When the clock shows nine on the dot, I call city hall and ask to speak to someone about my permits. After being placed on hold for fifteen minutes, a female voice says,“Hello?”
It’s the voice of the same lady who deemed everyone in this town a hillbilly.
Sighing, I start speaking. “Hello, Ms. Randolph. I was hoping you could help me with getting a permit because your online system is still down.”
Her cackle makes my skin crawl.
“Ah, Jericho. Glad to hear from you. Well,”I can almost feel the glee in her voice,“I can swing by tonight so we can discuss it.”
Damn it.“I’ll be busy tonight. Maybe I can stop by city hall to apply sometime before noon?”
“I’ll be busy.”She hangs up without letting me ask for anything else. Great.
I can’t wait any longer for the permit, and sinceit’s just a formality in this case, I make a list of things that need my urgent attention and start going through it.
By eleven a.m., I’m done changing electric outlets in the bathrooms, kitchen, and laundry area. It’s a miracle the house hasn’t burned down so far—that’s how badly out of compliance it’s been. Whoever lived in the house before me didn’t care if the place was still standing.
Going around the house and checking the wiring took longer than I anticipated, and at this point, I know Nora has been at work for a few hours now, so I grab my tools and head to her porch to fix the loose railing I noticed the other day.
By the end of the inspection, I know the whole piece of wood needs changing, so I measure it and go to my basement to see if I can find anything that might fit. Turns out, I have a lot of really useful stuff in my new basement.
After cutting and polishing the wood, I head back and start taking the railing apart. This is something of a routine for me, I love working with my hands—helps to take my mind off things.
I’m ready to smash a hammer on a nail when someone coughs, making me nearly miss and smash my own nail in the process.
“Fuck me!” I jerk around, startled by a sound I didn’t expect.
“If you keep insisting.” A familiar, gravelly voice hits my ears from beyond the threshold of the half-open front door.
My face turns hot. I’m almost certain my cheeks are red.
“Sorry,” I mumble, fumbling an apology to Moon. This is not how I wanted to see the woman after not running into her for a few days.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes are a careful mix of curiosity and mischief, shifting between the hammer in my hands and the woodwork I’m attempting to fix.She steps outside, wrapping a plush-looking jacket around herself. Her frame looks small but unshakable.
“I—” My voice cracks with the surprise of seeing her and I look around. Anything to find a quick escape. I clear my throat, trying again. “I—I mean I am?—”
“Yes?” Her voice turns humorous.
“I was just fixing the railing.” The words tumble out in a rush as I gesture toward the evidence of my work.
Her white eyebrows arch, rising up her forehead. “I see that. I wonder why.” Her catlike gaze seems to pierce right through my intentions.
“Just, you know, a neighborly thing to do. You know,” I stammer, hoping she accepts this excuse. My heart pounds with the fear that she’ll press further.
Her eyes sparkle, and I’m desperate enough to hope she forgets this whole conversation. I’ve heard talk that she has memory issues, and I feel like the biggest jerk in the world wishing for that to be true. The idea of Moon spreading the word that I’m doing handiwork on Nora’s porch makes me break out in a cold sweat. People will ask questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Whoo-wee.” She rolls the sounds around like she’s savoring them on her tongue. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.” She glances from me to the tools and back again as if she’s putting together a puzzle.
My stomach turns at the thought of Nora finding out about this. She’d probably laugh in my face or call it something like a maniac thing to do. I know I should pack up my things and leave before I do more damage to my reputation, but I can’t make myself move.
It feels like my entire being is glued to this porch, unable to escape the scrutiny of this wily old woman. I don’t know how one seemingly fragile lady can make me feel so exposed, but here I am. Caught like a kid with his hand in the candy jar.
Her presence is unsettling but not in a bad way. My curiosity can’t help but wonder what she’s going to do next.
She buries herself deeper into a wide jacket and pads her feet in fluffy slippers toward me. “Mind if I sit here?”
“It’s your porch,” I reply nonchalantly with a shrug, hoping she won’t notice how uncomfortable this situation is making me. It’s not like I can run away and hide inside my house; I have to finish the job.
