wondering why my father had climbed the ladder first and asked for the whole roll, instead of cutting a smaller piece and carrying that up.
“Broughten it here.”
I balanced the tar paper on my shoulder with one hand and used the other to hold the rungs of the ladder. When I’d brought the roll up to him I stood with my hands on the top rung and watched as he worked. He took his hunting knife out of its sheath, nine inches long and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. He opened the roll, flattened a section of the paper against the roof, and began working the tip of his knife into it, cutting a pattern that was more or less square. I could see hewas pushing down too hard on the knife, running the sharp tip through the worn shingles on the roof and the half-bare papered sections, but I didn’t say anything. My father made cuts for the other three sides of the square, all of them too deep, then pushed the roll aside so he’d be able to set the square of paper in place. But he pushed too hard; the roll went over the edge of the roof. It slammed down against the front steps, breaking off a piece of rotten wood, and rolled partway open.
“What is going!?” my mother yelled from the kitchen.
My father spat toward the roof’s ridgeline, away from me. I could hear him muttering. He held the cut square of paper in his hands as a gust of wind blew, then he leaned both hands on it and pressed it down against the part of the roof he assumed to be leaking.
“Reach and hold for that side, boy, you boy,” he said. Still with my feet on the ladder, I leaned over and placed my hands flat, several feet apart, along one edge of the square. In that position, I could feel my breasts hanging down against the T-shirt (my parents wouldn’t let me wear a bra on boying days). Girl, girl, girl, I said in my own mind. Girl.
My father took two nails from the pocket and put them between his lips. Another gust of wind came, and when he went to take hold of his side of the paper the nails slipped out of his mouth and went bouncing down the slope of the roof and over the edge. “Go, boy,” he said. “See sure they ain’t put now where the tires will make flat for the truck.”
I climbed down and searched for the nails until I found them. I picked up another half dozen as I went. I heard my father muttering, and when I looked up I saw the square of black paper floating softly down toward me. It landed beside me in the dirt.
“Boy!”
I brought the square of paper up the ladder, only to find that it had been torn fairly deeply into one side. I went back down and carried up the now dented roll again. My father made another square, uneven, larger, threw the roll violently over the edge of the roof, put one nail into his mouth, flattened the square onto the old shingles, took the nail out quickly, and banged it home with his hammer. He banged in twomore nails while I held the loose edges, then he banged in several more in no particular pattern and took his knife and tried to trim the excess away. It wouldn’t trim easily, so he tore at it with his red hands. “Boy, broughten a caulkin’,” he said. “Truck. Shed.”
I climbed down. In the truck I found a new tube of gray caulk, and in the shed the metal caulking gun used to apply it. I carried the supplies up the ladder, and after some moments of struggle, my father fixed the tube of caulking into the applicator, hacked off the plastic tip, held the whole thing in his hands as if he was squirting a fire hose, and made an attempt to spread a bead of caulk evenly around the edges of the new square of paper in order to seal it. But he’d cut off too much of the tip, and the caulk came flowing out in a thick burst, onto the tar paper and onto his pants. He couldn’t curse—Pastor Schect would not allow it—but his teeth were grinding against each other, and just then, with her perfect timing, my mother opened the front door and called up, “Goin’ good?”
“Okay,” I answered
“Broughten it here.”
I balanced the tar paper on my shoulder with one hand and used the other to hold the rungs of the ladder. When I’d brought the roll up to him I stood with my hands on the top rung and watched as he worked. He took his hunting knife out of its sheath, nine inches long and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. He opened the roll, flattened a section of the paper against the roof, and began working the tip of his knife into it, cutting a pattern that was more or less square. I could see hewas pushing down too hard on the knife, running the sharp tip through the worn shingles on the roof and the half-bare papered sections, but I didn’t say anything. My father made cuts for the other three sides of the square, all of them too deep, then pushed the roll aside so he’d be able to set the square of paper in place. But he pushed too hard; the roll went over the edge of the roof. It slammed down against the front steps, breaking off a piece of rotten wood, and rolled partway open.
“What is going!?” my mother yelled from the kitchen.
My father spat toward the roof’s ridgeline, away from me. I could hear him muttering. He held the cut square of paper in his hands as a gust of wind blew, then he leaned both hands on it and pressed it down against the part of the roof he assumed to be leaking.
“Reach and hold for that side, boy, you boy,” he said. Still with my feet on the ladder, I leaned over and placed my hands flat, several feet apart, along one edge of the square. In that position, I could feel my breasts hanging down against the T-shirt (my parents wouldn’t let me wear a bra on boying days). Girl, girl, girl, I said in my own mind. Girl.
My father took two nails from the pocket and put them between his lips. Another gust of wind came, and when he went to take hold of his side of the paper the nails slipped out of his mouth and went bouncing down the slope of the roof and over the edge. “Go, boy,” he said. “See sure they ain’t put now where the tires will make flat for the truck.”
I climbed down and searched for the nails until I found them. I picked up another half dozen as I went. I heard my father muttering, and when I looked up I saw the square of black paper floating softly down toward me. It landed beside me in the dirt.
“Boy!”
I brought the square of paper up the ladder, only to find that it had been torn fairly deeply into one side. I went back down and carried up the now dented roll again. My father made another square, uneven, larger, threw the roll violently over the edge of the roof, put one nail into his mouth, flattened the square onto the old shingles, took the nail out quickly, and banged it home with his hammer. He banged in twomore nails while I held the loose edges, then he banged in several more in no particular pattern and took his knife and tried to trim the excess away. It wouldn’t trim easily, so he tore at it with his red hands. “Boy, broughten a caulkin’,” he said. “Truck. Shed.”
I climbed down. In the truck I found a new tube of gray caulk, and in the shed the metal caulking gun used to apply it. I carried the supplies up the ladder, and after some moments of struggle, my father fixed the tube of caulking into the applicator, hacked off the plastic tip, held the whole thing in his hands as if he was squirting a fire hose, and made an attempt to spread a bead of caulk evenly around the edges of the new square of paper in order to seal it. But he’d cut off too much of the tip, and the caulk came flowing out in a thick burst, onto the tar paper and onto his pants. He couldn’t curse—Pastor Schect would not allow it—but his teeth were grinding against each other, and just then, with her perfect timing, my mother opened the front door and called up, “Goin’ good?”
“Okay,” I answered
Similar Books
