The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  Taller had worked with the Pratt brothers before, so he laughed, held up his hands, and called to them, “I’m just joking. There’s no brimstone forecast for this week. And hellfire has been rescheduled too.”

  They hesitated a moment, then reluctantly started knocking down an unnecessary knee-wall in the narthex.

  Taller was dressed for work: jeans, fitted perfectly and worn in the most attractive way, spotless white T-shirt, carpenter’s belt. He had not always shown up for work dressed for it, or on time, or both. Oliver understood his brother’s gifts, but punctuality and consistency were far down on his list of attributes.

  Oliver unrolled the final plans Samantha had brought the day before. Part of the basement would be gutted and a new wall installed around the kitchen area, so they would have to install new, up-to-code sanitary walls. The rest of the space, the former Fellowship Hall, would be used for storage. Upstairs, the pastor’s study would be converted into a private dining area, separated by French doors, which required some fancy framework. There would be a long bar on one side of the main room, seating and tables spread around the rest, and comfortable sofas and chairs would fill the area that had been the pastor’s platform. To get to the kitchen, two stairways had been drawn in on the plan, with new railings and steps. Both would require a fair degree of carpentry finesse to accomplish.

  Taller traced the thin lines on the blueprint with his finger, almost delicately, almost dancing on the surface of the paper, looking up every so often to see what was drawn and how it matched the reality of the space. After five minutes of inspection, he whistled, a low, long sound of admiration.

  “This is going to be one heck of a restaurant, Ollie. This space is magnificent. If the food is as good as the atmosphere, the owner is going to make bushels of money.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “You bid enough on the job? You going to make enough to pay me, as well as the Pratt brothers?”

  “I bid enough. You’ll get paid. And, by the way, when have I not paid you?” Oliver said, his tone almost hurt.

  Taller adjusted his work belt. “Ollie, you need to lighten up. I was joking. You’ve always paid me. See, that’s the funny part. I intimated you were a deadbeat employer when you haven’t been. See … humor. Funny stuff. Okay?”

  Oliver would have shaken his head—not in anger, not in disgust, but more in amusement. But that’s what his mother always did when she didn’t understand something and wanted to show her disdain for not understanding. So he did nothing, which he felt was always better than doing something he might later regret.

  “What do you want me to start on, Ollie? Laying out the wall for the kitchen?”

  “No. Not yet. But you can box in the steel beams downstairs. They were all hidden in the walls, and we’ll have to have them covered since they’ll be storing canned goods and food down there. Then you can start the prep for the new walls.”

  “You bring a ladder?”

  “It’s down there, along with my miter saw. And the Pratt brothers hauled down most of the wood you’ll need.”

  “Okay, Ollie, I’m officially on the clock.”

  Oliver did not laugh.

  “It was supposed to be funny, Ollie. Like I’m punching in at a factory. You know … since I’ve never punched in before.”

  Before Oliver could answer, he heard the front door bang open, and a woman’s voice call out, “Breakfast, everyone.”

  Every day Oliver had been on the job, Samantha Cohen had arrived at the same time in the morning, always carrying a bag of Jewish jelly doughnuts and Danish and bagels and coffee. She stopped bringing lox after the first day, since only Oliver nibbled at it, and since she explained that it was too rich to eat every day.

  The Pratt brothers had already been Pavlov-conditioned, dropping tools in midswing and hurrying to her side, digging through the bags, trying to find whatever it was that was their favorite of the day. Yesterday it had been cheese Danish, a variety of food not one of the three brothers had ever eaten. But after tasting it the day before, they had all decided it was their new most favorite taste, and nearly got into a fistfight when she had brought only two with her.

  Today she brought five cheese Danish and an assortment of bagels, with just maple-walnut cream cheese, and a holder filled with five cups of coffee.

  Samantha handed out the coffees, then reached into her bag and extracted a deep-yellow bagel. “It’s an egg bagel—the only kind worth eating,” she explained as she schmeared it with cream cheese.

  Taller looked at his brother and asked in a quiet voice, “She’s the owner?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said. “And don’t do anything to screw up this job, okay?” While his tone was soft, his intentions were hard and brittle.

  Taller waited and stared and did not reply.

  “Oliver? Are you coming?” Samantha called out.

  Oliver glared at his brother for a moment, then walked down the middle aisle of the church (or where the middle aisle had been) to greet the owner. “Samantha Cohen, this is Tolliver Barnett, my brother. Everyone calls him Taller … because he’s taller than me.”

  Taller gave the smile he reserved for “the ladies” and held out his hand. “So nice to meet you, Miss Cohen.”

  Samantha let him take her hand. When he held it a few seconds longer than was appropriate, she glanced down.

  Oliver watched her face, hoping his ability to read her thoughts would return. It didn’t.

  “This is such a beautiful building,” Taller said to Samantha. “I was telling Ollie the interior is simply magnificent. And your plans … very nicely done.”

  Samantha offered him a polite smile. “Thank you, Taller. Would you like a bagel and coffee? I like bringing food … because … well, it’s what we Jewish folk do when we come visiting. Have to bring a cake or something when coming to dinner, and enough for twice as many people than are in attendance. Food makes my presence something work crews look forward to. That way I can easily keep track of the daily progress.”

  Oliver watched Taller’s face. It was obvious his brother’s nods and grins were all part of his practiced, successful repertoire. Oliver knew that, any minute now, Taller would touch Samantha’s arm lightly—nothing invasive, just a light touch, finger to skin. Oliver had seen him do it dozens of times, and what women then did was telling: They might blush, giggle, look down at his hand, smile back at him, or all of the above, inviting him and encouraging him, even in an unconscious way, to be bolder, to extend the touch longer and move higher up the arm next time.

  Watching Taller perform this calculated move with Samantha made Oliver mad but still not angry enough to say anything. What am I going to do? Punch him? Tell him to get his hands off her? Like I have a claim? I don’t.

  Samantha didn’t react at all. It was as if she didn’t feel his finger against her bare arm. She kept on talking without hesitation. She didn’t blush, toy with her hair, and tilt her neck like so many other women did.

  Taller simply looked confused. Not many women thwarted his approach.

  “Well, Oliver,” Samantha said as she stepped away from Taller and toward him. “Everything still on schedule? Demolition almost finished?”

  The Pratt brothers, at the words almost finished, frowned in unison, as if being told they could no longer play at a favorite playground.

  “We’re on schedule. Nearly everything that is coming out is out. Taller is here to start on some of the construction downstairs. We’ll box in the beams today.”

  “That’s great, Oliver.” She reached out and gently squeezed his upper arm.

  For just a second, Oliver thought he could read her eyes—that she’d done it just so Taller could see her.

  She leaned in a few inches closer to Oliver, toward his ear, like she was about to whisper a secret and said, “I’m out of town this weeke
nd. My cousin in New York—we’re celebrating his bar mitzvah, a big family affair at the Ritz-Carlton. You’ve got everything under control, then, right? No big design decisions until next week?” Her voice grew husky, deep, and throaty. “And you know I need to be here for those sorts of decisions, right, Oliver? You’ll wait for me to return before deciding anything important?”

  “We’ll be fine until you get back, Miss Cohen. Have a good time.”

  Oliver would have been happy if he’d been able to preserve the way she looked at him before she turned and left: a look of longing is what Oliver interpreted it to be.

  Work continued, and the Pratt brothers hauled nearly fifty contractor garbage bags up the narrow basement stairs and outside to the almost-full Dumpster. Taller waited a long time that morning before he came to Oliver’s side.

  “Hey … about your boss …”

  Oliver looked up from measuring the steps of the platform. “What about her?”

  Taller offered a knowing grin with a hint of leer tossed in. “Well, for one, she’s Jewish. Are you planning to kill Ma? You have the hots for a Jew?”

  “What do you mean? She owns the place. She’s the boss. I’m nice to her. That’s all there is.”

  Taller looked down at Ollie. “Yeah. Sure. That’s all it is.”

  “She’s a friendly person, and I like her … as a person. She’s the boss. That’s all there is.”

  Taller pursed his lips and shook his head, just like their mother would do. “Sure. That’s all there is.”

  At that moment, Oliver thought about his secret, the secret only he and his mother shared. He wasn’t sure why it came to his thoughts when he was angry, but it did. He realized how badly he wanted to yell it out to his smug younger brother. But he didn’t.

  Taller undid his carpenter’s belt and hung it on a spike nailed into a bare wood frame in what used to be the church narthex. He glanced at his watch: 5:45—much later than he normally left a jobsite. What made this evening more unusual was that the Pratt brothers were still on the job well past their promptly-at-five-in-the-afternoon quitting time. Taller waved at them, called out for them to have a good weekend, then slipped out the large double front doors. The heavy doors banged shut, the sound reverberating through the jumbled sanctuary and echoing in the large open space.

  The Pratt brothers, in unison, stared at the closed door for a moment. Then the two younger brothers turned to the eldest Pratt brother—the one who looked oldest, with gray flecks in his very short, dark hair and a clutch of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—and stared. One of them said through clenched teeth, “Go on. Ask him. Now.”

  The oldest Pratt brother stood up with a dramatic sigh, obviously not accustomed to sighing because it sounded made-up, as if he were play-acting the father in a badly timed high-school production of Death of a Salesman. Yet the sigh was out there, and to his brothers, it committed him to action.

  He dusted off his jeans, and the dirt that was easily removed came off in a small cloud. The rest of the dirt, permanent and solid, might not come out even with repeated washings. He smoothed his hair (what there was of it) and walked slowly toward Oliver, who was leaning over a pair of sawhorses that held a four-by-four sheet of plywood, onto which the plans for the ex-church had been stapled.

  “Ollie,” the oldest Pratt brother said, as if not wanting to scare Oliver, sounding his name almost as an apology, “do you think I might have a minute … since it’s after quittin’ time and you’re not payin’ us now, because I don’t want you to think we’re wastin’ your time or anything.”

  “Sure,” Oliver said. “If you’re asking for your pay for this last week, I can write the check now, but I’ll have to ask you to hold it until Monday. I’ll have to move cash around and if I don’t get to the bank early on Saturday, the check could bounce and I don’t want that to happen.”

  The eldest Pratt waved his hand as if he were trying to erase an invisible blackboard that hung between them. “No, no, that’s okay. I mean, you could write the check, but it’s okay that we wait. Normally we wait a week or two to get the last payment on a job, so waitin’ is okay.”

  Neither spoke, then the oldest Pratt brother’s face changed as if he’d just realized that he had asked a question and it was his turn to speak.

  “I wanted to ask … I don’t know how to phrase this exactly. I’m not real good with words.”

  Oliver leaned back against his makeshift table, not wanting to put too much weight on it.

  “What is it?”

  The oldest Pratt brother stared at the floor in front of him. Oliver could see he was avoiding eye contact.

  “This is a nice job. We think this is a real nice job. This is one honest job.”

  “And you three have done great work,” Oliver replied. “There’s not much more to tear out, so I can’t offer you more work.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” the older Pratt brother said, now looking up, catching Oliver’s eyes for a short moment. “More work. Here. Like on this job.”

  “But the demolition is done,” Oliver said, confused. “At least all the big stuff. If there is any more, Taller or I can handle it. Or the carpentry crew can.”

  “I’m not talkin’ about demolition,” the oldest Pratt said. “I know we’re done with that.”

  Oliver waited. “Then what? I won’t be lookin’ at a new project for a while. I’ll keep you in mind if we need demo work, for sure.”

  The eldest Pratt looked up. Oliver, in one of his unexpected flashes of intuition, saw the sadness and regret and pain in the man’s eyes. The oldest Pratt’s hands were folded over the top of one another, like a penitent asking for absolution and forgiveness—expecting none, yet still requesting.

  “I know you only think we tear stuff down. For the past five years, that’s all we’ve done.”

  Oliver knew there was more.

  “Like that’s all we could do. No. It’s not just what we could do. It’s all that we were allowed to do.”

  “Allowed to do? I don’t understand.”

  The oldest Pratt lowered his head and his voice, as if he did not want his brothers to hear his confession. “Demolition work … well, no one cares if you make a few mistakes. You get paid to break things, tear things apart. When the project starts, the finish guys will cover up the mistakes. Isn’t that what everyone says? The framers say that the rockers will cover up a crooked wall with sheetrock, or the tile guy will square out a bad wall in the bathroom. The last guy on the job will make everything look good. That’s what they say, right?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “We used to be the finish guys. We used to make everything right—make everything look great. Customers loved us. All three of us are really good carpenters. Trade-school diplomas, apprenticeships, union tests, all of that.”

  Oliver was stunned. “Then what are you doing demo work for? If you’re really that good with wood and finish carpentry?”

  The eldest Pratt turned and looked at his brothers, then back at Oliver. “We’re not from Pennsylvania. You probably knew that from the way we talk and all that. We were born and raised in Ohio. Our father was a contractor, and we took over his business. A good life for all of us. But we were immature and really stupid. You know how it is—you get some money, and you’re young and free and start makin’ mistakes and doin’ dumb stuff.” The eldest Pratt took a deep breath. “Maybe you don’t know how that is. But we do.”

  Oliver folded his arms over his chest, then unfolded them and let them fall at his side since he’d once read that folding your arms over your chest was the ultimate body-language sign for “I don’t want to listen to you anymore,” and that’s not what he wanted to show.

  The elder Pratt let out a deep sigh. “Two of us have been in prison, Ollie. It was a long time ago, and we tried to make amends, b
ut no one trusted us anymore—at least not back home in Ohio. So we moved to Pennsylvania and started doin’ demo work. I didn’t want to risk it, bein’ contractors again, bein’ disappointed so badly.”

  “Prison? Two of you?” Oliver asked.

  “Yeah. I’m not sayin’ which two, ’cause then you’ll treat us different.”

  “No … I wouldn’t.”

  The eldest Pratt shrugged. “Maybe not. But maybe you would. You’re a real nice guy, Ollie. Nicer and more honest than most. That’s why we want to work on this job with you. You’re an ethical person. You keep your word. You could have brought in some illegals to do what we did here for cheap and pay them cash. I know a lot of contractors do that.”

  Oliver held open his hands. “You can get into big trouble if you do that.”

  “Yeah, and who comes in and checks for green cards? On a job like this? Nobody. You could have done that. You didn’t. You’ve always been real fair to us, when we worked for you before.”

  Oliver looked down, at the edge of embarrassment. He’d never once been congratulated for this sort of decision and was unsure how to respond.

  “So, would you consider havin’ us work as your carpentry team on this one, Ollie? Alongside your brother? I see what you’re goin’ to be doin’ here—this project—and I get so anxious … or jealous. I want to do stuff like this again. Build up and not knock down. I can almost taste it. I want to use my hands for good. It would … this would be a big deal for us. A really big deal.”

  Oliver hoped his expression said, “I’m thinking,” and not, “Hire former convicts?” He started to speak once, then stopped, then started again, and stopped again, not sure what question to ask.

  “You want to know what for?” the eldest Pratt said softly. “Why two of us were in prison and all that?”

  Oliver nodded. “Yes. I’m not sure if it makes a difference or not, but I guess I need to know.”