August 3

Let me just say very clearly that roofing sucks. You’re climbing up and down a ladder, carrying heavy rolls of tar paper and bundles of shingles. Your ankles hurt because they’re always at weird angles. It’s dirty work, and when you’re on top of a house in the middle of summer, you feel like you’re going to melt into the shingles. For some houses, especially a Cape like this one, you have to take the extra step of using roof jacks since the pitch is so steep. So for all these reasons, I rank roofing right up there with root canals.

But...this is Ed King’s house, and since Ed has become the king in my book, I’ll gladly do it. And it’s not that bad, really—it’s almost like my mind needs to do something orderly like [line up shingles—lay, staple, repeat--], to counteract the snarled thoughts in my brain stemming from the house on Newbury Neck—or more accurately, from the owner of the house on Newbury Neck.

Callaway wanted me to stay Friday night. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to—I could feel it, just like I could feel my own similar wish rising up in me till I was practically choking on it. It put me into panic mode, because it was so close to spilling over into need, and I can’t have that. So I left.

And felt like shit about it.

Man, I’ve got to get her bathroom done. Which will mean the end of my alliance with her. But, as I keep telling myself, it’s better that than the end of Big Deck as we know him.

Right?

I’m nailing down the last row of shingles when I hear a voice from below.

“Mr. Decker. I’ve made lemonade.”

“Okay, sir. Thank you. Be right there.” I climb down the aluminum ladder and walk into the side entrance, unlacing my work boots and leaving them on the doormat before walking into the sunny kitchen. Ed’s in his standard plaid shirt—this one navy and white and short-sleeved, the top button undone—and tan pants, his sparse, silver hair parted and neatly combed. He’s got a tall, oscillating fan whirring in the dining room, and it’s lifting the edges of the stacked newspapers on the table. There are clear plastic tubs, and blue ones, on the oak floor.

Opening a cupboard door, Ed takes out two tall glasses and turns to see me looking into the dining room. “I’ve been putting off the inevitable. Got to start packing up the things I don’t need. Which is most everything.” He gives a dry laugh. “Thought I’d ease into it, bit by bit. My son’s coming to help me this weekend. I told him I didn’t need it—he’s an accountant in Boston and has a family to take care of—but he insisted.”

“That’s good, Ed. It’s a big task, packing up a house.”

“I’ve accumulated a lot. I’ll need to weed through things since I can’t take it all to the retirement home.” He nods toward the kitchen sink as he walks stiffly across the linoleum floor with the glasses and a couple of white napkins. “Clean up if you’d like, Mr. Decker.”

I wash my hands, drying them with a paper towel so I won’t get his kitchen towel dirty, and sit down at the small antique table in front of the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. Even without AC, it’s cool in this house, due to what I’m guessing is a solid insulation job. It’s a very well-made Cape; Ed shouldn’t have any problem selling it, if he prices it right.

Walking stiffly, Ed carries the pitcher of lemonade over to the table, his hands shaking. I want to jump up and take the pitcher, but he’s independent and proud, and I don’t want to insult him. So I sit while he fills my glass, and we both ignore it when a little lemonade splashes on the table. As he starts to take the chair across from me, he seems to remember something. He goes over to the pantry, takes out a blue tin and brings it to the table. Royal Dansk butter cookies—a classic old person treat. I have to hide my smile. I remember them, from when I was young. With trembling fingers, he lifts the lid and offers the tin to me. I take three while memories of my grandparents pour into my brain.

“Ever have these, Mr. Decker?”

“Yes, sir. They were a staple at my grandmother’s house.”

“Marian and I would have them with tea in the afternoons, and she used to tease me that I liked them better than her homemade ginger snaps.” He takes a sip of his lemonade, his eyes brimming. “She was wrong.”

It hits me, as we’re sitting here, that Ed is no longer the first part of Impatient Perfectionist Hoverer. He hasn’t been pressing me to get things done like he was, and he’s encouraging—sometimes insisting—that I take drink breaks with him. It’s like he wants me to take my time on this project.

Like another client I have.

“Do you have family in the area, Mr. Decker?”

“My father and brother live in southern Maine.”

“And your mother?”

“She passed away about eight years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t mean to pry...I was just curious.”

“No worries, sir.”

“Do you see your father and brother often?”

“Uhh...” I gulp more of the lemonade, which is a little too sweet and probably a mix, but it’s cold and refreshing, and Ed made it. “Not much. Unfortunately, we had a falling out a couple of years back. My father is what you’d call a difficult man.”

And then I find myself telling Ed King the whole story. It shocks me, how easy it is to talk to him. He doesn’t make any judgments, just sits there nodding and eating butter cookies as he listens. He smiles when I tell him James’s latest update about my father ignoring the doctor’s recommendation and working more hours than he’s supposed to.

“So you’re in communication with your brother.”

“Only about my father’s health, but yes.”

“It’s a start. How does your brother act towards you?”

I haven’t really analyzed this, but I tell Ed that James has been keeping me informed on Dad’s progress without my needing to ask, and he’s seemed interested in how I’m doing.

“It sounds like he’s trying to open a door. Are you going to let him?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Not sure if I’m ready yet. Or if I ever will be, after all that happened.”

Ed nods, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “That’s quite understandable. I would just hate to see you with regrets, Jack. There’s an old proverb that says, ‘a bitter heart eats its owner.’ I would hate to see that happen to a good heart like yours.”

There are lots of sayings about bitterness and forgiveness, and I’ve always considered them kind of cliché, until hearing this in Ed’s gravelly voice. Somehow, his advice hits home. There is a pause in our conversation, so the only sound in the house is the clicking and whirring of the fan.

His pale eyes soften and take on a shine. “When people get near the end of the road like I am, they want to pass on their wisdom, because they realize how precious life is. And how fleeting. So I’d tell you, Mr. Decker, that opening doors can lead to other doors opening. A good heart like yours shouldn’t be closed.” He stands up and takes my empty glass. “Of course, you can tell this old man to go fly a kite.”

“I’d never tell you that, Ed. I respect you and appreciate the advice. And by the way, I don’t see you at the end of the road. I think you have a few more miles left in you.”

He’s smiling as we clear the table. I’ve pleased him, but I have to think that I’m the one getting the most out of working for him.

* * * *

Later that night, I’m celebrating our men’s league softball win with Drew at Louie’s, a dive-y little bar with plank trestle tables, dollar drafts and stale popcorn. Drew’s on vacation and came to see me for a few days, so I roped him into playing tonight since our shortstop’s hurt. We kicked ass in the game—9 to 1, and yours truly went two for three with a two-run homer and a double. So I’m feeling good after a few pints of Sam Adams and hardly notice the little pocket of hollowness that the beer hasn’t been able to fill.

Drew raises his glass of Coors Light. “To Big Deck, who crushed it tonight.”

“You did all right yourself, buddy—turning two double plays.” I clink the top of my bottle with his glass. “To Maritime Energy, the greatest bunch of glory-days athletes ever.”

The waitress comes by with our order, a heaping plate of Insanely Hot wings. She takes a stack of napkins from her apron and sets it on the table. “Something tells me you might be needing these,” she says, winking before leaving.

Drew dips a wing into the container of bleu cheese. “Is there a phone number written on one of those napkins?”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. “Buddy. You’re going to pretend you haven’t noticed that she wants you?”

“I haven’t noticed.”

Snorting, he bites off a piece of celery and chews in exasperation. “She wants you. They all do. I need to stop hanging out with you if I wanna get laid, because all the chicks want Big Deck.”

“Stop.”

“It’s true.” Drew’s on a roll. His eyes are mischievous as he picks up a chicken wing, dripping with sauce, and a small stick of celery. “This is you and me. I’m the sidekick, the celery...the thing you don’t really need. But you...you’re the meat. You’re the delicious, juicy, finger-licking meat that everyone wants to put in their mouths.” He waggles his eyebrows at me as he takes a big bite of the wing and chews vigorously.

Shaking my head, I snort with laughter. “Go to hell.”

“Just speaking the truth, Deck.”

I eat another wing. My mouth’s on fire, and I swallow the rest of my beer. I catch our waitress’s attention and signal for another. She nods and smiles back at me. She’s cute—small and athletic-looking, with bright eyes and delicate features—and it’s kind of surprising that I didn’t pick up on her looks when she first came over, or that she was (as Drew says) into me. Somehow, it doesn’t matter.

I turn my attention back to my buddy. “So what’s the latest in the world of New England Home Supply?”

“You’ve probably heard that your father’s back at work part-time. He’s a tough bastard—you’d never know he was in the hospital last week.”

“One benefit to having a heart of stone is that it’s impervious.”

“Impervious, huh? Stop trying to make me feel sub-par with your sophisticated vocabulary.”

“Sorry. I’ll admit that I’m glad the old man is doing all right.”

“Yeah, he is. Your brother, though...he’s not looking so good.”

“Really. How so?”

“Dark circles under his eyes, looks like he’s lost some weight.” Drew wipes his mouth and reaches for his beer. “Maybe being with that tramp is taking its toll on him, or pressure from your dad. Or both.”

I shrug. “Could be.”

“You know...” He points a stick of celery at me, his face thoughtful. “You’re lucky that James saved you from a bitch like Brianne. Jesus, you could be married right now, and unhappy as fuck.”

“I guess that’s true, although maybe we would have broken up anyway.”

“Did you ever really love her?”

I don’t even hesitate a second. “Nope. I can see that, now.”

“Then it was for the best. And you’re free to pursue...other endeavors. Right?”

“Right.” I know he’s fishing a little here, but I’m not going to bite.

We go on to talk about the upcoming softball tournament. I feel a little stab of guilt, knowing how this will impact my seeing Madeline, but I committed to being on the team. And I might as well get used to it—the not seeing her—because soon, I’ll have to get used to not seeing her at all.

Jesus, I need another beer.