That I’m considering going up with George from BBN?
I set my finished potato on the cutting board and realize it was the last of the bunch. Without a task, I consider if Marge would want some help in the attic.
Probably not. I’d only ruin her hunt. She claims I’m a loud breather.
At that moment there’s a triumphant “Aha!” shouted from two floors up, and I’m sure I’m not needed.
Mom smirks. “Must have been a successful quest.”
The old house’s bones creak as Marge McFarland descends, the groan of wood so pronounced and familiar, I can easily track her route by ear alone.
Out of the attic…down the hall…stop in the bathroom…continue down the hall…descend the main stairs…aim toward the back of the house and…
“Beth! You’re home. Good.” The woman I think of as my second mother—Sally and Sam are tied for third—grins wide, the expression creasing wrinkles in the suntanned skin at the corners of her eyes. She holds up a humane trap, which currently holds a frantic, fluffy rodent. “The squirrels are back.”
I’d call the thing cute if it and its buddies didn’t keep breaking into our house.
Grumps comes scrambling into the kitchen, his white and brown body shaking with furious affront as he growls at the furry prisoner.
“Did you find how they’re getting in?” I ask loud enough for Marge to hear me over the chittering and snarling, no longer shocked by the pests that sneak into this timeworn building. Mainly just annoyed that we still haven’t plugged all the holes.
When Mom, Marge, and I bought this well-aged Tudor-style house five years ago, I knew it was a fixer-upper. But I had no idea how many things could go wrong inside a house when the outside maintained a presentable appearance.
The roof leaks.
Carpenter bees are eating the back porch.
The water heater is on the verge of death.
Electrical outlets have stopped working.
Random breakers still trip without warning.
Half of the faucets drip, the soft sounds a maddening taunt.
And we cleared the bats out of the attic only to make room for squirrels, apparently.
“East side.” Marge waves in a general direction with her free hand, then pushes some errant brown curls out of her eyes. “There’s a hole in the back corner of the attic. Shadowy, so we didn’t spot it. I did a quick patch job.”
I try not to sag in relief. This day has burned me out, and I’m not up for my second, unpaid job as repairwoman.
But I relax too soon.
“The light in the upstairs bathroom is acting up. Could you tinker with it while I drop off Anubis?” Marge gestures at the cage. The squirrel, who shouldnothave a name, chitters in affront.Drop offmeans driving it to the local park and setting the critter free far from the house. She has a whole system, having done this at least ten times now.
“Sure.” I tilt my chin toward the new equine table centerpiece. “School project?”
Marge teaches history at the local middle school, and the remnants of her students’ work often end up on our kitchen table as she grades.
“The kids had to re-create an image from an ancient text.” She chuckles. “Take a look inside.”
With a raised brow, I pick up the head. When I tilt it, I find a hollow cavity with a single item inside. A Barbie doll dressed in battle wear.
“The Iliad?” I guess, and her smile widens with pride and Mom snickers as she cubes the potatoes.
“They made the whole Trojan horse. Wonderfully creative. Brought that piece home to show you both.”
“I’m properly impressed.” And once again, I’m convinced Marge was born to be a teacher. The woman is enthusiastic and engaging, and she genuinely enjoys connecting with her students. She’s won Teacher of the Year for her district twice.
