Stella

“I am going to murder this sink! Can you murder a sink?” I swore as I banged my head on the cupboard and I crawled out from under it. Water cascaded over the pipes and onto the floor. My wrench slipped out of my hand and I kicked it across the slick kitchen floor.

“Hallo, there!” Old Phil yelled in through the screen door. I couldn’t help but smile. He stood in the doorway holding a red tool box. He must have heard me swearing from across the yard. Or I’d put out some sort of handyman bat signal.

“Hey, Phil. Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was actually just about to call a plumber.”

Phil held up his toolbox. “After five? They’ll rip you off, honey. Why don’t you let me take a look at it?”

He stood stock still in the doorway. I realized that Old Phil was either a vampire or just an old-school gentleman. Maybe both. Laughing, I realized I hadn’t invited him in. All of our conversations took place in my driveway, over the split rail fence between our houses, or once when he invited me over to try an apple pie he’d made.

“Come on in,” I said, looking dubious as he grunted his way up the three short porch steps. No matter what, this job would require crawling under the sink. I doubted Old Phil’s body would take to that these days. I also knew it wouldn’t stop him. He’d hate it, but there was really only one thing to do about it. As Phil walked over to the sink and squatted down, I took my chances.

“Don’t be mad at me. But if you’re serious about this, you’ll need a hand. I will not be responsible for your arthritis flare-up tomorrow morning. I’m going to get Philly.”

“Right. So he can stand around with his thumb up his ass.”

“Be nice!” I chastised him as I headed for the front door. I didn’t make it very far. Young Phil stood in the doorway with a toolbox of his own, bless his heart.

“Did I see that old fool walking over here with tools in his hands?”

“You did indeed.”

“Then I got here just in time.” Young Phil opened the screen door and brushed past me toward the kitchen. His eyes met mine and in that instant, I saw the look of deep concern he had for his father. I put a gentle hand on Young Phil’s arm and squeezed. I mouthed the words “Thank you.”

The two of them set to work on my kitchen sink and I got on the phone and ordered takeout. They’d both give me hell for doing it, but I couldn’t very well cook while they had my kitchen torn apart and it was dinnertime. One of the first things I’d learned since moving back into the neighborhood was about the world’s best fried chicken place in Michigan. I ordered a twenty-piece bucket and paid with a credit card. With any luck, it would be here before the Phils finished the job.

For as much as they argued with each other, Old and Young Phil were a marvel of a team. Young Phil took over the physical part of the job while his father handed him tools with surgical precision. They barely talked which amazed me. I was so used to hearing them squabble, I’d never gotten a chance to witness their way of unspoken communication. It warmed my heart to see it. Young Phil had learned home repair from the best. Within about twenty minutes, they’d stopped my leak. Young Phil threw the last of his tools in his toolbox with a triumphant clang.

“Good as new,” Old Phil shouted. “You’ve got a couple of old valves I’d like to switch out, but nothing that can’t keep. Next time I’m down to the hardware store, I’ll grab what you need.”

“Thank you!” The doorbell rang. The scent of warm, fried chicken hit the Phils’ noses at right about the same time. One of their stomachs growled and I laughed, grateful that I’d ordered just the thing.

We sat around my small kitchen table. Young Phil took me up on the beer I offered, Old Phil wisely stuck with iced tea. They spent most of the meal recapping the work they’d just done on the sink. Then they tried to one up each other on other plumbing disasters they’d each fixed. I realized halfway through the conversation that Young Phil finally decided to let his father just have it. He shot me a conspiratorial wink across the table as I sank my teeth into a succulent drumstick.

“How’s the job search coming?” Old Phil asked.

“It’s going,” I said quickly. It was the same non-answer I gave my parents when they’d called last night. I still had a few side freelance jobs, but as I feared, Judy Smith didn’t want me around anymore. She’d spread the word and I lost two other clients because of it. My lawyer, Tony, said he made some minimal progress with the State Police in New Mexico and Nevada, but that it would likely be a while before he’d make real ground clearing my name. My preliminary examination on the warrant up here was set for three weeks from now.

“You know,” Old Phil said, “my ex-wife’s sister’s kid works at Collingwood Elementary.”

I stopped mid-bite into my drumstick and tried to plaster a smile on my face. Young Phil wiped his hands on a napkin and raised a brow at his father. He didn’t know where his old man was going with this and I could tell that bothered him as much as it did me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a slow sip of iced tea. “I’m pursuing an opening there already.”

Old Phil nodded as he reached over and picked up another wing from the bucket. “Okay. So are we just gonna sit here and pretend there’s no other part of that story?”

“Dad.” Young Phil put a hand on his father’s arm. A look passed between them making it obvious they were both in on whatever grapevine intel Old Phil thought he had.

“There’s been a mix-up,” I said. “I’m working on getting it cleared. It seems there’s another person with my same name who, let’s just say, has a few more creative ideas about how to earn a buck. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to fix everything before Collingwood’s deadline for hiring, but I’m going to try.”

Old Phil shook his head as he sank his teeth into his chicken wing. “I told her the same thing,” he said, waving the wing in the air.

“Old bitch should have kept her mouth shut anyway,” Young Phil said. “And sorry about my dad’s inelegance in bringing it up. What he’s trying to say is that we’ve got your back, Stella. We knew your family. We know you. Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks.”

If it was possible for my heart to sink and soar at the same time, it did just then. “So I guess my hopes of keeping this whole mess under wraps were naïve.”

“You got that right,” Old Phil said, throwing his napkin on his plate and patting his stomach. “Like it or not, you’re news around here. Lot of people still remember you from Officer Macavoy’s funeral. And I gotta tell you, most of the good folks don’t believe the rumors. Or they’ve already figured out it’s a mistake.”

“Right. But there are enough who don’t. Like the people at Collingwood. Or some of my clients.”

“Fuck ’em,” Old Phil said and it surprised me. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him drop an F-bomb. Young Phil, however, loved the word. “I mean it. You just keep doing what you’re doing. You got a good lawyer?”

“I think so.”

“Who?” The Phils asked in unison.

I told them. They also smiled in unison. “Good,” Old Phil said. “We know the Gorrell family too. Tony’s old man used to be the prosecutor way back when. His mother left him to join a convent. So there’s some story there, but they’re good people. Just do me a favor and let me know what’s going on. You’re Northpointe, but you’re not Old Northpointe like we are. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

I reached across the table and squeezed Old Phil’s hand. I couldn’t help the tears that formed. Old Phil smiled and gave me a silent nod. When we’d picked the bones clean, I cleared the table and thanked them both again for their plumbing rescue and for all the rest of it. For the first time in a long time, my heart felt light. And I stopped questioning my decision to come back here.

“Anytime, honey. On the home repairs, I mean, plus the rest of it,” Old Phil said, again. He got to his feet, his back creaking with the effort. “Call me first. Call him only if I’m dead.”

“Come on, old man,” Philly said. “Stella’s had about enough out of you. Probably out of the both of us.”

“You’re a godsend. Both of you. I mean it. Sorry to have to keep needing it.”

I walked them both out to the front room. I gave Old Phil a hug and turned to do the same for Young Phil. Old Phil promised he’d get the new parts I needed even though I told him not to worry about it. We stood like that, the three of us. Talking about mundane things. The roses on the side of my house were finally starting to bloom. Old Phil told me when they were planted. Young Phil ribbed him for boring me. It was normal. It was good.

Then everything changed.

Young Phil went rigid beside me. His eyes locked on his father’s. I cocked my head, confused by his expression. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. But maybe that’s just the way I remembered it after the fact. A red dot bounced on Old Phil’s chest. He didn’t see it, but his son did. He reacted faster than me. And that made sense. One of their favorite arguments was about the war. Old Phil fought in the final years of the good one, lying about his age. Young Phil went to Vietnam. But in that brief span of time, both of them became combatants again.

“Dad?” Young Phil’s voice would pierce through my dreams.

The red dot slid up Old Phil’s chest. Young Phil moved. He got two hands on my shoulders and threw me to the ground. The potted plant behind me exploded, spraying dirt everywhere. Old Phil took a step back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Young Phil didn’t get to him in time. A small black hole opened up in Old Phil’s chest. He stayed upright for a fraction of a second, before Young Phil dove across the room and tackled him to the floor.

I was still falling when the third shot burst through my shattered front window. Then everything went black except for Young Phil’s screams.