“Because I told you that board would go, and because you sound like you’re in pain.”
I look down at my bloody shin like it betrayed classified information.“It’s fine.”
There's a sound on his end.High, ragged.Something between a wheeze and a sob.
"Is that…an animal?"I ask.
"Just a stray," he says.
I picture him crouched on the side of a road somewhere, coaxing something injured and feral out from under a truck.It actually makes him seem nicer than I'd like.
“Anyway,” he says.I hear more noise in the background, muffled.“You want me to come replace that step or not?”
There it is.The choice, packaged neatly.Pride or function.
I inhale.The air tastes like dust, old wood, and whatever’s left of the last woman’s life.I think of the rumors about what happened to her, how the realtor mentioned with her voice pitched just a shade too high:Terrible what happened.A real tragedy.But that’s why the house is a steal, so I guess there’s a silver lining!
I think of starting over and how no one ever mentions how much heavy lifting that actually requires.But whatever, at least Charles will always know I did it for him, and after all, isn’t that what relationships are all about?
“You still there?”he says.
“Yeah.I’m here.”
“You called.I assume you need my services.”
“Yes,” I say, hating the relief in my own voice.“The step.And the front door.And maybe…you can tell me how to get your client to stop staring at me through her curtains.”
There’s a small pause, like he’s smiling, except I don’t know him well enough to picture that yet.
“Now?”
“Well, notnow, now.I mean, just whenever.”
“I’ll be there in an hour or so,” he says.“Don’t walk on it.”
“The porch or the ankle?”
“Both,” he says, and hangs up.
I stare at the phone like it might offer commentary.It doesn’t.It just reflects me back—tired, bruised, already folding.
So this is how it happens.
Not with a scream.
Not with a bang.
Just a call.
Just a step.
Just this once.
11
Luke
The kid chose the tattoo parlor because he thought it made him look legitimate.
