I felt for the man, but my stomach clenched at those two little words: “Hey, Mel?” I’d heard them so often the past few months. “Hey, Mel? What do you think about building a small deck out back when we make the ramp so I could sit outside and watch the world go by?” “Hey, Mel? I hate to ask, but would you change these lightbulbs?” “Hey, Mel? I heard maybe some of the other families are getting new linoleum for their kitchens.” “Hey, Mel? My dogs could really use a flea bath; think you could put a new tub in the bathroom?”
Today, Monty was trying to be helpful by relaying questions from the volunteers. But he was driving me crazy. Not for the first time, I wondered why my father got sweet Ms. Etta Lee, who was accommodating and grateful and baked him fresh cinnamon cookies, while I was stuck with the needy, grasping Monty.
“Hey, Mel? The folks fixing the kitchen sink found a problem,” he said. “Maybe dry rot? Hey . . . are those boys taking a nap on the lawn?”
“Not for long, they aren’t,” answered Luz.
“Tell the kitchen crew I’ll be right there,” I said to Monty, then spoke to Luz in a low voice. “Whatever you do, don’t let those frat boys near the power tools.”
“They’re on the schedule as the painting crew,” said Luz, flipping through the sheaf of papers on her overstuffed but organized clipboard. “We’re slated to finish the exterior painting today. Not sure the boys are really up for that. How about we leave it to the sorority girls—they’re not quick, but at least they’re sober—while I find something else for the boys?”
“Any ideas?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . Monty has those two big dogs. Before we can do any work out back, somebody needs to clean things up. What do you say I put the frat on pooper-scooper duty? Make them the Kaopectate Krew.”
“You, madam, have a mind of rare and infinite beauty.”
“So true. You should tell the promotion and tenure committee.”
“How’s that going?”
The committee was ruminating on Luz’s promotion to full professor of social work at San Francisco State University. Luz was a dedicated teacher, a brilliant scholar, and an astute judge of human nature . . . but her interpersonal skills could stand some adjustment. When it came to tolerating fools, Luz had about as much finesse as a demo crew.
“Let’s just say I’m considering applying to be a sorority mother. According to the girls, there’s an opening at their house. Anyway, after the fraternity finishes doggie doody duty, I thought I’d get them to clean out the old shed.”
“ Great. Keep an eye out—Monty says he has no idea what’s in there, so there may be something we can repurpose for the renovation. Could be a real treasure trove. Be sure to explain to them what constitutes hazardous waste, since they’re also likely to find some old paint or gasoline cans.”
“Will do,” Liz said, then turned toward the fraternity members. “Yo, boys!” she bellowed, and I saw more than a few wince. “On your feet and follow me! Fall in!”
If the gig as a sorority mother didn’t work out, I mused, Luz could always join the Army. She was a natural drill sergeant.
I heard Dog barking again.
Before I could stop myself, I glanced at the house next door. There, in the window, was a ghost of a woman, her pale countenance as clear as you please, spectral breath leaving traces on the windowpane. She looked straight at me, as though yearning, seeking . . . something.
Ignore it, Mel. You’ve got dry rot to deal with.
What does it say about my life when rot was a pleasant alternative?
Chapter Two
In today’s world, in San Francisco at least, it seems most folks can barely figure out how to reglue the little felt pads to the bottoms of their chair legs. Asking them to re-roof a house was out of the question. Which meant that the volunteers with actual handyman skills were like gold.
Two such volunteers were working diligently under the kitchen sink while a tall woman standing nearby handed them tools and offered suggestions.
“Hi, I’m Mel, the house captain. Thank you so much for being here today—we really appreciate it.”
“I’m Hubert, but I go by Hugh . . .” said the first man to extract himself from the cramped cupboard under the sink, where he was accessing the pipes. Though he seemed polite enough, Hugh’s eyes did not meet mine; instead, he looked at everything in the kitchen but me, as though his thoughts were somewhere else.
“Mike,” said the other man with a nod.
None of us offered to shake hands—plumbing doesn’t lend itself to that kind of customary greeting.