With apologies,
Ben Tucker
Damn, I’d thought.Very good apology.
I’d put the handles on the cabinet before I’d left work, a little huffy, actually, that they’d fit so perfectly. But I’d tucked Ben’s note and business card into my jeans pocket.
I take it out again now, wondering how he found file cabinet handles from 1959. Okay, I might also be thinking a little about the way he’d looked standing in the doorway on Friday, his tall-drink-of-waterness, memorable enough that I’d thought of him quite a few times over the weekend.
His handwriting is bold, straight up-and-down, all capital letters, similar to a drafting hand. I trace the tip of my finger over where he’s written my name—Ms. Averin. If Ben Tucker could find old file cabinet handles, maybe he can tell me where to find old china cabinet knobs. And also I should thank him. That seems like the right thing.
I tap the edge of his business card against the note. I’m definitely making an excuse to call him—but suddenly it’s soquietin here. I swipe my phone off the table before I can think better of it. As soon as it starts ringing, I want to hang up, but then remember that a great crucible of modern technology is widely available caller ID. Have to go for broke, then.
“Ben Tucker,” he says when he answers, his voice a deep rumble. It seems to scrape me in the same place it had last week, right at the base of my spine.
“Hi,” I say, and immediately slam my eyes shut.Hisounds silly, too informal. I clear my throat and try again.“Hello. This is Ekaterina Averin.”
There’s a pause on the other end, a little longer than is comfortable for a phone conversation. I think about clarifying, maybe explaining that we’d met on Friday, though if I have to do that, this guy’s more incompetent than he’d let on—and frankly, he’d let on a lot. But then he says,“Ekaterina,” a little slowly—but he’s pronounced it exactly as I do, and I’m grateful for that. Mostly people ignore the first part, the quick, breathyEh, and go straight toKaterina.“Beautiful name,” he says.
“People mostly call me Kit,” I say.“Fewer syllables.”
“Okay. Kit, then. But I don’t mind the syllables.”
“I wanted to call and say thanks for the handles you sent. They were perfect.”
“Great,” he says, but he sounds—I don’t know. A little distracted, maybe? That’s annoying—you’d think after everything he’d want to make a better impression.“I’m so sorry,” he says, and I think he’s about to redo the whole apology again.“Can you just—can you hang on one second? Please.” It’s thepleasethat gets me. It sounds how the word is meant to sound—a real plea for something.
“Sure,” I say, and expect him to click over to another call. But I hear the phone being set down, the rustling of clothes, another man’s deep voice. And I can hear Ben when he says,“Come on, Dad. You need to take one of these tonight.” The other man—Ben’s dad—grumbles back, and right when I think maybe I should set my own phone down, maybe I’m hearing something I shouldn’t, there’s another rustle and the phone is muted. I’m both relieved and disappointed.
It’s another minute before he comes back on.“I’m sorry,” he says again.
“That’s all right—I could call at another time. I didn’t realize you’d be busy. Well, that’s silly, I should’ve realized that, it’s eight o’clock. It’s not like you don’t have a life.” I clamp my mouth shut. Too much. I’m a terrible phone talker.
He chuckles.“I don’t have much of one right now. My dad had an accident recently, and he’s a bit of a challenge to—you know. Manage.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling like the worst for calling. About freaking file cabinet handles.“I’m so sorry to hear that. I can let you go.”
“No, no—it’s all right. He’s okay. He had a fall last week, needed a couple of surgeries. But he’s okay,” he repeats this part a little forcefully, convincing himself, maybe.“I’m in town to help out for a while.”
It’s my turn to pause, to draw it out.“And to recruit me?”
“Recruiting you is something that came up more recently. Listen, Kit, on Friday—”
“I got your package. And your note. I appreciate the apology.”
“Right, okay. Good.”
“I’m actually calling about the handles you sent. About how you found them.”
He laughs, but I’m not in on the joke, so I stay quiet.“Well. One of the things I’m helping out with while I’m here is my dad’s business. He owns a salvage yard on the south side. Tucker’s Salvage.”
I’ve heard of it—in fact, I’m pretty sure Tucker’s Salvage is in that local favorites paper I just looked through, but I’ve never been.“And you guys have old cabinet handles?”
“We have everything. We do architectural salvage, so we’ve got everything from old building materials to antique furniture and light fixtures. Some stuff we restore, some stuff we sell off as is, some stuff we have parts for. Like your cabinet there.”
Well, damn if an architectural salvage yard doesn’t sound like just the place for someone who’s recently bought an old wreck of a house.“Aha. And—can anyone come by? To have a look at what you have there?”
“You have a need for salvaged parts?”
