the Carharrts. They were as stiff as a board and ugly as mud. I surveyed myself in the age-clouded dresser mirror and frowned at what I saw. They were big and boxy, and though I’d used the size chart at the hardware store as a guide, they were four inches too big around the waist, and at least six inches too long. Not to mention the fact that they felt like sandpaper long johns. I could roll up the hems of the pants and cinch them with a belt, but until they’d been washed at least a couple of times, they just wouldn’t do.
But Uncle Norbert’s clothes might. I hurried down the hall, dressed only in my panties, bra, and socks, and helped myself.
Norbert had been tall, but thankfully, what my mother would have called a “string bean.” I pulled one of the flannel shirts over my head and rolled up the cuffs four times. The overalls, soft as an old blanket, were several sizes too long too, but I managed to adjust the straps, andwith the pants legs rolled up, I judged them perfect. And what about shoes? The work boots were stiff and mud caked, but I took another look at those Chucks.
Uncle Norbert had been tall and slender, but his feet were surprisingly small for a man, maybe only a size larger than my own. With another pair of socks for extra padding, I decided, the Chucks would work like a charm.
I rummaged around in Norbert’s dresser until I found a stash of neatly washed and ironed handkerchiefs, including a large blue bandanna, which I folded and knotted over my head, kerchief style.
I was ready to do battle with Birdsong.
Although it was still chilly, not even fifty degrees, the day was sunny. I lugged a broom, a mop, a bucket of hot sudsy Pine-Sol, and my iPod out to the front porch. I slipped the iPod into the front pocket of the overalls, put in my earbuds, and got to work.
I’d downloaded the rereleased Michael Jackson Thriller album before leaving D.C., and now, with Michael and his celebrity buddies moon-walking in my head, I rocked it hard.
Starting at the front door, I swept my way up and down the porch, knocking down spiderwebs, desiccated insect carcasses, long-abandoned birds’ nests, and a forest of dead leaves as Michael sang “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” Three times, because I kept punching rewind. But even after an hour of sweeping, dirt and mildew clung stubbornly to the worn wooden floorboards. I sloshed Pine-Sol all over the porch, and attacked with the mop, and “Beat It,” smiling with satisfaction as the water in my bucket grew grimy with the accumulated grunge. Four changes of water and two hours later, I decided the floor was done. I’d scrubbed down the old boards so hard that I could see bare wood shining through the faded battleship gray paint.
The windows, and “Billie Jean,” were next. The panes were so caked with grime I didn’t even attempt to start with the Windex. Instead, I hooked up a garden hose and splashed water all over the old wavy glass, sending a dirty river seeping down over my previously pristine floorboards. Damn. I’d have to give the porch another rinsing later. But fornow, I washed and polished and spritzed the eight tall windows that ran across the front of the house, inside and out, until they sparkled like crystal in the afternoon sunshine.
I’d saved the front door for last. I scrubbed away layer after layer of dirt and dust, finally revealing, to my surprise, a faded red paint job where I’d thought was previously a dull gray one. Jimmy Maynard had been right. Birdsong was meant to have a red front door. And a handsome door it was. From the look of the bare wood peeping from underneath the old paint, I decided it must be heart pine. There were six finely detailed raised panels, with a beveled-glass insert and beveled-glass sidelights, along with a fan-shaped transom above the door that I couldn’t reach without a ladder.
With an old toothbrush I’d found under the kitchen sink, and “PYT” blasting into my ears, I worked brass
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