Page 43 - WTP Vol. VI #4

“Oh, yes, hi.”
Crazy thing. The tree falling on the house. My wife and I—we were sitting right there.” He points to one of those wrap-around couch-things. “And then bang. Shakes the whole house. And we knew. We knew it right away. That tree had been leaning. And then bang. But I’ll show you. I’ll show you. They already patched the roof. ‘Nothing to it,’ they said. And they took the branch out. But there’s still a giant hole in the drywall. And—”
“Well, I’m calling because I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“That’s great. Good. Well—”
“Ok. I’ll call you if I can’t find the place,” I say, hanging up before he can say something else.
When I reach the gates for the community, I’m surprised to find a gravel road. The snow has been cleared, but there’s about half an inch still on the ground. Good plow guy, I think. It’s been too cold for it to melt. Up ahead, the naked trees are swaying. Oaks, I’d guess. Houses on either side of the road. But they’re spaced out. All dif- ferent types too. Cabins, modular, craftsman, a-frame, split-level. I go down a steep hill and then up a steeper hill. It’s a work truck, so I could care less about skidding on the snow. Jesus spins around in a circle and then settles his hoofs beneath his chin. I’m at the top of the hill when
“Well show it to me.” I couldn’t help but interrupt. These rich folks. They’re all the same. They’ll talk all day if you let them. If Jesus were here, he’d of crapped the floor by now. He’d of run circles. He’d bleat bloody murder to hear this boy talk.
I see the biggest damn house in the community. Must’ve cost two-hundred. Maybe two-fifty. The yard is clear and the oaks are far back from the house, all except the uprooted trunk, chainsaw- cut clean.
“Right here,” he says. He points to a hole in the ceiling. It’s a cape cod, so the wall goes up about six feet and then it turns into a forty-five degree angle. The hole is in the angled part of the ceiling.
The driveway is paved and the snow has been shoveled. There’s a truck parked in front of a detached, three-car garage. The house is a cape cod with a deep porch. There’s a back deck and Carolina Bead siding. The good stuff. I ring the bell, expecting to find the bent old man. The man who opens the door ain’t old at all. Twenty-five, maybe.
“Ok. Not too bad. I’ll cut it out square. Fit a patch. I use wire mesh around the seams. And then fill it with mud. And that’s it. They said you’d do the painting.”
“Is your dad at home?”
“Alright. I’m going down to the truck and I’ll get started.” ~
“I’m the owner,” he says, a solid-color coffee mug in his hand, wearing flannel like he chops wood for a living—but not a real living—a TV lumber- jack. He ain’t half my age. Owning a house. Rich parents, I suppose.
I’m alone mudding the hole. It’s a nursery. Light yellow walls, a crib, fake balloon decorations with letters for the baby’s name: FAITH. I’m on the third floor and I can see out the window from where I’m standing. Jesus is down there. He let
(continued on next page)34
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. CJ, right? They told me about you.
He leads me upstairs. He doesn’t mention my boots, so I don’t offer. They’re clean anyway.
“Yeah, that’s right. I can paint over it. I was mostly worried about water damage. I wasn’t sure if—”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about. They fixed the roof. Now I’ll go down for my tools. Is there a sink up here?”
“Uh, yeah. Right over here. Here in the bathroom.”