It Starts

by Avery Kirk

  “Yeah?” I answered, eyeballing him over my shoulder. I made it a point to always look people dead in the eye. “Well, what a big day this must be for you,” I said, turning back to my work, sarcasm thick in my voice.

  “You don’t gotta be a wench about it,” he said, front hand in his jeans pocket. He was super thin and his chin was tilted up, a toothpick in his mouth. He wore a holey once-white undershirt. His brown hair was in a skinny pony tail.

  The guy wasn’t a regular with this roofing crew. I knew a few guys in the regular crew as I’d seen them on a couple of other jobs. Getting extra help with big jobs was normal for the crew, so he was probably someone’s brother-in-law or something.

  I locked eyes with him again, no expression on my face. I didn’t say a word. Then I went back to hanging the ledger, although I felt slightly uncomfortable turning my back to him. I was waiting for Murray to help me hold up the cabinets to hang them, but he wasn’t there yet. I decided to head down to the basement as soon as the knob staring at me left. The last thing I wanted to do was barricade myself in the basement with some whack job.

  “D’ya work for Murray?” he asked. The question stopped me. I looked over at him with a little more curiosity now.

  “Yeah. How do you know that?” I tried to nonchalantly look down at my T-shirt to make sure it didn’t say ‘Murray’s Carpentry’ or something on it. It didn’t.

  “Because. This is my house,” he said as he looked around.

  “Oh.” I tried not to look surprised, but I’m sure I failed. “It’s going to be nice when it’s done,” I told him. I thought maybe I should apologize for being rude, but I wasn’t sure how to say it.

  “Yeah, should be. I know you’re probably wondering how a guy like me could afford a place like this,” he said, a kind of weird smile forming slowly on his face as he looked at me.

  “Not really,” I said after a minute. I wasn’t going to respond, but he seemed to be waiting for me to.

  “My parents left me a house in California. Everything is more expensive there. I decided to move here for my own reasons.” He paused as if I was going to challenge him on those reasons. “Anyway, turns out that a nice house in California can buy a mansion in Michigan. Figured it would be smarter to buy one with potential and fix it up a little. Keep more money that way, ya see.”

  I nodded. I was standing against the wall, the head of the hammer in my hand. I got a weird vibe from this guy—homeowner or not.

  “Which part of California?” I asked, although I didn’t care. I just felt as if I should say something since I’d been rude before. I didn’t feel like hearing about it from Murray.

  “Temecula. Heard of it?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” I’d pretty much only heard of LA and San Francisco, so this wasn’t a shock to me.

  “It’s real nice there. Real nice. Temecula isn’t much different than here really. It’s not like the big cities. A few mountains and stuff—better Mexican food—but otherwise, it’s got a solid Midwestern feel to it. Strip malls and all. Oh, and wine. Vineyards ya know. Not as much as Napa, but they’re holding their own.” He spoke with his hands in his front pockets looking to the side the whole time. He seemed to be kind of preoccupied.

  I nodded when he looked back at me.

  “Well, I won’t hold ya up. Keep up the good work. Been watchin’ ya, doing a real good job. Heard Murray’s runnin’ a few minutes behind today,” he said, as he tossed his toothpick in a small pile of garbage in the corner next to a broom.

  “OK, thanks,” I said. I was confused as to why the homeowner would know that Murray would be late before I would or how he could have been watching me. Creepy. I wondered if he’d done something or asked for something from Murray. A change in plans or something from the general contractor, maybe.

  After he walked out, I grabbed my tool bag and headed downstairs. We were supposed to renovate both kitchens and had saved the upstairs cabinets to see if we could make them work in the basement. Otherwise, all the old cabinets were being donated.

  The roofers were the only other crew here. I’d heard their pneumatic nail gun firing and the sound of a muffled radio playing. I stood quietly and listened for a minute to be sure no one else was walking around upstairs. I knew the sound of Murray’s walk pretty well since he had a slight limp, but I didn’t hear any footsteps at all.

  I had to tear down a couple of partial walls that boxed in the basement kitchen and pull down the cabinets. Since I only had a T-shirt and shorts on, I’d leave the walls up until I had jeans on. When I’d gotten dressed in the morning, I figured I’d only get to hang the upstairs kitchen cabinets that day. No real risk of shrapnel or injury with hanging cabinets, so shorts should’ve been fine. Plus, it was unseasonably hot for October in Michigan.

  Just then, I heard a text on my phone. It was Murray letting me know he was running late.

  I hoisted myself up on the counter to unscrew the upper cabinets. The first two screws I tried to back out stripped almost immediately. These cabinets had easily been there for thirty years, and clearly this wasn’t going to be a simple task.

  I decided to try the bounce-and-pry method since I was losing faith that these cabinets were going to be in good enough shape to donate once I got them down. I alternated using my pry bar and then my weight to force the cabinet down, all with my leg under the adjoining cabinet. I was attempting to save the countertop from damage if I happened to loosen it up enough for it to all come crashing down. Using part of your body to save a hunk of wood is never a great plan, but that’s what I did.

  I heard sirens in the distance and didn’t think much of it. They got closer as I used the tip of the drill I was holding to pull my tool bag closer to me across the counter. The sirens seemed to stop close by. I wanted to step down and see what was going on, but I couldn’t just let go because I had too many cabinets loose. I figured if the hoopla was something I needed to know about, someone from the other crew would come and get me. Anyway, Murray was on his way—so I decided not to worry. I focused on not dropping the cabinets on my feet and not ruining everything in the process.

  I was drenched in sweat by then and tried to use my drill bit to reverse the stripped screws out of the wood of the cabinet. The process wasn’t going well. Or it might have gone okay if I hadn’t waited to do it until this point. My legs and arms were exhausted. Meanwhile, I heard CB chatter in the distance. I felt intensely frustrated.

  Snatching my reciprocating saw out of my tool bag and tossing my drill to the side, I announced, “Screw It.” I sawed off the bottom of the first cabinet to make them lighter. This might have worked if I wasn’t so oddly perched and doing an awkward bend. My efforts weren’t working, so I decided to cut and run and accept the consequences. I tossed my tools to a safe distance, let go and hopped off the counter.

  I heard a loud crashing sound and immediately felt a pain in my leg. I figured that I must’ve landed funny. I evaluated the damage to the cabinets. The results were a disaster, and I was pissed. I grabbed the reciprocating saw again and abused the cabinets again out of frustration—I couldn’t salvage them at this point anyway. Then I stopped, realizing that I was completely full of sawdust and it was going in my eyes.

  I also became conscious at that moment that the sound in the room was different than before. From behind me, I heard fabric rustling. I turned my head, expecting to see Murray and quickly brought my legs together—one had been up on the counter during my reciprocating saw tantrum. I blinked hard and wiped my eyes, waiting for Murray to lecture me on not wearing safety glasses and for destroying the cabinets and counter top.

  Instead, I saw two firefighters and a cop crammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gawking at me. I heard a woman’s voice shout, “Clear!” on the other side of the wall and realized the CB chatter I’d heard was from inside the house.

  “Miss…” The police officer lodged in the doorway spoke first, his expression one of confusion. “We need to get you out of th
e house. We have a small fire the firemen have to be sure is extinguished before you…continue work.” His hand was on his gun.

  “OK” I said. I hurried over and ran up the stairs and out the front door, my leg aching.

  I walked a few houses down the sidewalk. The cop who’d followed me outside reported on his CB that he’d retrieved me from the basement and that the basement was now clear. One of the firefighters looked over at me and seemed to notice something.

  “Phil, toss me the first-aid kit. She’s hurt,” he said, urgently holding his hands out to catch a big red duffel bag. The guy who threw it had a cheesy half-grin on his face as he tossed it over. My firefighter caught the bag and sat me on his knee, opening it. I saw that I had a sizable gash on my leg. I thought it was odd that he sat me on his knee and I felt kind of like a little kid sitting there.

  He was a big man, maybe six-foot-four. His uniform pants were rough on the back of my legs. He smelled spicy. My instinct to protest his help dialed down a bit because I felt the urge to stare at him. He was really nice to look at. He pulled off his helmet and I noticed his dark blond hair. After he shook off one of his gloves, he awkwardly cleaned up my cut.

  He then seemed to feel silly for a second and asked if I would mind sitting on the grass instead. I watched him without hiding my interest as I felt his gloved hand on my back where my T-shirt was raised up a bit. He made me feel curious. Why would he care about a little cut so much?

  I moved off his knee and onto the grass, now trying to get the sawdust out of my eyes and off my face with the sleeves of my T-shirt. He noticed my struggle and handed me a small packet with a wet towelette in it.

  “For your face,” he said, looking back at his first-aid kit.

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  I did my best to wipe off the sawdust. By then, the EMT came by to take over treating my gash, and I noticed Murray walking up.

  “You OK?” Murray asked in his deep voice, a very concerned look on his face.

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head quickly to dismiss any worry. “I’ve had worse.”

  “I’ll yell at you later for wearing shorts,” he said, a shadow of disappointment replacing the concern as he moved his eyes around to look at all the commotion.

  “I know,” I said, looking down.

  “What is it with you and basements?” he said, mostly to himself.

  The officer explained to me with his notepad out that the firefighters already had the fire extinguished, but they had had a caller who reported seeing someone light it. He mentioned that he wanted to get ahead of the game and asked if I’d seen anyone suspicious who might have started the fire intentionally. The fire was a pretty small one, but they still needed to investigate. I turned my head, looking off into space, taking a moment to think as the EMT cleaned up my leg.

  “I only saw the roofers and the homeowner. He came in to talk to me. But, that’s it. I think I was the only one inside the house—other than him I mean.”

  “The homeowner?” Murray asked. “A man?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I thought the homeowner was a woman,” he said vaguely.

  The general contractor jogged up, looking as if he’d rushed to get there.

  “How is everyone?” he asked, worried.

  “Everyone seems fine—no injury from the fire,” the officer replied. “Who are you?”

  “Mitch Bishop. I’m the general contractor.” He patted his pants pockets for some ID, I supposed, in case he needed some.

  “Is the homeowner on-site today?” the officer asked.

  “No, sir,” Mitch said “She’s up north this weekend with her kids. Water park, I believe.”

  “A man stopped in while I was working and said he was the homeowner,” I interrupted. “Said he was from California. Could he have been the homeowner’s husband?”

  “I don’t believe so. I do believe he’s still in China for the next three months. Asian family. They’re moving here. Big automotive executive. Joint venture or something,” Mitch replied.

  The officer turned to me. “But you spoke to a man who claimed to be the homeowner?” He started to take notes.

  “Yeah, for sure,” I said. I explained our conversation and how he knew Murray’s name and that Murray was going to be late.

  “Was it one of the men over there?” he asked me, awaiting my response with his pen ready.

  I saw the roofing crew standing around. “No, actually. I don’t see him.”

  I looked around for him, but other than the roofers, all I saw were firefighters and police. I didn’t see the guy at all. The cop who had been taking notes was watching me while I looked.

  “Can you describe the man? Was anything suspicious about him?” he asked.

  “He was pretty suspicious. Kind of a jerk at first. I thought he had a toothpick in his mouth, but it could have been a match. I don’t know,” I said.

  “What did he look like?” the officer asked.

  “Well, he didn’t look Asian. He was about your height, thin brown hair in a ponytail, black T-shirt.” I answered the rest of the officer’s questions with I don’t know or I wasn’t here yet.

  To make matters worse, Murray let me have it once we got the all-clear to go back in the basement. Apparently unleashing a reciprocating saw wasn’t exactly a recommended way to remove cabinetry.

  I got a pretty good lecture about waiting for help and never wearing shorts. He didn’t care about the Indian summer we were having and how hot it was outside. He referenced rhinoceros ball sweat, although I wasn’t sure how it fit into the lecture. He told me he was holding back because he was late and because I was injured—thank goodness on both counts.

  Murray then spoke with the contractor about the stubborn kitchen cabinets in the basement and how they ended up destroyed. The company made a donation to the charity for my carelessness, and I had to bring all the cabinets out to the dumpster myself. Murray shook his head at me for the rest of the day.

  Turns out the fire amounted to nothing more than a burned up tree. The tree had been dead and dried out for weeks. The landscaper had already been called to replace it. Since the house damage was very minor and easily repaired, the fire was labeled accidental, and the investigation was quickly dropped.

  It had been a crap day. I knew Kevin would be working, so I drove to his uncle’s bike shop, which was actually called Uncle Pete’s Bike Shop. I wanted to fill him in on the weird guy and the rest of my stupid day without Lanie around.

  He always told me I could stop over his house whenever I wanted to, but I didn’t like to do that when he had a girlfriend. It felt like too much of an intrusion. Plus, I didn’t have a ton to say to Lanie if she was home so I felt crappy just talking to her guy while she sat there uninvolved in the conversation. Although he was nice enough to say I was always welcome, I rarely stopped over if I knew they were spending time together.

  The bike shop was in an old money suburb about twenty minutes north of Detroit where the small downtown area had a kind of village feel to it. Uncle Pete’s Bike Shop was in a brick building between a barber and an interior design studio. His shop had white muntin bars in the large front windows and rust-colored mums planted in the front flower boxes. Pumpkins celebrating the season were set between the mums and also on either side of the welcome mat.

  Inside, the shop smelled like rubber, and the jingle of the bell on the front door made me feel as if I’d stepped back in time. No customers were in the store when I arrived, so my timing was perfect. Kevin was sitting at the counter, and Pete poked his head out of the back room when he heard the bell.

  Pete was a short man with short, curly gray hair. He always had some crazy sneakers on. He must have had dozens of pairs. Today’s sneakers were black with lime-green lines all over the place. His shirt and pants were both denim and both stained with oil spots. He had a bunch of papers peeking out of his shirt pocket.

  “Hi, Mel! How’s the bike? Still holding up for ya?�
� Pete asked, wiping his hands on a rag. Kevin looked over, smiled and walked to the counter.

  “It’s great! Don’t worry, I’ll put this guy to work if something goes wrong,” I said, pointing at Kevin with my thumb.

  Pete laughed. “You better.” He returned to whatever he was doing in the back room.

  “Can I interest you in our newest carbon fiber model with full suspension?” Kevin asked, joking.

  “Don’t think so,” I said, furling my brow and shaking my head.

  “What brings you down here? Everything OK?”

  “Just came to visit. Are you tied up? I can catch you later if you are. I should have called.”

  “Nah, I’m good. I’ve got a few. Wanna sit out back?”

  I nodded.

  “Pete, just gotta run out back for a little,” Kevin called to his uncle.

  We went around the red brick building. The downtown area was very lively. Many people were walking around on the brick paver sidewalks. Dress shops, interior decorators, jewelers, tailors, lunch places—they were all here. The area even had an old-style gas station with full service. I wouldn’t pay the premium price they charged, but I did like watching when a customer pulled up. I’d been to the hair salon on the second floor across the street, but it was too fussy for me so I only went once.

  We sat behind the building at a very beat-up wooden picnic table. Kevin looked at me expectantly.

  “Just a weird day. Wanted to vent,” I told him. “Murray let me have it because I went off on some old-ass cabinets.”

  “Oh, you cut yourself,” he said, looking at my bandage where I’d bled through the gauze.

  “Yeah, and some freaky guy came in who claimed to be the homeowner, but wasn’t. Said he was from California. I thought that was kind of ironic with my recent palm tree dreams.”

  “A lot of places have palm trees. Probably just some chump, right?” he said, and he noticed his phone was vibrating. “It’s Lanie,” he told me, explaining. He answered it.

  “Hey,” he said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece and whispering ‘sorry’ to me. “Is that today? I’m sorry. I forgot. OK. No, I can still help. Let me just jump on the computer in a few. Can I—oh. Right now? No, it’s fine. I said I would help. Hold on a second. Mel stopped over. OK, just a sec.” He covered the mouthpiece, and said to me. “Lanie says ‘hi.’ I’m sorry. I have to help her like—right now. She waited until the last minute, and this thing I said I’d help her with for her Master’s program is due in like 25 minutes—we both forgot. She’s wigging.”