Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  “We need to get estimates to make sure our budget will be enough,” Scott said.

  “You mean I’ll need to get them,” Sylvia corrected. “You leave tomorrow.”

  “I know you can handle it,” Scott gently squeezed her shoulder. “I trust you implicitly.”

  “Of course you do,” she teased. “What choice do you have? I actually might have fun with this. Redoing our old homestead, giving it a facelift will feel good. I think I’d rather be here than at home right now anyway. I need to be occupied.”

  “When does Trevor get out of rehab?” Scott asked.

  “Next week. Then he goes to sober living.” Sober living for alcoholics and addicts was like a half-way house after in-residence treatment, a group way-station to help them gradually adjust to the responsibilities of normal living. After four rehabs and four relapses, Sylvia was somewhat less fearful but mostly numb. At least this time her son had jail hanging over his head if he didn’t stay sober for eighteen months. For a lot of addicts, jail seemed to be the most effective incentive.

  “When I saw him last, he sure looked good. I even suggested he get into modeling and took a few Polaroids of him to take back to my agency.”

  “Oh, great. Easy drugs.” Sylvia rolled her eyes.

  “Drugs are easy anywhere—even at law firms, brokerage firms—”

  “Okay, okay. I get your point, but easy money isn’t a deterrent either.”

  Trevor would never be cured and neither would Steve, but Trevor could lead a normal life—work, marry, raise a family. His addiction “could be arrested, but not cured,” and his only hope was total abstinence. A choice. The only hope for Steve was that he choose to take his meds so that he might eat, sleep, take showers, and brush his teeth regularly, get haircuts and change his clothes when dirty, or be able to concentrate long enough to read the newspaper or watch a movie from beginning to end. To Sylvia, Steve’s future was more grounded, almost manageable, which was much less scary than her son’s, where she had no control and saw no tangible direction for him.

  “Somehow I think he’s going to make it this time—I’ll keep in touch with him while you’re away,” Scott promised. He had visited Trevor in every rehab. “Maybe we should flip Steve’s mattress now, so we don’t forget to do it before I go.”

  But as they approached Steve’s room, they heard loud snoring and laughed. “I guess we’ll do it later,” Sylvia said.

  Just then, Nancy walked in the door from work and heard it, too. “Sometimes I wear earplugs so I can sleep!”

  “Smart woman,” Scott said. “I wish I’d thought of that years ago.”

  They grilled steaks for their last supper with Scott, who was flying back to LA the next day, then got ice cream cones at Stoddard’s, a family-owned stand that had been making its own ice cream for fifty-plus years.

  The neighbors across the street, whom the family had known for years, recommended a reliable, reasonable contractor they’d used to remodel their kitchen. He could do everything within their budget. He lined up the painters, told Sylvia where to go for carpeting, vinyl flooring and wallpaper, and said he’d be doing the kitchen himself. Nancy helped with color decisions, like Swiss Coffee for the interior and a pale spring green for the carpet, a color Sylvia never would’ve chosen but now realized would work beautifully. Sylvia took down the shredded sheers and found lace curtains at Target. Steve even shopped with Sylvia for two light fixtures and the kitchen set. He chose a light oak-topped, rectangular table with white-painted legs and chairs to match. He lasted for two hours before he said he was done. Sylvia thoroughly enjoyed involving Steve with shopping for their childhood home and saw how much he enjoyed it, too. She hoped it might help him feel that what he wanted mattered. They had lunch at Friendly’s, where Steve introduced his sister all around. It heartened her to be included in his world, especially to see that the waitresses treated him with kindness and respect. They seemed genuinely happy to finally meet the sister he’d talked about so often.

  Sylvia planned to return in November, when the house was scheduled to be finished, in order to avoid the remodeling mayhem. Nancy and Steve would have to endure the two-week upheaval of having a painter in the house all day, then the carpet layers with the furniture shuffled from room to room. The kitchen would be torn up for almost a week, which meant, Bill, the contractor, would begin work as soon as possible. As it turned out, he was attractive and in his sixties, the same age as Nancy. Although Sylvia spent the most time with him, finalizing details before her departure, she noticed that Nancy oozed charm, wit, and allure whenever he was around. The fact that he was married didn’t seem a deterrent.

  9

  AUGUST 1999

  Now that Sylvia was gone, Nancy had managed to adjust her work schedule so she could be home more during the day. Bill was to arrive at eight-thirty to begin the kitchen remodel, so she got up at seven to get coffee started, bacon frying, make-up on, hair styled, and dressed for work. She could pretend breakfast was part of her daily routine. Nothing like the smell of bacon frying to stir a man’s appetite and maybe even his heart. She let Sammy out on his own to do his business, since he knew the neighborhood by now, then she searched through her closet for just the right outfit. Maybe she’d take her work clothes with her—the boring white blouse with her name stitched in red on the pocket and black cotton slacks—and change when she got to the store. She had to be there by eleven, so she didn’t have that much time. Perfect—her pink cotton V-neck Polo. The emblem was classy, and the shirt showed off her large breasts without advertising the fact. Well, one large breast. She was lopsided from the mastectomy she’d had fifteen years earlier, which left a terrible scar, but the bras they made were a miracle. Bathing suits, too. It was impossible to tell she’d lost one when she was fully clothed. Lost one. Like she misplaced it and couldn’t find it. Saint Anthony, the saint of lost things, sure couldn’t help her with that one. She still cringed at the thought of the operation, imagining a scalpel slicing it right off like so much excess fat that needed trimming. The doorbell rang.

  She rushed to the door. “Bill!” she exclaimed, opening it wide.

  Bill furrowed his brow and looked startled. “You weren’t expecting me?”

  “Oh, yes. Just glad to see you.”

  “Uh, good. You sounded surprised.” He glanced down at his shoes like he was embarrassed. “I should take them off.”

  She laughed, “Take what off?”

  “My shoes. They’re a little dirty with the rain and all.”

  “Oh gosh, of course. But don’t bother.” Now Nancy was flustered. “We’re getting new carpeting anyway, right?”

  He bent over to untie his thick-soled, brown leather work shoes. “I usually do, even at home. Wife gets tired of cleaning up after me.”

  “Well, we’re not very fussy here, but whatever makes you comfortable. I could wipe ‘em off if you like.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He headed toward the kitchen in his socks. “The new sink and dishwasher should arrive in a few days. I’ll remove the counter top today and tomorrow.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  He smiled, “I’d love some.”

  Steve suddenly appeared, brushing past them, staring straight ahead. He opened the refrigerator, took out the gallon of milk and took a big swig. He put it back and on his way out, turned, looking at them as if noticing them for the first time.

  “Good morning, Steve,” Nancy said.

  “Hi, Steve,” Bill said.

  “Hi. Good morning, whatever.” His voice was flat, his expression deadpan. “It takes me a long time to wake up,” he said, annoyed that he had to deal with them at all. “I’m going to have a smoke.” As he stepped into the dining room, he stopped short. “Is that bacon I smell?”

  “Sure is.” Nancy hadn’t counted on Steve showing up. He was usually out having his morning iced tea or zonked out in bed.

  “Do you like bacon?” Bill asked Steve.

 
He seemed astonished by the question. “I love bacon. Don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t eat it anymore.” Bill tapped his chest. “Not good for the ol’ ticker.”

  “Ticker?” Steve blinked. “Oh. You mean your heart.” He stood there a moment, digesting it all. “Everything I love is bad for my cholesterol.” He gestured dramatically toward the sizzling pan, “Like bacon.” He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. “I’m not supposed to have hamburgers, French fries, even steak! My dad told me that when I started taking Lipitor.” He smiled knowingly, like he’d outsmarted the system. “And it’s working, so I just keep eating what I want.”

  “I guess that sort of makes sense,” Nancy said. “Well, the bacon’s here just for you.”

  “Really?” Steve’s mood was lifting. “That’s great, Nancy. Is it okay if I have a smoke first?”

  “Take all the time you need. Do you want some scrambled eggs with that?”

  “Sounds good.” He went outside to the front patio.

  “Bill? How about you?”

  “Uh, no thanks. I already ate. My wife fixed me oatmeal this morning.”

  “Does she usually fix you breakfast?”

  “She does. And always a healthy one.” Bill took the cup of coffee Nancy offered. “Takes real good care of me.”

  “Aren’t you a lucky man? Still, it’s fun to mix things up on occasion,” she said in a singsong voice. “And you don’t look like you need to watch what you eat.” Bill was shorter than Nancy, of slight stature, and he looked fit and muscular in his slim blue jeans and plaid work shirt.

  Bill set his coffee down and dug into his tool box, his back turned to her. “Just being careful at my age—family history of heart problems.”

  Nancy was deflated. “Cancer runs in my family, and here I am still smoking.” She figured her cancer chip was cashed. She’d licked it. “I’ll just take my chances.”

  “I hear it’s awfully hard to quit. Do you have any sweetener?”

  “I think I’ve run out unless you want the real thing.”

  “That’s okay,” Bill said. “I’ll drink it black.”

  She opened the cupboard and rooted around. “Here’s some Equal.”

  “Perfect,” he said.

  Nothing was perfect as far as Nancy was concerned. “I’ll let you get to work unless there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  “Coffee’s all I need, thanks.” He looked out the kitchen window to the backyard. “Isn’t that your dog?”

  “For Pete’s sake, I forgot about Sammy!” She scurried to the back door and called him, but he took off toward the front of the house. She went out the front door to head him off at the pass.

  Steve peered over the brick patio wall and started calling him, but Sammy just ran around in circles.

  Nancy asked Steve to get a piece of bacon. “He’ll come for bacon. That I know.”

  When Steve came back, sure enough, Sammy grabbed the bacon and Nancy grabbed him. “You crazy dog.”

  Steve asked if the eggs were ready yet. Nancy said she forgot and they’d only take a few minutes, but Steve said he wanted to go to Friendly’s now anyway. He ate the rest of the bacon on his way out, wiping his fingers on his wrinkled khakis.

  Nancy changed into her work clothes, grabbed a can of Coke, and was headed for the garage, when the phone rang. Bill picked it up in the kitchen. Nancy waited to hear who was calling. Bill called to her—it was her son, Danny, and he sounded upset. Nancy went to her bedroom to pick up the extension phone. “What’s the matter?” she asked, without saying hello.

  “Becky wants me out,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Nancy felt her blood start to boil just thinking about Becky and how she railroaded Danny into marrying her. He was a big basketball star in high school, and she’d had her sights on him since then. When he lost his leg in the accident, she appeared out of nowhere, visiting him every day, helping him walk again, driving him wherever he needed to go. She was like Clara Barton until she got pregnant and he married her. The last thing he needed was to be saddled with a wife and baby after what he’d been through.

  “She’s crazy and wants me to leave. I don’t have anywhere to go, so I was hoping I could stay with you and Steve for a few days. Just until she calms down.”

  “I never did like her attitude. What’s got into her now?”

  “I was asleep on the couch when she got home last night and started screaming at me that I was passed out drunk and not fit to be alone with the children. She said the baby was crying, that her diaper was soaking wet, and Luke was asleep in his clothes.”

  Nancy figured Becky didn’t come home until after two in the morning, and she had the nerve to call Danny unfit? “She knows how much you love those kids, how good you are with them. Not many husbands would do what you’re doing!”

  Danny had lost his job and he was taking care of the kids—Mr. Mom—while his wife worked two jobs as a waitress. Nancy didn’t know that he was fired because he’d missed a lot of work. According to Danny they were cutting back and, since he was disabled, he was the first to be let go. He decided it was more lucrative to stay home with the kids, collecting unemployment and disability, than to pay daycare and work a mundane job tracking inventory for a mold and die company that he hated.

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “I’m home, but she wants me out tonight. She says her sister will watch the kids. So can I stay with you? Steve won’t mind, will he?”

  “Maybe he’d enjoy a man around the house to talk sports with, since he’s alone most of the time. I’ll ask him. Don’t you worry, we’ll figure something out.” Nancy hung up and was fuming. That bitch. Poor Danny was doing the best he could, just a lot of hard knocks. She wished his dad would help him somehow, but he was long gone, married to another bitch who didn’t want anything to do with his kids. How did this day go so badly when it started out so well?

  “Everything all right?” Bill asked.

  “It’ll work out. My thirty-two-year-old son is having marital problems.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Right now, he’s not working, but he has a job lined up at the bank in the Falls,” she said, wishing it was true.

  “That sounds good. My daughter just married an investment banker and they’re doing very well in New York. They met in college.”

  Bully for them. Nancy barely had enough money to buy the essentials, much less afford to send her kids to college. Danny was never a student anyway, and the teachers sure never gave him a break. He played sports and partied hard on the weekends. Once Bill saw Danny come through the door, he’d know right off that her son was no banker. She didn’t care. Who does Bill think he is, anyhow? He’s just a blue-collar contractor. Big deal.

  Right now, Nancy was going to Friendly’s to find Steve. She was sure he’d be fine about Danny staying with them a while, as long as she put the right spin on it. He liked Danny a lot. Maybe Steve would pick him up. Maybe they could get lunch together, Danny’s treat. One good thing about the day occurred to her: with Sylvia now back in Los Angeles, Nancy wouldn’t have to ask permission for Danny to stay. He could be in and out of the house without Sylvia even knowing about it. Timing was everything. Sylvia probably would’ve refused—too disruptive for poor Steve. It irked her that they thought they knew what was best for him, when she was the one living with him. She saw him every day, cooked his meals, wrote him notes, reminded him to take his meds, shower, shave, get haircuts, and she was even cheerful about it. And wasn’t it her idea to let him quit the job that was making him sick? Sylvia and Scott really didn’t have a clue.

  She entered Friendly’s and spotted Steve at his table at the back in the smoking section. Shoulders rounded, chin thrust forward, he leaned to suck on the straw in the tall glass of iced tea that sat in front of him. Partially torn open pink packets of sweetener were strewn haphazardly in the middle of the table, their fine white contents dusting the surface. Cigarette butts f
illed the black plastic ashtray. Nancy approached as he lit another, his face scrunching with the inhale.

  Steve sat up, startled. For her to be here was out of sync.

  “Surprise!”

  “Nancy, what are you doing here? I thought you were at work.”

  She hovered at the table before he gestured for her to have a seat in the one-person booth opposite him. “I’m on my way, but I wanted to ask you something first, sort of a favor.”

  “A favor?” He snubbed the butt out and said something under his breath. “Do you want something to drink? Are you hungry? I’ll get Marge to bring you something if you want. Here she is.” He flagged Marge over to the table. “This is Nancy. She’s my . . . uh, sister-in-law? Are you my sister-in-law? No, well, I guess you’re my . . . “

  “We’re roommates!” Nancy said heartily.

  “My roommate. That’s it.” He shrugged, smiled half-heartedly, and poured another glass of tea from the pitcher.

  Marge and Nancy smiled politely at each other in acknowledgement, like two nurses placating a geriatric patient.

  “I’ll just have a Coke,” Nancy said.

  “Comin’ right up.” Marge dashed off.

  “So, what’s the favor? You want me to cook dinner tonight?” He laughed. “That’s a joke.”

  “Yeah, good one, Steve.”