Chapter 5
Benjamin’s snake turned out to be six feet of coiled black rubber hose. I wouldn’t say it disappointed me.
After cleaning the cabinets, the countertops and the sink, I realized the dirt hid the chips, gouges and cracks. No amount of cleaning or painting would enhance their appearance. They needed to be replaced. The idea excited me. What excited me more, though, was that it meant I, not my husband, would decide the color of the countertop and the type of wood for the cabinets.
I no longer had to kowtow to Jonathan’s tastes and opinions.
With each passing day, I recognized more and more that Jonathan's infidelity had set me free, and divorce was making me an independent woman. Now, when I think I'd begged him to stay, my stomach soured.
There were a lot of firsts for me in the last three months. For instance, today was the first time in my life I used a screwdriver. I must say it wasn’t all that difficult to refasten the cabinet doors. With a little help from Benjamin, of course.
I took the pen and pad from my back pocket and made a note to stop at the hardware store on our way to Mama Jo’s. I needed more tools and added screwdrivers, hammer, pliers and a toolbox to my ever-growing list of things to buy.
It dawned on me I didn’t know how to ask for screwdrivers. I couldn’t ask a sales clerk for one in the shape of a star, or the one in the shape of a box without looking stupid. Maybe they came in packages and I wouldn’t have to ask at all.
Benjamin, who had floor-sweeping duty, joined me.
“Whatcha writing, Mom?”
“I’m making a list.”
“Are you checkin’ it twice?”
That brought a smile to my lips. “Yes, actually, I was. I don’t want to forget anything.”
“Can I see it?”
“As you say, shure.” I handed him the pad. Benjamin read at the age of four, which I attributed to the Baby Einstein videos, and now, three years later, printed better than I.
“That’s called a Phillips screwdriver, Mom.”
I looked at him. “What is?”
“The one in the shape of a star.”
“Oh.”
“And the other one, the box, is a Robertson.”
“Oh. How do you know?”
“Dad tol’ me.”
“Oh. Anything else I should know?” I leaned against the counter.
“Uh-huh. About the hammer — ”
“Does it come in different shapes, too?”
He giggled. “No, silly goose, hammers come in different weights. The bigger it is, the heavier it is.”
That made sense. “So, what ounce hammer should I buy?” Who needed to ask advice from the clerks at the hardware store with helpful little sons like my Benjamin?
“Well, that all depends on what work you’re doing. If you’re doing finishin’ work, hangin’ pictures, light stuff like that, you want a lightweight hammer. I think that’s the one you should buy.”
“I think you’re right. I don't expect I'll be hammering four inch nails into two-by-fours.”
“You never know. It’s always better to be prepared for any con . . . tin . . . con ...tin — ”
“Contingency?”
“Yes.”
“Good thinking.” I ruffled his hair.
“I know.”
My son, the human sponge for information, was growing up too fast. Nothing could prepare me for that contingency. “It’s settled. I’ll buy two hammers.”
He kicked the linoleum. “Whatcha going to do about the floor?”
Good question. “I don’t know. I suppose it’ll have to be lifted and . . .” I watched him fall to his knees and roll back a piece of flooring.
“There’s a wooden floor underneath.”
My heart missed a beat. “Wood like plywood or wood like the floors in the rest of the house?” I held my breath.
“Wood like the rest of the house.”
I exhaled. “Oh, wonderful.” I clapped and danced a little jig. It took little to thrill me these days.
The doorbell ding-donged.
"That thing has to go."
“I’ll get it,” Benjamin yelled.
I caught him by his shirttail. “No, I will, Benji. You wait here. We don’t know this neighborhood yet. It’s better to be careful than sorry.” Yet I opened the door last night at midnight without knowing who wanted in. Go figure.
On my way to the front entry, I mentally added “melodic doorbell” to my list.
I looked through the six small panes of glass in the door. Good. Santa, just the man I wanted to see.
With my most charming smile, I invited our neighbor dressed in coveralls and a red plaid shirt into my home.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and stepping back, away from me.
He seemed afraid. Of what? Me? Why? His attitude puzzled me, until I remembered his advice to me the day I viewed the property. He must still think ghosts haunted this house.
“I just came to bring you this.” He shoved a Bundt cake at me.
“Tha . . . thank you.” The idea of anything home-baked made me yearn for a kitchen with new cabinets and countertops. The aroma wafting from the cake made my mouth water. “It smells delicious. Thank you again.” But just because he brought me a gift wouldn’t stop me from laying down a few rules regarding my son.
“It’s a rum cake,” he said, gesturing at my hands.
“I can tell.” We’d surely get tipsy if we ate one crumb.
“Well, that’s all I came to do. Good day, ma’am.” He tipped his baseball cap and made a move to turn.
“Mr. . . . I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced.” I extended my hand. “I’m Susan Turner.”
When he took hold of my hand, I wondered if he suffered from Parkinson’s it trembled so vigorously. Maybe my talk to him could wait.
“Leroy August, ma’am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He hesitated a moment, seemingly deciding whether to leave or stay, then looked past me, as though searching for something. “Might I have a word with the man of the house?”
Why was it men assumed a woman couldn’t own a house without a man? “You’re talking to him.” I wanted so much to capture Leroy’s bewildered expression on film.
“Huh?”
“My husband and I are divorced.” The thump of running feet sounded at my back.
He pointed over my shoulder. “I meant that man.”
I turned and saw Benjamin running through the hallway toward us. Oh, that man. He dashed past me and jumped into Leroy’s outstretched arms. I gasped, thinking Benjamin might send the old man toppling backward off the veranda. There’d been no need to worry. He was as solid as concrete.
Benjamin wrapped his arms around Leroy’s neck. “It’s nice of you to visit. Why are you standing out here?”
“I just came by to bring you a cake and say hello.”
“Yum. Cake. Did you bake it?” Benjamin yanked on Leroy’s beard.
“Me? No, laddie. I can’t bake anything worth a darn.”
Benjamin turned to me. “Mom, did you know Mr. August’s a carpenter?”
Oh? I smiled. “No, I didn’t know.” I loved the idea of a carpenter living next door. He might come in handy.
Benjamin giggled when Leroy tickled his tummy.
It didn’t surprise me Leroy had taken to Benjamin. He made friends easily, unlike me. I wasn’t always that way, though. “Do you have grandchildren, Mr. August?” A flicker of sadness reflected in his eyes and I felt sorry I asked.
“No, the little missus and I was never blessed with children.” He set Benjamin on the floor. “That’s probably why you took such a cotton to me, huh?” Benjamin piped in.
Leroy had a jolly laugh.
“Yes, that must be it.”
Behind me, Katie trudged down the stairs. I turned. “Katie, honey, come meet our neighbor.” When she stood beside me, I draped my arm arou
nd her shoulders. “Mr. August, this is my daughter, Katie. Katie, this is Leroy August.” I whispered in her ear, “I love your hair pulled back like that.”
She shrugged out of my grasp. “No, you don’t. And I don’t want to meet the neighbors. I won’t be here long enough to get to know them.” She turned and stomped through the hallway.
Speechless, I stared at Leroy’s moccassin-ed feet for a moment before looking into his face. He stared back at me with his mouth hanging open. Getting my wits about me, I said, “I’m sorry for my daughter’s rude behavior. She was brought up better than that.”
“I’m sure she was, and there’s no need to apologize, ma’am. Well, I guess I’d better be moseying along.”
“Thank you again for the cake, and I hope you drop by again.” I truly meant that. Go figure. Moments ago, I wanted a stern one-on-one with Leroy. Now I wanted him as a friend.
He nodded. “I’ll do that.”
I closed the door and leaned against it, knowing I needed to put an end to my daughter's reign of rebellion. “Katie Scott Turner. Front and center.
Restless Souls Page 7
