by Terri Kraus
Leslie appeared relieved. “Good. I’ll keep that in mind when I review your quote.”
“I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”
Leslie appeared surprised.
“You said you’re starting over,” Jack answered. “Nobody wants to wait when they’re starting over.”
All that morning, Leslie’s thoughts kept going to Jack. She knew he was the type of man who possessed an effortless charm—the sort of affability women found irresistible, the ability to be everyone’s friend.
I wonder if he’s unattached. He’s so good-looking … highly unlikely.
Ava unwrapped her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. She spread out her Goldfish, which had been tucked into a Ziploc bag, in straight lines on her desk. In the store, she had seen and had wanted the individual bags of Goldfish, but her mother had insisted that the bigger bag was exactly the same Goldfish and so much less expensive. One of things today that made up for not having Goldfish in its own bag was that she got milk in a little carton, all her own. Mrs. DiGiulio walked down each aisle, making sure that everyone’s milk was opened.
The teacher clapped her hands properly—not mean, but like when you’re chasing a cat out nicely—and all her young students looked up. A few were already chewing, but Ava had waited for someone to say it was time to eat.
“Children, it’s almost lunchtime,” she said, pointing at the clock. “When the little hand and the big hand meet at the top, then we eat.”
Ava squinted. The hands were just this close to each other.
“And when the clock’s hands are together, we should do what the clock does—join our hands together and pray before we eat.”
Mrs. DiGiulio looked so happy, Ava thought, happier than any adult she had known, except for one lady on television, and that didn’t count because her mom said those people were just actors and it was all make-believe. Mrs. DiGiulio didn’t seem to be pretending at all.
“Okay, hands together,” Mrs. DiGiulio said, then added, “you can all repeat after me: ‘God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.’”
Ava looked up.
Her teacher was beaming. “Now let’s all enjoy our lunch.”
Ava chewed quietly, with her mouth closed, as her mother had always insisted. The boy in front of her was sort of bouncy. He had two chocolate cupcakes with a squiggle of white frosting on each top, wrapped in a cellophane wrapper. He turned in his desk and looked at the soldierly straight line of Goldfish that Ava was deliberately, systematically eating one by one. His name was Trevor. Ava didn’t like the name Trevor, but this Trevor seemed nice.
“You want a cupcake? I only eat one. That’s all my dad says I’m allowed to have at one time, even if I’m still hungry or starving. He says I have to bring one of them home, for later.”
Ava considered the offer. She really wanted the chocolate cupcake, because her mom never bought them, but she wasn’t sure if this was the polite thing to do—or even if it was allowed.
She raised her hand.
It took Mrs. DiGiulio a moment to notice, and she hurried to Ava’s desk.
“Trevor wants me to have his second cupcake and not bring it home like his dad said. Can he do that?”
Mrs. DiGiulio bent down and gave the little girl a little hug. “Of course he can, Ava. Trevor, that’s such a nice thing for you to do. You tell your daddy that Mrs. DiGiulio said it was okay to share.”
Ava reached over and as she took the cupcake, she said firmly, “Thanks, Trevor.”
“My dad won’t mind. He can go to the store and buy one for himself.”
As Ava ate the moist, delicious, sweet, sweet cupcake, she stared at the back of Trevor’s head, as if memorizing the way his red hair fell just so over the collar of his slightly wrinkled blue shirt.
Jack left the Midlands Building just before noon. Feeling good about his prospects, he decided to treat himself to lunch—at a real restaurant. His usual midday meal consisted of something ordered at a speaker from the cab of his truck, or a quick ham-and-cheese sandwich he made himself at his apartment.
He thought that he and Mrs. Ruskin—or Ms. Ruskin, or was it Miss Ruskin?—had hit it off nicely. He just didn’t know what to call her. Using her first name, Leslie, might be too presumptuous—and again, he told himself he didn’t intend to be one of those contractors who confused a business relationship with a personal one. He wanted to keep business business, if at all possible.
He picked a counter stool at Emil’s, a restaurant on Main Street that appeared to have been in business for decades, judging by its facade. The restaurant always seemed crowded, Jack had observed.
How else do you know if a place has good food or not?
Emil’s had large, sparkling clean windows and warm lights, and it seemed like a friendly sort of place—not fancy, but nice, in a “comfort food” kind of way. He would have gone back to The Palm tavern, but he knew it would be too easy, too tempting, to transform this lunch into a small liquid celebration. No matter how little the celebration was, it would prove too much for Jack to deal with. Emil’s was more of a family place and safer by far.
“Menu?”
A young waitress—cute and blonde—held out a folded menu, in plastic with leather reinforcements as a frame. Jack categorized restaurants by their menu: an illuminated menu board on the back wall was cheapest, a slab of laminated plastic with color photos of all the food was next, a folded menu with some plastic and some leather was next on the expensive ladder, and finally, a menu tucked into a thick, padded booklike folder with a gold elastic string holding it in place was the most expensive of them all.
He immediately glanced at the prices, recognizing that he hadn’t yet found any paying jobs. The prices weren’t bad. He could afford a BLT and fries and coffee and tip and still have change from a ten-dollar bill.
The waitress stood in front of him with a pad in one hand and a pen in the other. Not smiling, but not frowning either, she waited as if she had all the time in the world to wait for his order alone.
He immediately would have ordered the BLT, but the meat loaf special caught his eye as well. Mashed potatoes. I haven’t had mashed potatoes in months. “How’s the meat loaf?”
The waitress, wearing a nametag that had Judy written out in raised black letters, leaned closer to him—almost too close. But Jack liked that. She was very cute. He had been alone for a long time, and this sort of unexpected intimacy made him take notice.
“What’s your second choice?” she said softly, almost whispered, as she leaned in even closer to him, closer than a waitress normally got to her customer. She was almost touching his right ear as she spoke.
“A BLT?”
“A wonderful choice. I recommend it, but on Italian bread. With lots of mayo. We’re using fresh tomatoes from the owner’s garden. You won’t be sorry. A better pick, really.”
“Okay. But can I get mashed potatoes instead of the fries?”
She reached down and touched his arm. “For you, of course.”
She wrote down his order. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but my name is Jack. Jack Kenyon.”
She gave him her best smile … or so Jack thought. When she put out her hand for him to shake, he was sure that it was her best smile.
“It is so nice to meet you, Jack Kenyon. I hope you become one of my regulars.”
She held his hand longer than needed, then walked away with a swaying purpose in her steps, ripped his ticket from her pad, and headed for the kitchen.
Jack watched her every step.
Is she this friendly with everyone?
There was an inverted coffee cup at every placemat. He turned his over and looked down the counter. Judy was at the small kitchen window, laughing with the cook. She slipped his ticket into the roun
d rotating holder.
I wonder how old she is?
“Trevor gave you a cupcake?”
Ava nodded.
“Why?”
They had stopped at the corner of Main and North, waiting for the buzzing light to change.
“He saw me eating Goldfish.”
Leslie waited. There had to be more to the story than that. But she had just read in a parents’ magazine at her old doctor’s office that you shouldn’t push a child to tell you more than they were ready to tell. Yet she was so anxious to hear how her daughter’s first day of school went.
“Did you like Mrs. DiGiulio?”
“She’s real nice. And funny. She read a story about a chipmunk and made her voice go all squeaky. Everybody laughed.”
Leslie held tightly to her daughter’s hand as they hurried across the street. She looked up the hill, toward Locust Street, worried afresh about runaway cement trucks.
“Did you like all the kids in your class?”
Ava shrugged. “I didn’t meet them all. But they seem nice. I like Trevor. He’s funny. He has red hair. And he wiggles a lot.”
Leslie was sure she was missing something, but Ava was talking and that was a good thing.
“What else did you do?”
Ava sighed theatrically. “We did colors. We had story time. We learned where our cubbies are. Our paint shirts go in them. She talked a lot about the rules. I don’t remember all of them.”
“Rules?”
“Like no talking. You have to raise your hand if you need to go to the bathroom. Like that.”
They were at their corner. Leslie reached into her pocket for her keys. She had purchased several decorated white cupcakes earlier in the day at Friedman’s Market, a few blocks from their new home. She hoped that the earlier cupcake from Trevor wouldn’t dim the surprise.
“Cupcakes!” Ava shouted when she entered the kitchen. “With smiley faces! Can I have two of them?”
“One for now,” Leslie said as they both sat at the table, on two of the four chairs they owned, and carefully peeled off the paper wrappers. “Do you want milk?”
Ava nodded. “We get milk at school in little cartons. I like that.”
They ate in silence. The cupcakes were very tasty. Leslie was certain they had been baked fresh in the bakery right in the store. Ava carefully folded the crinkled paper wrapper and put it on her plate, then drank the rest of her milk.
“If someone doesn’t say they have something, does that really mean they don’t have that?” Ava asked as she put her empty glass on the table.
“Like what? Who doesn’t have what?”
Ava’s mouth looked compressed into a sour pucker, as it always did when she was concentrating on something.
“Trevor never said he had a mommy. He just talked about his daddy. Does that mean he doesn’t have a mommy?”
Leslie waited to answer. After all, Ava did not often mention her father, but it didn’t mean that she did not have a father.
“Maybe, sweetie. Maybe Trevor’s mommy is away.”
“My daddy’s away.”
“He is, but you still have a daddy.”
Ava looked at the clock on the wall. “Mrs. DiGiulio is going to teach us to tell time. What time is it now?”
“Two o’clock. Almost—a few minutes till two.”
Ava slipped off the chair. “Can I watch television? Maybe Dora the Explorer is on.”
Leslie had indeed found an adaptor plug that matched the wire from the roof and plugged nicely into their television set. Times had changed since Leslie was a little girl. Despite not having cable, they still received ten different channels. In a moment, Leslie heard the familiar theme song.
“Mommy! Dora the Explorer! Our television has Dora the Explorer!”
Leslie hurried out to join her daughter on the green sofa. She was certain the episode was a repeat, or even years old, yet as she slid her arm around her daughter, she noticed her wide, happy smile.
Thank you for small favors, Leslie said to herself, aiming the thought at no one in particular.
“Oh, and Mrs. DiGiulio taught us how to pray today. I liked it. It was a rhyme.”
Leslie, surprised, would have asked Ava more. But the animated program had started, and the child leaned forward, unwilling to miss a single moment of her favorite show. So Leslie kept silent, regardless of the theology involved.
“Kenyon Construction.”
“Hello, Mr. Kenyon. This is Leslie Ruskin. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when you stopped by. I must have been at the grocery store.”
“No problem at all. I hope you got my estimate.”
“I did.”
She had gotten it, looked at the bottom number—the total estimate of costs—and realized that she could just afford to have it all done and still leave a small cushion in the bank. She looked at each individual number, not truly knowing if the amounts were high or low, but they seemed reasonable. Of course, Leslie had seen all the remodeling shows on television and read scores of articles on picking contractors—how to avoid being taken, how to ensure work done to code—but in the end, it all came down to trust. And, somehow, she trusted Jack Kenyon. She trusted him because he had not insisted on doing more work than she wanted. He had offered to work on the first floor cleanup at a reduced rate, and, well, he had an honest face and an honest approach.
That was enough for her. But she did hear echoes of her ex-husband. Always knock 20 percent off an estimate. See what they do then. Maybe they come back with a 10 percent reduction. That’s how you beat them at their own game.
“The final number, Mr. Kenyon—can we do any better than that?”
No doubt Jack was prepared for this. “I really estimated down to the bone—”
She waited, thinking he was going to keep talking.
“—but what I can do is split any contractor discount I get on items I purchase for you. The cabinets for example—I put in $4,000 for them. If I get a better discount—let’s say an extra 10 percent, I’ll split that with you. So on the cabinets, you could knock off $200 or so. How’s that sound?”
Leslie grinned to herself. It wasn’t what her ex-husband would have called substantial, but it was something.
“When can you start, Mr. Kenyon?” Leslie asked, her voice eager.
“Would tomorrow be too early? I’ll need to take final measurements for the cabinets,” Jack answered, his voice sounding equally eager. “What time tomorrow?”
There was a hesitation. Then, “Would 7:30 be too early?”
Amelia Westland, age thirteen years, four months
Glade Mills
Butler County, Pennsylvania
November 12, 1875
It is the worst of all worlds. In less than three weeks’ time, since I last recorded my thoughts,
I have lost my saintly mother, and finally, two days prior to this day, my dear father succumbed to this horrible illness and passed.
My tears are without end. I can find only small comfort in the fact that they have all traveled on to God’s greatest reward—a life in heaven without pain nor sorrow nor sickness.
Yet, I am left here alone. The crops have been left to rot in the fields, for it was harvest time when Father was stricken. The furrows of soil, once so promising with their rich, yeasty smell, now lie frozen, bleak and hopeless. There is no one to hire to work the land. Most able-bodied young men have left to avoid this scourge.
I call out to God: What shall I do? What shall become of me?
Reverend Wilcox performed both funerals. He knows I am now alone. My father had nothing of real value to leave to me. The farm was not paid for. Only the spare furnishings were ours and the few items of clothing each of us possess. Surely the bank will recall the acreage and claim th
e house and effects be held in payment for accounts now far in arrears. I assume that my few books will be regarded as effects and taken as well, and it frets me greatly, since they are most precious to me.
In my sadness I sometimes pray for death to come and free me as well. Then I would be with Mother and Father again. I miss them so. Why, God, have I been spared?
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
—Matthew 5:4
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK PARKED HIS TRUCK AROUND the corner from the Midlands Building. It was only 7:00, and he did say he would be there at 7:30. He wanted to be the sort of contractor who was true to his word, and while thirty minutes was a minor point, it was still a point. Early might not be welcome.
He rustled through the bag from McDonald’s. He had eaten the hash browns on the ride to the Midlands Building and now started in on the breakfast sandwich. The coffee was nestled into the cup holder on the dashboard. The radio scratched out traffic reports for Pittsburgh, which he did not need. Jack had not yet decided which radio station he would listen to. While living in Franklin, the choice had been easy. There was only one station that played decent music coupled with clear reception. In Butler, he faced all sorts of choices—the Pittsburgh stations were all close enough to find good reception on a basic truck radio, and even the local station offered a fairly current playlist of his kind of music.
He folded the visor down to block the early sun. Held tight with two thick rubber bands was a creased picture of a small girl—blonde, prettier than the prettiest flower, sitting on a gleaming motorcycle, eating a strawberry ice-cream cone. It was his favorite picture, a picture he could not look at without aching, without remembering, without tasting the sharpness of pain and regret.
He flipped the visor back up and squinted.
He listened and ate, and consulted his watch every five minutes. At 7:25, he allowed himself to leave his truck and walk slowly to the front door. He was carrying his clipboard and wearing his tool belt, with hammer, twenty-five-foot measuring tape, two carpenter’s pencils, and one new black felt-tip pen, all snugged into their proper spots.
