by Terri Kraus
“And that Mommy packed you a lunch.”
“Peanut butter and jelly, and Goldfish.”
“And your name is on your lunch bag.”
“A-V-A. That’s easy to spell.”
“And that your teacher is Mrs. DiGiulio and that she seems to be very nice.”
“Mrs. Di … DiGiulio. That’s a hard name.”
Leslie stopped at Main Street. The crossing guard, an older man, maybe just retired, waved them across, his stop sign high in the air. Leslie was still worried. Traffic moved too quickly through the school zone, she thought, and this crossing lay at the bottom of a big hill.
What if a runaway cement truck lost its brakes?
“And you get milk at lunch. And I think they have a nap time, too.”
Ava looked up and shook her head. “It’s quiet time. We don’t have to sleep. I bet too many kids went to the bathroom while they were sleeping.”
“Ava!” Leslie said, not really upset. “Who told you that?”
Ava shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe I thought it myself.”
Now the two of them, mother and daughter, stood in front of the Emily Brittian Elementary School, three blocks off Main, in a quiet, modest neighborhood. Leslie had not let go of her daughter’s hand the entire walk.
“That’s your door to your class, Ava: 2A. You have your own special door. Everyone else goes in through those big doors in the middle of the building.”
Ava nodded. “You showed me that when we visited.”
“I just want to make sure you know where to go. I don’t want you getting lost or trampled by the bigger kids.”
A score of mothers and a few fathers, and their daughters and sons, were milling about, waiting for the kindergarten door to open. A tension, or apprehension, flittered about the sidewalks. Even if the children wanted to, none of them were playing on the swings or the slide or the other playground equipment. It was the first day, after all, and no parent wanted a child to start school with dirty knees or elbows. Leslie noticed that some parents appeared to be relieved. Others looked blasé, most likely going through the experience for a third or fourth time. Only one or two showed any tender emotions.
For Leslie, this was a first and a last experience, all rolled into one. With Ava as her only child, Leslie would only get one chance at this, so each experience with Ava was both joyful and bittersweet. The doctors all agreed: Ava was the first and the last.
There were no older children on the school grounds this day. Kindergarten started a day before the rest of the grades. “We don’t want to overwhelm our newest students,” Leslie had been told. “In the past, with all the commotion going on, some of our more sensitive kindergarteners just had too much to handle.”
A bell sounded from inside the building, echoing in the empty halls. The door opened, and Ava waited until her mother started for the door. The little girl did not hesitate but walked, with purposeful steps, into her classroom.
“And who are you?” Mrs. DiGiulio asked as she bent down to the child’s level, her voice bright and happy. Her graying hair and soft wrinkles revealed a mature teacher, to be sure.
Ava stuck out her hand. “Ava Ruskin. I’m in this class. This is my mom. We just moved to Butler.”
“You did? Where did you come from?”
“Greensburg. We lived in a big house there until my daddy got a divorce.”
If Mrs. DiGiulio was surprised, she did not show a single ounce of it. She kept smiling and took a large laminated nametag, fastened to a length of yellow yarn, and placed it around Ava’s neck.
“This matches your dress, Ava. See? This has your name on it.”
“A-V-A. It’s easy to spell.”
“And it will help all the other students know your name too.”
Mrs. DiGiulio stood. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Ruskin. We will see you back here at 1:00—right? Early dismissal today. They’ll all be tired by then.”
Leslie waited outside the door, watching as Ava found the desk with her name on it and sat down. She turned only once to face the door, and when she saw her mother still standing there, gave just the slightest nod, acknowledging her presence, then turned back to face the front and the smiling Mrs. DiGiulio.
Leslie waved. Maybe Ava saw her. Maybe she didn’t. Leslie forced herself to turn and walk away. Other parents were talking—old friends, perhaps. Leslie wanted to meet them, but not today, not now.
She just couldn’t.
She hurried down the sidewalk, turned the corner, and hurried to the end of the block. There she was alone. No one could see her break into sobs … sobs that racked at her heart. The tears would not stop.
Her heart was breaking, as she knew it would—not only for herself, but for her daughter, who would never experience her father seeing her in her little yellow jumper on her first day of kindergarten, and for a little girl who would never again have a big house to live in.
Leslie cried for a while, maybe four or five minutes, until she could compose herself … at least enough to keep walking.
She had an appointment to keep.
I’ve got to pull myself together. I can do this.
Jack Kenyon stood in front of the Midlands Building and looked up at the peculiar screened porches built around the small balcony of each of the three second-floor apartment units. Even from the street, he could see that they had been done by an amateur: two-by-fours all around, hardly substantial, with two-by-twos dividing the larger spans. The entire structure may have been screwed into the original metal balconies, and even though Jack was not familiar with the building codes in Butler, he was pretty sure that none of it was up to code. Whoever was hired to do the construction work might have to bring the building back to code. He made a mental note to tell the owner when she showed up.
The majority of Butler’s historic downtown buildings seemed to be constructed around the same time—1870s to 1890s, Jack was almost sure, and the Midlands Building was no exception. On its cornerstone was carved Erected 1897. It had become a landmark, with its classic flat Italianate roofline with a deep cornice that had ornamental brackets, and a secondary cornice separating the two floors. It occupied the corner of North and Cedar streets and boasted of a recessed diagonal main entrance with an etched glass transom. Large display windows flanked the main double doors on both sides, with high kickplates below the glass area, that were about three feet off the sidewalk, and etched transoms of their own. As he peeked around the building, Jack could see that there were secondary entrances on the building’s sides, leading to the upper story. He could also see that, except for the peculiar screened balconies that had been added perhaps fifty years ago, the exterior, at least, had worn the years well—nearly all original and in good shape.
What’s inside might be a different story.
“Hi! You’re here early. I’m Leslie Ruskin.”
Leslie extended her hand to Jack.
He remembered her from his first day at passing out flyers. She may have been close to Jack’s age, maybe a few years younger. He was never good at estimating ages. She had full lips, medium brown eyes, maybe a shade darker, and a heart-shaped face. Her short-to-medium-length brown hair was cut in an almost angular bob and had highlighted streaks in it. Jack never understood the hows and whys of the hair highlighting process, but on her, it looked good, almost natural. She was very pretty, he thought, in a young mom sort of way.
No. That’s not it, not nearly. She’s much more than your standard soccer mom. I wonder what she’s doing buying a building like this? Seems like a big step for a woman. For such a pretty woman.
She was wearing a close-fitting white T-shirt, nothing fancy, tucked into her jeans, with a black belt and flat shoes. It looked, to Jack, like a no-nonsense choice of attire. Without analyzing it, he hoped he would get this job—regardless of the scale of
the project.
More than pretty, really. Much more.
“So you bought the place,” he both asked and stated at the same time. “When I saw you the other day, I was kind of joking. I mean, I saw the For Sale sign and saw how intently you were staring at the place, so I made the offhand comment.”
“You know, I wondered why you asked that. I thought you might have known somebody at the bank,” Leslie answered.
“Nope. Just a guess.” He smiled.
Leslie bobbed her head, as if wondering what to do next.
“Why don’t you show me around?” Jack asked. “You said there was an empty apartment. You want to start there?”
She took a key ring out of her pocket, a simple silver hoop with a few keys—not like most women, Jack noted, who possessed a hundred keys attached to some horribly oversized key charm. Her style was much simpler. He wished his wife had been that way.
“There are two apartments that share this street-level entrance and a stairway,” Leslie was saying. “The unit on that side,” she said as she pointed down the street, “has a separate entrance—but it’s rented now, so … I don’t think I plan on doing anything to that one. At least for now.”
She turned the key and pushed the door with her hip. Jack couldn’t help but notice how she moved and how well her jeans fit. The door squealed a bit and popped open.
“Hinges need oil,” she explained. “But I can’t find where I packed that little can of 3-IN-ONE oil.”
Jack brushed the comment aside. “I have some in my truck. I’ll do it before I leave. Complimentary. Like peanuts on an airplane.”
“Really? Thanks a lot.”
“No problem.” Jack gave her another broad, easy smile.
The stairway to the second floor was wide, with a high ceiling and dark wood wainscoting. “It all needs to be painted, but I think I’m going to try to do some of that myself. I painted some rooms of our old house,” Leslie said as they made their way up the stairs.
“Where did you live before?” Jack asked, then quickly added, “Just curious. I’m not prying.” He didn’t want to be one of those contractors who became too friendly too quickly with their clients.
“Oh no, that’s okay. We lived in Greensburg. South of here.”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been through Greensburg. Seemed like a nice place to live.”
They reached the second-floor landing, shared by both apartments.
Leslie appeared to be deciding something. Then she spoke. “My daughter and I moved here a short while ago. Her father and I divorced. I wanted a new start, and we chose Butler. My great-great-great-grandparents lived here once upon a time. I don’t know much about them, but the town’s in our family history, so I thought this would be a good place. What goes around, comes around.”
Jack didn’t respond. He didn’t really know how to respond. But he was glad she’d told him. Saved him the problem of trying to decipher the puzzle a single mom and child presented.
“So I bought this place, with the intention of renting out the other two units—or the other empty unit, and eventually the lower floor, hopefully.”
She unlocked one of the doors and they entered the empty apartment. Similar to her own apartment, it opened into a small entry, and they went through it to the light and spacious living room, with its fireplace and five large arched windows, all original from the 1890s, Jack guessed, and walnut trim—or trim stained to look like walnut—throughout. It was too dark for his tastes, but it looked to be in good shape. The windows may have been replaced once, but they were still old.
“Wow, what a great space. And a fireplace,” Jack said.
“All three units have one.” Leslie answered.
She led him into the kitchen—battered, nicked, out-of-date, worn hard, badly in need of renewal.
Jack whistled.
“I know,” Leslie said. “It needs everything. For sure, we need new countertops. I guess you should price out laminate. I would love to use granite or something like that, but I don’t have that sort of budget.”
Jack took measurements and jotted down notes. He tried to focus on the notes on his clipboard, and not on Leslie. “New appliances? Cabinets?”
Leslie appeared to take another look at everything, then nodded, almost reluctantly. “I don’t want to spend more money than I need to bring this place back, but these all have to go. I think the refrigerator is from the 1970s. The appliances in our apartment only look to be several years old, but these relics have seen their days.”
“Will you buy the new appliances? Or is that something you want me to include?”
“Can you? I mean … do you do things like that?”
Jack put his clipboard on the counter. “I can. Might be less expensive if you let the store deliver them all together for a flat fee. I’ll give you a separate price on that. And I’ll quote new stock cabinets, as well as quoting the cost of just refacing the cabinets. The bases look solid enough.”
The living room needed new drywall on one side; the entire west wall was cracked and peeling.
“The man from the bank said the roof was bad in that area and it had leaked,” Leslie explained. “The previous owner put on new tar and gravel last year. Said the leak stopped, but this wall has to be repaired.”
The bathroom’s shell was serviceable; the original tile was so old that it was back in style, but in surprisingly good condition. But a new tub, toilet, and sink would be needed.
“I can put the new fixtures in and leave the vintage tile alone,” Jack suggested. “Cheaper—and I think it will look nice. New lighting will help a lot. And a thorough cleaning.”
The two bedrooms were plain and simple. Leslie wanted new wire shelves and poles installed in the closets, which were fairly large—unusual for this era of building.
Jack finished his notes. “What about your place?”
“We’re not doing anything to our unit. Not yet. Maybe later,” Leslie quickly replied.
“And the downstairs space?”
Jack looked at his potential customer, trying to read her expression, hoping that he wasn’t being obvious about it. It was evident she hadn’t fully considered that part of the building.
“Well, we should look at it. I guess. You know, I’m not sure what to do about it. Maybe you can give me an idea.”
Back down on the sidewalk, Leslie tried one key, then another. Finally, with the third, the lock opened and she swung in one of the heavy wooden double doors.
“When I bought this place, I figured the two rents, and my job—when I get one—will pay the bills. I guess I should start trying to rent this bottom floor soon as well. But I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“What was this before?” Jack asked. “Did the people at the bank tell you?”
Leslie walked to the center of the room. It was a large space. Very large. Jack estimated at least four thousand square feet. Arched display windows ran around the two sides of the building, separated by brickwork, each arch capped by a granite keystone. Pillars stood, like mute guards in an empty hall, their round shafts painted, now peeling. They were topped with simple Greek capitals. There was a large fireplace in marble and cast iron centered on the side wall.
“The people at the bank said something about a locksmith shop, but there’s too much space here for a locksmith, isn’t there? And it’s all too grand.”
“Unless he was a really successful locksmith,” Jack answered. “Or maybe he only used a portion of the space. Left the rest empty. Or rented it out to another business.”
There was a space at the rear, with three doors. Jack walked back and saw that there were two very dated restrooms. He turned the fancy doorknob of a third closed wooden door, which was large and heavily carved, and found that it was locked. Probably storage space, he guessed.
“Wow—this is a really old door. Interesting carvings. Do you have a key for it?” he asked.
“No,” Leslie answered. “The man from the bank said that the lock on that one door was jammed. Maybe it’s because he couldn’t find the keys.”
Jack jiggled the doorknob one more time to see if that might spring the door open. It did not.
“You’ll need to get a locksmith in for this,” he suggested. “That space will be important to prospective tenants.”
Leslie nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”
They turned back to the front space. Leslie gingerly shoved an old, empty cardboard box with her foot.
Jack looked up at the ceiling. Tin squares all around, painted white, a few bent, some peeling. Dropped lighting fixtures dotted the space—from their look, last upgraded in the 1950s. The floor was all hardwood, in thinner strips than currently used. He pegged the floor installation to be original to the building.
“This is a really nice space. Wonderful architectural details. Needs cleaning more than anything. A few repairs. Floor needs sanding and refinishing. Maybe a few patches. New restroom fixtures, for sure. A few repairs on the ceiling. New lighting. Painting.”
Leslie nodded along with his assessment but stopped. “But if I found a tenant, wouldn’t they do all that work?”
Jack took out a penknife, knelt down, and scratched at the bottom of one of the pillars. “These are concrete. That’s good. Plaster might hide problems.”
He stood and slipped the knife into his pocket. “New tenants? Yes, probably they would do their own build-out—fix it the way they want, I mean. But this place is kind of a mess. Hard to see past that. You know: A clean house sells quicker than a messy house. The few repairs, like the bathrooms, will have to be done. And they won’t be that expensive.”
Jack walked to a front window. “Tell you what: I’ll work up a quote for the job upstairs. If you like it, and hire me, I’ll do the cleanup down here, and I’ll only charge you the reduced rate that builders charge for cleanup. I can do the cleaning on the weekends myself. Should only take a few weekends to get everything done. Since I’m starting out too, every little bit helps. If you want the restrooms redone, or any other of the repairs, those I’ll charge at my regular rates.”
