘probiotic’ means?”

  “Yeah, sure. It means ‘I’m a wuss who woulda died young if I lived in the caveman days.’”

  “Listen, if you want to insult my dietary choices, you should at least go into a bit more detail on this new racket you’ve hit upon.”

  “No, not now,” he said while saturating his second barbecue sandwich with hot sauce. “Let’s get this mess settled first. And besides, I don’t have all the angles down yet. I need to talk it out with you. But only when we’ve got Sandralene back home.”

  Twilight was coming on when we ended our dinner, and for some exercise we strolled toward the riverfront, eventually ending up at a little park that featured a quintessentially American obelisk dubbed the Rumsey Monument. It stood on a granite pavilion at the head of a few stairs, on a bluff high above the Potomac.

  Stan found a few pebbles and began chucking them into the waters below. The distant plonks in the gathering darkness sounded lonely and futile.

  Eventually, Stan ran out of ammunition for his assault on the river. “Okay,” he said, “I figured out how we’re gonna convince Sandy to come back with us.”

  “Great. Let’s put your plan in motion so we can get home.”

  “But there’s one other thing I have to do first. I have to show up this Caleb guy for the useless jerk he is.”

  “Oh, Stan, really now? Can’t you just let him be? Especially if we take Sandy out of his reach. And besides, he seems like a nice guy.”

  “All the more reason Sandy should think he’s a jerk.”

  “I know better than to argue with you. Do what you must. But don’t count on me to sabotage Caleb.”

  “You won’t have to help. Me and him will do it all ourselves.”

  We were back in Hedgesville by nine the next morning. The breakfast at our inn had indeed consisted of baked stuffed French toast, of which Stan, with the beaming indulgence of the proprietor, scarfed down more than his share.
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br />   We had time for only a brief chat with Sandralene—Lura was still abed—before Caleb Stinchcombe arrived with a load of shingles and nails and roofing felt and tarps. Shovels and other tools occupied the passenger seat of his truck.

  “Sandra,” said Caleb, “I think your daddy used to have a good ladder or two in the basement. Figured it would save me toting mine.”

  “Maybe. Let’s look.”

  We discovered a couple of solid old-fashioned wooden extension ladders in the musty, cobwebbed cellar and brought them outside.

  Surveying the house, Caleb said, “We’ve got a little extra work cut out for us since we can’t dump shingles onto the streetside property. Too narrow—they’d end up all over the road, puncturing tires and feet. Probably shouldn’t dump them in the church’s parking lot, either. So that leaves the side yard and the back. Let’s get the tarps spread out.”

  Using the ladders, Stan and Caleb secured the big green tarps so they formed a kind of fabric slide on two sides of the house, from the roof level to the ground, protecting the windows and siding from falling debris. Sandralene and I watched admiringly. When they were finished, Caleb said to Sandy, “I was going to hire a roll-off dumpster, but then I thought it’d be, um, kinda expensive. So if you don’t mind the mess, I’ll just truck the old shingles away. It’ll take longer, but I’ve got a deal with the folks at the transfer station.”

  “Whatever you think best, Caleb.”

  Stan frowned at Sandralene’s admiring tone.

  “Okay, then, let’s get busy ripping stuff up.”

  Caleb and Stan ascended their ladders with shovels and pry tools and began shucking off the old shingles, periodically sending shovelfuls over the edge of the roof to skitter down the tarp slides. Although the October sun was mild, the work still looked hot and onerous.

  “Can I help?” I yelled.

  “No room up here for ex-lawyers!” Stan yelled. “Just go give Sandy a hand.”

  So I went inside, where Sandy put me right to work on the many chores she had been unable to tackle alone. All day long, the noisy rain of asphalt roofing provided a soundtrack for the domestic chores.

  Looking tired and sweaty, the two men came down for a quick lunch, then headed right back up. By suppertime, the whole roof was stripped, all the recalcitrant nails removed, and the surface swept, and the bed of Caleb’s pickup was filled with the first load of debris.

  Sandy had already thanked Caleb effusively and was now inside, tending to Lura’s needs.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll truck the rest of the junk away,” Caleb said. “Then we can get busy putting down the roofing paper. Oh, I want to use roofing jacks, too. Much safer.”

  He eyed Stan meaningfully.

  “I told ya, I’m like a mountain goat up there,” Stan said. “No need to worry about me.”

  Caleb nodded without much conviction, then got in his truck and drove off.

  When he was gone, Stan said, “I’ll give him this much. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s no slacker.”

  “I’m sure you can work around his good qualities.”

  “Huh.”

  We went back to our inn to wash up and ate again at the Blue Moon Café. This time, I put away two barbecue sandwiches while Stan had four.

  The next day, the yard was clean of debris by eleven, and the tarp slides dismantled. Then began the laborious work of toting heavy rolls of roofing felt up the ladders. Stan made the task into a competition.

  “Hey, Stenchy, let’s see who can get the most rolls topside the fastest.”

  Caleb did not respond to the insulting nickname but simply accelerated his pace to match Stan’s.

  I was kept busy inside trying to figure out what ailed the Parmalees’ old washing machine. Eventually, after several YouTube videos, I thought I had the problem figured out. I went outside, where Stan and Caleb were grimly continuing their race as they stapled down the tar paper.

  “Hey, Stan!” I yelled up. “I have to use the car to go to Hagerstown for a washing machine part!”

  Stan didn’t bother to say anything, pausing only long enough to toss me the car keys.

  When I returned, the whole roof wore its completed protective undergarment, and Caleb was getting the system of roofing jacks in place. These were sturdy red steel brackets, nailed to the roof in a line and bridged by a plank laid across them to afford the workers safe and solid footing as they applied the shingles. The whole affair could then be repositioned as they worked their way higher up the roof.

  “That’s enough for today,” Caleb finally decreed, and they came down.

  Back at the inn, a sore and groaning Stan had to have a long, hot soak before he could even go out and eat.

  “That son of a bitch is as hard to stir up as a hornet’s nest at the bottom of the sea,” he growled. “But I’ll make him show Sandy he’s nothing but a weak sister in the end.”

  “You’d better hope you aren’t just one big blister before that happens.”

  They began shingling the next day, and Stan never let up on Caleb for a minute. I had been given the task of mowing the backyard—with a push mower, no less—and trying to tame the wilder thickets of shrubs, weeds, and perennials. So I witnessed the whole thing, starting with two men silhouetted three stories high against the pellucid West Virginia sky. When Stan’s chatter picked up, I ceased the clatter of my mower’s blades, fearing the worst.

  “Hey, Stenchy, who ever taught you how to hold a hammer? Where’d you get these cheap-ass shingles, anyway—the Dollar Store? You call that a tight seal? This house is gonna leak worse than before!”

  Caleb soldiered stolidly on, but even from this distance, I could tell that Stan’s stream of insults and derision was starting to wear on him.

  The men had started at opposite ends of the supporting plank, working in toward the middle of the roof. Now they were practically shoulder to shoulder.

  “Gimme room, Stenchy; gimme room! You ain’t showing off now to your little gal pal in the river where you nearly screwed the pooch!”

  Caleb calmly slid his hammer into the loop at his thigh and stood up on the plank. Stan immediately stood up, too. But from the stiff way he moved, I could see that he was exhausted and his bum knee was troubling him.

  I was debating whether to rush up the ladder, call Sandy, or yell “Murder! Help!”

  “You don’t ever mention that day again, you hear?”

  “Who’s gonna make me?”

  Caleb cocked his arm and swung.

  Stan, not at his quickest after three days of hard physical labor, shuffled his feet to avoid the blow, as he would have done adroitly on the ground. At the same time, he swung up his arm in a defensive move that shifted his center of gravity. And so he lost his footing on the plank.

  17

  The next few seconds unspooled in a sort of slow-motion horror ballet that went something like this: Stan’s right foot, closest to the edge of the plank, slipped off just as Caleb’s punch arced over his head. Windmilling his arms, Stan then began to topple forward and down until his chest and forearms and maybe chin, too, smacked down onto the freshly nailed-down rows of shingles. The awkward impact jarred his left foot off the plank, and with his legs now hanging over the plank’s edge, nothing but the friction of his torso against the asphalt shingles held him in place. And then his considerable weight counteracted that meager friction, and he began to slide down the slope.

  At the same time, Caleb reacted by dropping solidly to his knees on the plank as Stan continued his slide toward the abyss. Somehow, Caleb had gotten his claw hammer out of its loop and into his right hand and hooked it into one of the solid “steps”—a length of two-by-four nailed into the roof above Caleb and Stan’s row of jacks. Caleb then twisted around from facing the roof to grab at Stan in midslide.

  Now, maybe Stan would have managed to catch the plank and
save himself. Maybe, failing that, he would have grabbed the gutter and held on—if the flimsy aluminum gutter held somehow—until I could maneuver a ladder over to him, and all before he could fall thirty feet to a serious if not lethal impact. But maybe instead, he would have failed at both saving moves, or even dislodged the plank and brought Caleb down on top of him. No one would ever know, however, because Caleb saved Stan’s sorry ass.

  A powerful left hand grabbed Stan’s right wrist, arresting his downward slide. I could see Caleb’s bare right arm, holding the hammer, tauten like a ship’s hawser. But everything held. Then, in a Herculean demonstration perhaps not replicable outside this extreme moment, Caleb pulled himself upright by the hammer in his right hand, while hauling Stan up by the hand clamped around Stan’s wrist, until Stan’s scrabbling feet could again find purchase on the plank.

  With the danger over, I suddenly realized I was not alone—Sandralene held my arm in a death grip. I must have let out a shout of alarm when the drama began, bringing her rushing out the back door and into the yard, where she had apparently witnessed the whole affair.

  Caleb had both hands on Stan’s shoulders, and Stan was nodding his head. Thus reassured, Caleb guided him along the plank to the ladder.

  “What happened?” Sandy said.

  “Stan was fucking around.”

  Her anxiety did not disappear, but I could tell it was now tinged with anger.

  Soon both men were on the lawn, shaky but sound. Sandralene ran to embrace Stan first. But then Caleb received an equal measure of corporeally expressed gratitude as his reward.

  Finally releasing Caleb, Sandy pivoted and, without warning, punched Stan in the gut.

  “You big, mean, thoughtless idiot!”

  Her well-timed blow caused Stan to whuff out all his breath. After gasping for a few seconds, he recovered without any show of resentment. In fact, he looked positively un-Stan-like in that moment.

  “I guess I oughta thank you for that, darlin’,” he said. “And my thanks to you, too, bro. I take my lumps as I deserve ’em. But if it ain’t too much extra to ask, where are the goddamn cold beers me and handsome Johnny Reb here so richly deserve?”