And she believes him. She doesn’t know why she does, but she does. “Okay.” And then, “You need to start tomorrow.”
And again he finds himself saying, “All right.”
TRUDY WAKES UP THE NEXT MORNING with a sense of purpose. Today the fence building starts! But when she looks out her kitchen window, out over her driveway, there’s nothing to see. There’s her empty driveway, looking no different from yesterday, and there’s her neighbor yelling at his boys to “get in the car! Why are you ALWAYS late, Aidan?! Every single morning you can’t get your butt in gear!”
Trudy sees the two boys scramble into the backseat of the convertible, the younger one, Trudy realizes he’s Aidan, tripping over his backpack. Kevin barely waits until they’re seated and then zooms out of the driveway, leaving a waft of cigar smoke lingering in the crisp November air. The fence won’t do anything about the smell, she knows. What kind of man smokes continually from seven forty-five in the morning, which it currently is, until well after midnight? Every night the west side of her house is assaulted by the putrid odor of cigar. He sits on his front porch whatever the weather, bundled up when it’s chilly, stripped to a pair of shorts when it’s warm, and smokes. And talks on the phone attached to his ear. In fact, he seems to work very little and sit there far too much, always on the phone. Who would talk to this man, Trudy wonders, unless they had to?
One night, as she’s closing up the house, shutting windows and thinking about going to bed, she hears him say, “Here’s how we’ll do it. It’s too easy to just fire him. We’ll promote him. Well, he’ll think it’s a promotion.” And he chuckles. “He’ll come work directly under me and then I won’t give him anything to do, not one job, and I won’t talk to him.” Trudy can hear the glee escalate in his voice, which positively skips along as he says, “We’ll freeze him out! He doesn’t exist! … Then he’ll quit. No liability. No paper trail. Hell, he even got a promotion!”
That night, as she heard him plot to humiliate someone, Trudy slammed all her windows shut, but she could tell from his conversation, which didn’t miss a beat, that her protest didn’t register.
This morning she’s waiting impatiently for Fred Murakami to show up. Yesterday, she gave him half his agreed-upon fee so he could go to Home Depot and buy wood. She walks into the living room and cranes her body out to the left to see if his truck is in his driveway. It isn’t. Hopefully, that’s where he is and when she gets home there will be a stack of freshly cut, sweet-smelling cedar planks piled on the driveway.
That is exactly what she sees when she turns onto Lima Street at five minutes after five, a very imposing pile of raw wood stacked neatly with no Fred Murakami in sight. Trudy searches the backyard, calls his name—nothing—so she marches smartly across the street and drills her knuckles on his door.
Fred watches her come from the barrier of his living room drapes and shakes his head. Sighing, he opens his door.
“I see you got the lumber.”
“Yes.”
“But nothing’s been done with it.”
“That’s not true. I’ve set the end posts and stretched the plumb line.”
Trudy has no idea what he just said.
“I work seven to four, that’s it. When four o’clock comes, I am finished for the day.”
“I don’t get home until after five.”
He shrugs. That’s not his problem.
“When will we discuss?” Trudy asks him.
“We’ve already discussed. A wood fence. Along the driveway. Six feet tall. What is there left to discuss?”
“How ’bout this—I want it eight feet tall so I never have to see even the top of his head. He’s a tall man.”
“You can’t have it.”
And he stares at her, not as a challenge but because for him the topic is finished.
“Why not?”
“Building code restrictions. No fence on a property line in Sierra Villa can be higher than six feet.”
“Are you sure?”
And now he is getting angry. She’s implying he doesn’t know his job.
“I have been a handyman for forty-four years. If you don’t think I know what I’m doing, hire someone else.” And he starts to close his door. This woman is too much trouble, just as he thought.
“I don’t want to hire someone else,” she says to him, “I want an eight-foot fence.”
“Too bad,” he says.
“Yes,” she says, “it’s too bad.” Then, “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow morning.”
He closes the door. She walks quickly across the street. He watches from behind his living room drapes. When she closes her own door, he drops the drape back in place and all is quiet.
THE FENCE PROGRESSES. At a pace that drives Trudy crazy. The Angie’s List reviews were right. He works slowly. When she mentions this to him, as if he didn’t know, he simply looks at her and utters the word “meticulous.” Is he reading his own reviews?
Trudy knows there’s nothing she can do about the pace, but knowing and accepting are two different things. She’s sick and tired of accepting things she doesn’t like. The biggest, of course, is Brian’s death. But then the list includes her horrendous neighbor with his screaming and his power tools and his cigars. And her disapproving son with his dutiful weekly phone calls in which neither of them utters a word worth speaking and neither is satisfied when they hang up. And now she has a handyman who works in slow motion to add to the list!
She tells Clemmie all of this one Wednesday afternoon when things are slow at the library. She enumerates the list for her, ending with her handyman woes.
“Oh, I know Fred,” she says.
“You do?” For some reason Trudy is surprised, almost as if she doesn’t quite believe Clemmie has a life outside the library, because that’s the only place she sees her. A failure of imagination, Trudy tells herself.
“My mother always used him, and when David and I wanted to add a deck to the back of our house, I hired Fred.”
“How long did it take?”
“Oh, I don’t know.…” Clemmie thinks about it, then grins. “Forever. He works very slowly.”
Trudy throws up her hands—just her luck to have hired the slowest man alive.
“He is definitely an exercise in acceptance,” Clementine adds, watching Trudy’s face to see how her comment lands. She doubts Trudy has reached the acceptance plateau for any of the items on her list—Brian’s death, first and foremost, her son’s distance next in line. And immediately Trudy turns away from the younger woman, gathers up a pile of returned books to reshelve, conversation finished. Oh, how thin-skinned she is! Trudy’s body language says it all. She felt Clemmie’s words as an implicit reprimand. Clementine could kick herself. In an effort to be helpful, Clementine has gone too far. But no, Trudy comes back with empty arms and the need to ask, “But he does good work, right? Everyone on Angie’s List said that.”
“You will have the world’s most beautiful fence,” Clemmie assures her. Trudy heaves a sigh of relief and gives her colleague a rare smile.
WHAT TRUDY SEES WHEN SHE GETS HOME that afternoon is a work in progress. All the supporting posts, each exactly six feet from the last, have been cemented into place. Around each post Fred has built a small, sloping mound of concrete to eliminate water pooling at the base of the posts.
“Water rots wood,” he tells her the next morning when she asks. “We don’t want that.” The heads of the posts have been rounded off for the same reason. This way the posts will last longer. She nods; that makes sense to her. She is sure Brian would have approved of this man and his thoughtful work.
“Did you know my husband?” Trudy finds the words jumping out of her mouth before she has time to reconsider.
Fred, in the middle of mixing more cement in a large plastic bucket, looks up at her. The topic of dead relatives is one he doesn’t want to even consider. “No,” he says, although he remembers that if he happened to be outside his house early in the morning, Bria
n would wave as he jogged down the street. Fred never waved back. Waving led to conversation the next time around, something to be assiduously avoided. He doesn’t tell Trudy now that Brian continued to wave despite his lack of response. He just shakes his head no.
“He died,” she continues on despite herself. “One year and two months ago.”
“I know,” Fred says. It was hard not to know. The man collapsing just blocks from this street. The fire trucks racing in. Their neighbor Peggy, who found him, talking about it for weeks afterward. “My wife is dead almost thirteen years now.”
Trudy tries hard to remember his wife and vaguely calls up an image or two of a small Japanese woman who rarely left the house without her husband.
“You know what they say, about it getting easier over time? That’s not true,” Fred says as if reading Trudy’s thoughts.
“How comforting.”
He shrugs. Is it his job to be comforting?
For her part, Trudy wonders why she is having this conversation with a man she hired to build a fence. She already feels much worse for it. Let him build the fence and keep quiet, Trudy tells herself.
From that morning, she and Fred settle into a routine, something that has always soothed Trudy—the repetition of events. He arrives promptly at seven o’clock, as he told her he would. They “discuss” the fence if she has any questions, and only the fence. Otherwise, she says hello to him on her way out and leaves him to it. Increasingly, she has fewer and fewer questions. At a few minutes after five when she gets home, he is nowhere to be found, already finished for the day as he said he would be, driveway swept up and tools put away. He is as regular in his habits as she. They dance to the same beat and that helps Trudy relax.
Even the Yeller doesn’t seem to bother him. Trudy asks him that one morning after she is sure her neighbor has left with the two boys, driving them to the Catholic school several miles west along the 210 Freeway.
Quietly, because the wife may still be home, Trudy asks, “Does it get noisy here in the afternoon?”
Fred has no idea what she means. “No,” he says, “just the power saw sometimes when I need to cut the wood.”
She shakes her head, glances at the Doyles’ house again to make sure the wife isn’t outside, getting into her car. “I mean him.”
Fred shrugs. “When he brings his sons home, he yells at them to get in the house. Every day. Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly!” Then, “Don’t you wonder what goes on inside that house?”
Fred stares at her as if she’s insane. In truth, Trudy occasionally worries that on this topic she’s veering in that direction.
“It’s not my business,” Fred says and turns on the saw, conversation finished as far as he’s concerned.
But for Trudy the obsession isn’t. Now that her mind is no longer focused on the fence building—Fred is in place, the boards are going up—it has more room to ponder the drama next door.
One Saturday afternoon when Fred is not there—he never works on the weekends—Trudy is rinsing out her morning coffee cup when she hears the wife’s heels on the driveway. She has a distinct way of clopping along, as if her shoes never quite fit. It’s the rat-tat-tat of weary feet in low-heeled shoes worn by a heavy woman. She’s walking down the driveway to her car, which is parked on the street, her boys with her. She’s got a gentle hand on the head of the younger one, Aidan, as he trails along beside her. The older one, Carl, runs ahead.
The wife is just this side of being very fat. She never wears pants or jeans, too fat for that. She wears one long, printed skirt or another every day. And, like her husband, she’s always on the phone. But she seems nice. In the year they have lived next door, Trudy has overheard dozens of conversations, and the woman—her name is Brenda—never yells. In fact, she always seems unduly cheerful, telling people all the time that she’s “super!” but Trudy supposes that’s in counterbalance to her husband’s nastiness. And most importantly, she is sweet with her children. She calls them “honey” a lot and praises them often. What Trudy does not understand is how she remains married to the rodent. Doesn’t she see how much damage he’s doing to the boys?
The children are now pushing each other and shoving as boys do while Brenda clomps along to her car, cell phone to her ear. Trudy hears her saying, “They came back at $769,000.… I know … I know … that’s not much movement. We could try a counter at $740,000.… Okay, think about it and call me back. Remember, they have an open house tomorrow, so we should make a decision before that.… Right, just call me.…”
They have reached the street, and although Brenda has opened the back door of her car for the boys to climb in, they have escalated their roughhousing and are now chasing each other around the car and giggling. She is having a hard time ending her conversation and riding herd on the boys at the same time.
She’s gesturing to the kids—Get in the car—and saying to her client, “Good … This is the way it goes.… No, no, it isn’t personal.… Take the personal out of it—”
And then Trudy hears the Yeller slam the front door and come onto the porch and yell at his wife, “Brenda! What in holy hell are you doing?!”
All three of them freeze—the wife and the two boys, who are by now in the middle of the street. Hurriedly, Brenda gets off the phone and starts to usher the boys into the car, but that is not enough for Kevin Doyle. He stomps down the driveway and in full view of Trudy, who has moved to the living room window to get a better view, begins to berate his wife.
“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?! You weren’t even looking, were you?! Where were the boys? In the middle of the fucking street! That’s where they were!”
“Kevin,” she says quietly as she stands by the driver’s door, but that does nothing to derail the assault.
“You want them dead, is that it?! You want them run over by a car? Were you even watching?!”
The wife stands there without speaking, her eyes on his ugly face, waiting this out.
“I thought you went to college. I thought you had some brains in your skull.” And then he roars, “Those boys are going to be killed and it’s going to be on your head!”
He turns and walks back into the house and slams the door, damage done, humiliation complete. There’s a stunned silence on the street, like an intake of breath; even the birds have been frozen into muteness.
Brenda closes the back door of her car, makes sure the boys buckle up, gets into the driver’s seat, and drives away.
Trudy lowers herself into her armchair and contemplates what she just saw. She’s totally unfamiliar with that kind of behavior. Oh, she knows people scream at their wives and children, but she’s never experienced that kind of vitriol firsthand. Her parents weren’t screamers. Brian almost never raised his voice. The cruelty of Kevin Doyle’s words is what undoes her and makes her fear for the boys. Why is he always telling them to “get in the house”? What happens in that house? If he’s capable of that kind of anger against his wife in a public place, in full view of the neighborhood, what does he do to those boys once the doors are shut and the curtains pulled? What can she do about it?
She has no answer, but as often happens, Life provides an opening. One day soon after the ugly incident in the street, Trudy decides to come home for lunch, something she hasn’t done for the past year. When Brian was alive, they would make dates and meet at the house for lunch and whatever developed after that. Since his death, it’s been too hard to be in their empty house at lunchtime, some part of her still waiting to hear Brian’s car pull up into the driveway and his eager voice call out as he stepped into the kitchen, “Here I am!” as if he were delivering his person as a present, gift-wrapped expressly for her.
But this day she decides to find some courage and go home. There was a classroom of second graders at the library all morning, and Trudy could use a few minutes of peace and quiet.
As she walks up her brick path, she sees Fred at work on the fence, now close to halfw
ay done, and a brown wrapped package on her front porch. She can’t think of a single person who would be sending her something, and when she picks it up she sees that it is, in fact, addressed to the Doyles but deposited on her porch.
She goes to Fred, package in hand. “Did you see who brought this?”
“UPS.”
“But it belongs next door.”
“No one’s home next door. The guy asked me if he could leave it here. I said yes.”
“Why did you do that?” she asks him sharply. “Now I have to talk to them.”
“No, you don’t. Put it on their porch. The UPS guy doesn’t care.”
“All right.”
“I’m going home for lunch,” he tells her as he stands up, dusts off his threadbare jeans, worn to white at the knees. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
Trudy watches him cross the street, open his front door, and enter the house. She stares at the package in her hands. It’s innocuous looking, about the size of a cake box, stamped and sent from the post office. Put it on the front porch and be done with it, she tells herself. And she makes her way up the Doyles’ driveway and onto their porch, where she stands, package in hand, pondering.
Behind the barrier of his living room drapes, Fred scrutinizes her, the need to eat lunch forgotten in his need to watch Trudy. What is this crazy lady going to do now? He watches her ring the doorbell—once, twice, and wait. Didn’t he explicitly tell her no one was home? Why doesn’t she just put the package down and leave? Ah, now he sees why.
Trudy puts her hand on the Doyles’ doorknob. She can’t believe she’s doing this—is she committing breaking and entering?—but she can’t seem to stop herself. The door opens. She bets one of the boys forgot to “lock the damn door!” as the Yeller is always shouting.
She looks quickly behind her, scanning the street. Is she being observed? If anyone asks her, she’ll just say she’s being neighborly, putting the package inside the front door to keep it safe. That’s good. That will work. And then she slips inside the house.
Tell Me One Thing Page 20
