The Cost For These Repairs by James Wendelken

The Cost For These Repairs by James Wendelken

Two weeks after she leaves, he sits, legs folded, in a blue plastic Adirondack chair on his front porch and directly behind a large holly. A paperback book – The Path of Peace in Everyday Life – lays in his lap. A round metal table stands beside him. An empty bottle of scotch and a rock glass sits in a puddle of condensation on top. He is hidden from any passerby on Crystal Cove unless they intentionally peer between the Serbian Spruce and the For Sale sign in his front yard. The hydrangea near the side of his porch isn’t tall enough to provide cover. He is exposed to anyone approaching from Box Canyon Drive until they reach the weeping cherry. It will be dark in a couple of hours. Then he’ll be shielded from any neighborhood acquaintance walking by who might feel compelled to stop and chat him up. Or Mrs. Castellan, next door, peering at him through her blinds.

His third scotch makes him careless enough to call his wife. It goes to voice mail.

 “It’s me again,” he said a little too loudly, “Call me back. We need to talk, Dee. Please.” At the sound of his voice, Max, their black lab, walks over and lays his chin on his leg. “You know, Max just mopes around. He misses Charlotte. Anyway, I want you to know that whatever you left behind, I sold. Everything. What I couldn’t sell, I gave away. The money’s yours, just tell me where to send it. Also, there’s an offer on the house. It’s supposed to be delivered today. It’s a good offer, you should consider it. One other thing – I’ve started seeing someone. He and I talk. I’m complying, Dee. We should talk, too. I’d like us to talk.” As he presses End he thinks, stop ignoring me, woman. Turn your fucking ringer on.

He walks inside to find another drink. A card table and folding chair are set up in the middle of the front room. An opened manila envelope, a two-page severance letter providing information on benefits and company paid for outplacement services, and an embossed sheet entitled “FAQs on COBRA” lay on the table, along with some leftover fries and shrimp tails in a Styrofoam container. Three white bed sheets are tacked over the windows facing Crystal Cove. The side windows are uncovered. If he catches Mrs. Castellan peering over at him again tonight, he’ll moon the bitch.

The walls reveal places where the paint color is brighter, marking where overpriced framed paintings, purchased at Spring Expositions, had hung. She had graduated from the Institute of Art before marriage. It was important to support emerging artists, she said. They could be worth a lot of money one day. They’re paintings by students who would be selling copiers, cell phones, or aluminum siding after graduation, he had said. She made no effort to earn money. She had no clue what was required to live at this address, only how to adorn their house with things that had value to impress her artist friends but would be lost on their neighbors. Figurines by Meissen and two from the Chosen Period in Korea had sat on floating shelves in their front room. Investments, she had said. Ten thousand dollars on a credit card, that at 18% took him a year to pay off. A five thousand dollar antique mirror showed up over the mantle one day. He couldn’t stand looking at his reflection in it. After it broke – an accident he told her – she replaced it with a portrait of her and Charlotte, painted by an Institute art student.

But it was all gone. She took the paintings, the figurines, and Charlotte and left in her BMW 525i that had two years remaining on the lease. A thin film of dust has settled on the mantle. Dust mites have gathered in corners. The house will sell. But it had belonged to someone else for a while.

Another bottle of scotch stands on the stainless counter in the kitchen. A plastic cooler filled with ice is on the floor. He takes an ice pick lying next to the scotch and, with a downward motion, stabs it repeatedly into the congealed block, breaking off enough to fill the glass.  At that instant, an unholy, unrecognizable screech breaks through the open kitchen window, disorienting him. He looks out the window to the back of his lot, near the pines. Mrs. Castellan’s Maine coon has pinned a small rabbit on its back. The rabbit kicks with a flurry, but the cat sinks its teeth into its neck and shakes it violently until it goes limp. It releases it onto the grass where it makes a few involuntary shudders. The cat attacks its neck again and pulls its fur and skin away in clumps, but this time the rabbit lies still, lifeless. The cat releases it long enough to look around to see if it has been spotted. It then takes the carcass by the neck and slinks under the pines.

He looks away in disgust. Would Mrs. Castellan suspect him if the cat were suddenly missing? Is there such a thing as a restraining order for cruelty to animals?

& & &

“Why do you think you’re here?”

“Because my wife’s attorney has convinced the judge I have a drinking problem.”

“Your wife has made several complaints to the police that include your drinking.”

“Well, I complain about her spending. The more she spends, the more I drink to forget how much she spends.”

“Do you think you drink too much?”

“No. I think she works too little.”

“Do you believe that’s why the judge sent you here?”

“I drink and then things get out of control.”

& & &

Picking up his sunglasses from the kitchen desk, he walks with his drink back to the front porch chair. Wrapping the sunglasses around his eyes, he looks at his watch. One-thirty. Charlotte will be getting out of school at two-forty-five. Dee likes an afternoon coffee. There’s a Starbucks on Chagrin five minutes from the school. He’s dressed in Bermuda’s, a wrinkled Tommy Bahama button-down and flops. Good enough. He grabs his keys and backs the Mustang out of the drive without looking.  The tires give a little screech as he accelerates out of the development.

Fifteen minutes later, he exits onto Chagrin, turns east, and turns left into the parking lot. He cruises the lane furthest away from the coffee shop. Her BMW isn’t anywhere. He finds a space and walks toward the entrance. Oh, I didn’t expect to see you here, he will say if she’s inside. It’s unlikely she’ll create a scene in public. She might get up and leave. A woman and a man in business dress are sitting at a table, focused on their laptops. Others are sitting at the few remaining tables looking at their phones. There’s a line waiting to place their orders. He peers around toward the front but she’s not here. He considers getting a double caramel macchiato but returns to the car instead.

Two thirty. Charlotte’s school will let out in thirty minutes. He doesn’t want to create a scene in front of her but if he parks far enough away to comply, yet close enough to see Dee pick her up, he’ll be able to follow her and find out where they’re staying. He calls Dee again and immediately gets her greeting, and the system tells him her voicemail is full. He starts the car and screeches out onto Green Road toward the school.

Girls and their parents are already exiting the front entrance when he arrives. Dee’s car is parked at the end of the main circular driveway, with her in it, and he can see her in profile. She must have arrived early. He pulls to the side of Laureldale Road, knowing he is closer than one hundred yards, but hidden from view unless Dee looks in his direction. Clusters of people pass Dee’s car, walking toward their vehicles, some walking down Laureldale in his direction. Finally, he recognizes Charlotte, walking toward the BMW with a friend. This might be the only time to make things right if Dee will only listen and allow him to show her and Charlotte how he’s changed. He is getting the help he needs to change, just like she’s urged him to do for years. He’ll lose everything if they were to move. Just one last chance, he thought, to show you how much I love you, how sorry I am for what has happened.

He opens the car door and steps out behind it just as Charlotte and her friend enter the seat behind Dee. When he appears, Dee turns in his direction and recognizes him. She starts the car and pulls quickly onto Lyman Circle. Several cars fall in behind Dee in a rush before he can get back into his car and follow. He tracks her from behind until the traffic light turns red at the Interstate entrance. He’s four cars behind her as she speeds through the light and disappears onto the highway. His stomach constricts in panic. She’s gone. He’s lost her, lost the ability to know where she is staying, lost the opportunity to plead for her mercy. There is nothing to do but return home and hope she doesn’t report this to the police.

Four o’clock and he’s back sitting in the blue Adirondack chair, drink in hand, the book, “The Path of Peach in Everyday Life” in his lap. Max is lying on the porch beside him. Megan Hughes-Campbell is pushing a stroller around the corner of Box Canyon onto Crystal Cove. Two girls skip a few feet ahead of her. He recognizes the oldest-looking – Bridget, he thinks. He pretends to read. Megan waves to him just before she disappears behind the weeping cherry. A moment later, she and her brood appear from behind the holly, walking up his drive. Bridget is twirling; the other little girl has stopped and is bending down looking at something in the lawn. Megan has just closed her cell phone and is wearing a wide smile.

“Hi, neighbor,” she calls out.

“Megan,” he nods. “Hello, girls.” Max bounds off the porch to greet the girls.

“Hi, Mr. Reilly,” says Bridget. Megan stops the stroller at the brick and stone porch steps.

“Out for a walk, I see,” he says.

“Yes, around the block before we take our tub,” says Megan. She sighed. “We’ll be losing an hour of daylight soon.”  

“Yes,” he says. “Time flies by.”

“What have you heard from Dee?” Megan says.

“Just left her a message,” he says.

“It felt odd for her to leave so suddenly. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Neither did the girls.”

“Yes, it was sudden. I had to jump on this job offer or lose it. I had hoped it would come earlier so that Charlotte would have time to adjust to the move before enrolling in a new school. She and Charlotte are out there looking for a house. I’m hoping she’ll find something quick, but it is what it is.”

“Is Charlotte better now?” says Bridget. She is trying to pull a ball away from Max.

“She’s fine, honey,” he says.

“Did her black marks go away?”

“What?”

“You know. The black marks on her forehead and her arms”, says Bridget.

“Dee said she fell down the steps,” Megan says.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, she fell.”

“How is she?”

“No, she’s fine,” he says. “Much better. Just fine, now.”

“Well, the whole thing’s just terrible,” she says.

“What’s terrible?”

“Well, Dee and I were just beginning to get close. You know, close to sharing as women will.” Megan looked around him at the house, at the sheets in the front windows, then toward him at the book he was still holding in one hand, the glass of scotch in the other.

“I’d offer you a drink, but”, he says, nodding at the girls.

“No, no, I don’t handle alcohol well,” she smiles thinly. “We’re Irish, John, you and I.” She’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “We’re either weeping bitterly about things we can’t control, or we’re punching a defenseless bystander. Am I right?”

He freezes. “Yes, of course,” he said. “What’s the saying? ‘tis sweet to drink but bitter to pay for?” He looks down at the ground.

 “Anyway, Tom and I are hosting a Murder Mystery party in two weekends. It’s a no-kids event, so my parents were going to provide babysitting at their house next door,” she said. “But it looks like you two won’t be joining us.” 

“Sounds like fun. We’d love to but Dee’s already down there,” he said, “We wanted Charlotte to get accustomed to the move before enrolling in a new school.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you said that.”

“We hate to leave,” he said, “but it’s a great opportunity. I couldn’t pass it up.”

“Have you had any offers on the house?” she says.

“I was hoping for a better price,” he looks nervously out to the street. “There’s supposed to be an offer delivered this evening, though. Someone is transferring into the area from Columbus. Their realtor is bringing it by any time.” Maybe she’ll take the hint.

“You know, my brother is an agent,” she says. “Perhaps he could be of some help.”

“No,” he says, “I should be able to sell it myself. I’m going to save every penny I can of this sale,” he looks up and down the street. He sees Megan’s husband, Andrew, standing on the walk in front of his house and waves. Andrew does not wave back. “Yeah, his realtor should be here any minute,” he says again.

“Well, okay, we have to get home and get in the tub,” she says. “Run to Daddy, girls.” She watches as both girls run toward the walk, and then turns back to him. “I’m glad I caught you,” she says. “Dee called me a few minutes ago. She asked me to walk down to make sure you’re here. She and Charlotte will be safe, finally. You’re an animal, John. You should be put in a cage. The police will be here to do that.”

She makes the sidewalk, and they turn back toward their house.  Megan looks back at him and smiles as a white Tesla pulls into his drive. A young man jumps out holding a manila envelope and walks quickly to the front steps.

“Hi, sorry for being so late,” he says. “I’m glad I caught you.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Andy Barrett.”

Still stunned by Megan’s remark, John tucks the book in his hand under his arm and weakly shakes his hand.

“I’m the Culbertson’s realtor, remember? I called you earlier today.”

“Yes, of course. Hi.”

“They’ve made an official offer for your home,” he says, holding out the envelope. He opens it, leaves through the stapled pages to the last, and holds it out for him to view. “If you look at this page, you’ll see, they’ll agree to your requested price, but there are a few contingencies. The inspection showed a crack in the foundation and some water damage.”

“Yes,” he says.

“If you pay for these repairs, the Culbertsons are ready to close right away,” Barrett said. “They’re anxious to move.” He smiles broadly, a salesman’s smile, urging him to agree. “Just sign here,” he points. “And initial in those three places marked by the yellow post it.”

John flips to the attached back pages. “Is this the cost of the repairs?”

Three black unmarked vehicles are slowly coming down the street. One of the cars turns into his drive, behind the realtor’s. The other two park on either side of the drive.  

He quickly dumps his glass in the bushes. A tremendous upsurge of panic grips his stomach, and he feels the urge to run through the back, but it subsides. Max begins to bark furiously as two officers approach the house.

“Yes, I’ll agree,” he says, quickly signing. “I’ll pay. Whatever the cost.”

His legs buckle as he hands the agreement back to the realtor. Sitting down on the front step he puts his face in his hands and begins to sob. It won’t go well, but he can’t control it any longer. Realizing that is a great relief to him. It isn’t good, but it’s over.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright James Wendelken 2024