Lifelines: Kate's Story by Vanessa Grant

worker’s
directory.”
    Socrates
was too well-mannered to laugh.
    Kate
found the construction site transformed, a skeleton of walls mounted on last
week’s concrete, new sub floor providing a walking surface inside the house,
Mac on the far side of the building yanking a plastic cover from a pile of
plywood. She couldn’t see anyone else—evidently Mac’s crew didn’t normally work
Saturdays. Last week might have been an exception, because of the cement trucks.
    Kate
and Socrates watched Mac bundle the big sheet of plastic into a ball, then drop
it to the ground and anchor it with a plank of wood. His body moved with sharp
motions; he didn’t look like a man who wanted company.
    When
he turned to reach for the top sheet of plywood, he spotted Kate.
    “Hello?”
    Disconcerted
by the question in his voice, she shoved her hands into her pockets.
    “Hi.”
She expected a smile, but he didn’t look any happier to have company than her
mother had sounded. “You’ve got walls framed; last week it was only a
foundation.” Her voice sounded phony, like her mother when a man appeared and
Evelyn gushed instead of just talking.
    “Framing
goes quickly.”
    “Well
... we were out for a morning walk.” What the hell was she doing, crashing in on
his work site, expecting him to distract her from her life?
    Socrates
waddled across the distance between them, pressing into Mac’s knees just as Mac
reached for the top sheet of plywood. His hand grasped the dog instead of the
plywood, and he rubbed the crinkled skin around Socrates’ ears.
    “How
you doing, old boy?”
    Socrates
groaned. He had no pride, she thought sourly. He just leaned into Mac and
assumed he’d be welcome.
    Mac’s
head lifted and he stared at Kate as if she’d spoken aloud.
    Kate
asked, “Are you going to sheet the exterior with that plywood?” Brilliant. Of
course he’s using the damned plywood to sheet in the house. What the fuck else?
    More
swearing.
    “It’s
OSB, not plywood.”
    “OSB,
then.” The familiar term brought a memory of sheets nailed onto the outside of
the Alaskan vet clinic. “What does OSB stand for?”
    “Oriented
strand board.” He gave Socrates a man-dog slap on the rump. “How’s your garage
clean-up?”
    “The
recycling truck comes this afternoon.”
    He
lifted a sheet of OSB with smooth grace that testified to muscles and
familiarity. Socrates’ glare reminded her there’d been an objective to this
visit.
    “I
hoped you’d let me swing a hammer. It’s been a rough week, and hammer-swinging
is therapeutic.”
    He
paused with the plywood balanced along one shoulder. He hadn’t said no, so she
persisted. “I told you I’m a construction brat, didn’t I? I worked for my dad
on a vet clinic up in Alaska. I nailed sheeting, flooring, shingles. I can’t
carry a sheet of plywood by myself, but I swing a mean hammer.”
    “We
mostly use a nail gun, but if you want a hammer, there’s one on the tool belt
in the pickup.”
    Socrates
didn’t accompany her to the truck, or she would have asked him if he thought
“there’s one on the tool belt” constituted invitation or resignation.
    You’re
neurotic, Kate Taylor. Socrates is an animal, not a source of wisdom.
    The
leather tool belt’s soft pouches held a few dozen two-inch nails. A long hammer
with a green rubber-coated handle hung from one side, while a big green tape
measure was clipped to the other. Kate strapped the belt on and felt as if
she’d stepped through a warp in time.
    The
first time her father let her strap on a tool belt, she’d been nine, and he’d
punched an extra hole to stop the belt from slipping over her hips. He laughed
when she picked up his big hammer, and gave her a small one instead. A tack
hammer, she realized years later, and she’d kept it until he sent her away with
her mother and two suitcases—neither of which contained the hammer.
    Mac’s
green hammer felt heavier than she remembered a grown-up’s hammer being. As