the weight of his half-sized padding roll.
“Just point to where it hurts,” I told full-sized Hank. “Did you see a doc?”
But it turned out who I thought was full-sized Hank was 91.66667 percent–sized Hank, and he pointed an elbow to another Hank, who sipped a thermos full of coffee in the corner.
Full-sized Hank said, “Who needs a doc? You need to stop worrying about me and us and our treacherous run-in with carpet glue and start worrying about touching up these walls. They’re a mess.”
Full-sized Hank took a long sip. So long I thought he’d drown. He finally lowered his thermos and breathed. He folded his arms and smiled at all the smaller-sized Hanks hard at work, bolting the tack strips to the subfloor, leaning over less than Hank used to have to lean. His back problems would be no more.
I went to lunch, to Ivan’s Bread and Brew, down the street from the subdivisions where we all worked. The store squatted like a scab against a background of new white houses. I could see every nail in the sun-faded brown clapboard. Big nail heads pounded by healthy contractors who’d made sure their work would last and didn’t care how it looked. I wondered if anyone who lived in the A-frame ranches and split-levels would go to Ivan’s after we finished construction and disappeared. But where were we going? There was a world of soybean fields and forests and clapboard to tear up and cover with white walls and sod.
I ordered my usual turkey and cream cheese bagel sandwich at Ivan’s. I needed something the same, because I was scared. Betsy was pregnant. Martha was excited to be a grandma. But what would I be? Still a step-something-or-other or something real? I wanted Betsy to at least consider her options. She could go to trade school, earn a journeymen’s license, do something besides clean houses.But if the right accident happened to me, then maybe Betsy could quit next year. We could buy one of the subdivision houses, and she could stay at home, never have to bring the kid to work, where it would make paintbrushes and carpet scraps and bent nails into pretend families.
I tossed the rest of the sandwich and then dug around my truck bed until I found a tin of turpentine. I twisted off the lid, poured it down my arms, cupped it in my hands. My skin sizzled. The fumes burned my nose, and my stomach cartwheeled. I thought about what Hank had said about carpet glue, and I let the turpentine soak in until my skin blazed pink. I hopped back into my truck and drove to Doc Robby’s without a seatbelt.
Doc Robby said he thought he’d fixed me up last time. I told him about the turpentine accident. He smiled and ushered me to the sink. We rinsed. So I told him my side hurt, maybe an exploding appendix. He said no, offered more Ameliorex. What about my lungs? Who knows what I’ll cough up sucking so much paint. He said lungs were more resilient than most docs like to let on. They totally regenerate every seven years. But maybe—He said no.
Back at the subdivisions, I drove past one of the plumbers roughing copper in a trench. The trench walls started to cave in around him, and he winked at me, shrugged as the silt and clay enveloped his face. I kept on driving. The cream cheese and turkey roiled inside my belly. I punched my dash. Tomorrow he’d be able to walk through walls or spit copper pipe of perfect length. Things would be easier. I would just have the same miraculous regenerating lungs everyone else had.
The stonemasons careened across the sky and then gathered in a perfect V line. They were getting used to their wings. I sped to a cul-de-sac at the back of the sub, where the houses were finished and I could have some time alone to think among my white walls. But a truck was parked out front, and that meant there’d be handprints everywhere. Inside, I found Martha. From the entryway, I watched her over the half wall up the stairs. In one arm, she held a baby, and in the other, a spray bottle of blue
“Just point to where it hurts,” I told full-sized Hank. “Did you see a doc?”
But it turned out who I thought was full-sized Hank was 91.66667 percent–sized Hank, and he pointed an elbow to another Hank, who sipped a thermos full of coffee in the corner.
Full-sized Hank said, “Who needs a doc? You need to stop worrying about me and us and our treacherous run-in with carpet glue and start worrying about touching up these walls. They’re a mess.”
Full-sized Hank took a long sip. So long I thought he’d drown. He finally lowered his thermos and breathed. He folded his arms and smiled at all the smaller-sized Hanks hard at work, bolting the tack strips to the subfloor, leaning over less than Hank used to have to lean. His back problems would be no more.
I went to lunch, to Ivan’s Bread and Brew, down the street from the subdivisions where we all worked. The store squatted like a scab against a background of new white houses. I could see every nail in the sun-faded brown clapboard. Big nail heads pounded by healthy contractors who’d made sure their work would last and didn’t care how it looked. I wondered if anyone who lived in the A-frame ranches and split-levels would go to Ivan’s after we finished construction and disappeared. But where were we going? There was a world of soybean fields and forests and clapboard to tear up and cover with white walls and sod.
I ordered my usual turkey and cream cheese bagel sandwich at Ivan’s. I needed something the same, because I was scared. Betsy was pregnant. Martha was excited to be a grandma. But what would I be? Still a step-something-or-other or something real? I wanted Betsy to at least consider her options. She could go to trade school, earn a journeymen’s license, do something besides clean houses.But if the right accident happened to me, then maybe Betsy could quit next year. We could buy one of the subdivision houses, and she could stay at home, never have to bring the kid to work, where it would make paintbrushes and carpet scraps and bent nails into pretend families.
I tossed the rest of the sandwich and then dug around my truck bed until I found a tin of turpentine. I twisted off the lid, poured it down my arms, cupped it in my hands. My skin sizzled. The fumes burned my nose, and my stomach cartwheeled. I thought about what Hank had said about carpet glue, and I let the turpentine soak in until my skin blazed pink. I hopped back into my truck and drove to Doc Robby’s without a seatbelt.
Doc Robby said he thought he’d fixed me up last time. I told him about the turpentine accident. He smiled and ushered me to the sink. We rinsed. So I told him my side hurt, maybe an exploding appendix. He said no, offered more Ameliorex. What about my lungs? Who knows what I’ll cough up sucking so much paint. He said lungs were more resilient than most docs like to let on. They totally regenerate every seven years. But maybe—He said no.
Back at the subdivisions, I drove past one of the plumbers roughing copper in a trench. The trench walls started to cave in around him, and he winked at me, shrugged as the silt and clay enveloped his face. I kept on driving. The cream cheese and turkey roiled inside my belly. I punched my dash. Tomorrow he’d be able to walk through walls or spit copper pipe of perfect length. Things would be easier. I would just have the same miraculous regenerating lungs everyone else had.
The stonemasons careened across the sky and then gathered in a perfect V line. They were getting used to their wings. I sped to a cul-de-sac at the back of the sub, where the houses were finished and I could have some time alone to think among my white walls. But a truck was parked out front, and that meant there’d be handprints everywhere. Inside, I found Martha. From the entryway, I watched her over the half wall up the stairs. In one arm, she held a baby, and in the other, a spray bottle of blue
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