Maud's House (11 page)

“Attention!” George admonished, pointing his finger in the air like the French chef of a five-star restaurant or a Nazi commandant. “You can’t cook a meal properly and doodle on a tablet by the stove at the same time.” Once my sketchpad caught on fire. George put out the blaze with a pot of French onion soup. I cried for two hours—over the sketches, not the soup.

I read the recipe again. Garlic powder. I spun the spice turntable. Garlic salt, but no garlic powder. I reached for a different cookbook, one with a conversion table. It showed how to convert garlic powder into garlic salt but not garlic salt into garlic powder. Damn, I needed George. George loved to figure the correct measurements and proportions. He doubled and tripled recipes just for the mathematics. Forget the garlic powder. I opened a can of tuna. The smell of sea washed up my nostrils. I held my nose and dumped the tuna into the macaroni and cheddar. The recipe didn’t say whether or not to drain the tuna. What was the correct consistency of tuna casserole?

Upstairs Thomas flipped on the shower. I listened to the water rushing to Thomas, rattling pipes all over the house on its way. I didn’t want to come to care for Thomas. He could be as persistent as George was, as single-minded, too. He was mixed-up and searching and cute. I didn’t want to like him, or worry about him, or begin to ask his opinion. And I didn’t want him fixing my roof.

Just a week ago, I was telling Amos and Bartholomew about Thomas’s bent for home maintenance: “Roof, eh?” said Amos, with a frown. “Tricky things—roofs.”

“Have to have toes like a fly,” said Bartholomew.

“I’ve seen men who have worked in construction all their lives catch a boot tip on a loose shingle and slip right off the edge,”

“Good way to break a leg,” Bartholomew nodded.

“Leg! Hell, a twenty-foot drop’ll kill you. Break your neck, if you land just right. Snap it like an icicle,” Amos said.

“That’s a fact,” said Bartholomew.

During a lull in business that afternoon, I dashed home, sure I would find Thomas dead by the porch. Taking corners on two bald wheels, twisting the van’s steering wheel like a stunt driver, I wondered about notifying his parents on that little computer and worried that I wouldn’t remember how to use it. But when I pulled my old green van in beside his yellow one, he was straddling the roof, grinning. He waved a half-empty soda bottle at me and asked why I was home early.

“I’m not,” I screamed at him, “and don’t drink on the roof.” I slammed back into the van and drove slowly back to the restaurant, steering the van with trembling hands.

I focused again on the tuna casserole. That was a week ago. Thomas was still absorbed in the roof project. He seemed to have a sixth sense about hammers and nails and two-by-fours. What he couldn’t figure out he asked about—on one of the online computer services. He simply logged on to a bulletin board devoted to home repair and posed a problem. Within twenty-four hours, he had a dozen suggestions for approaching it. It was better than the Time/Life books, he said.

Someone tapped at the back door. I waved T-Bone in, smiled, headed for the refrigerator, and took out two beers. I handed him one. T-Bone glanced at the disaster area of pots, pans, food, and books. He cautiously approached the dish on the stove.

“Tuna casserole,” I said. T-Bone’s eyebrows jerked.

“Still can’t figure out how to paint that damn mural, huh?”

I edged him aside with my hip and shoved the casserole into the oven. I slammed the door with expert indifference and stuck my nose into the air. After a moment, T-Bone said, “Heat would be good here.” I turned on the oven.

We took our beers to the table and sat. He told me about one of his sick cows, about a song he’d heard on the radio, about the new birds visiting his bird feeder. I leaned my cheek on my hand and listened. T-Bone always has talked of these things with me and I’ve never grown bored. His voice is soft, and it has a slight accent. Wynn says she can listen to an Englishman talk all day. I feel that way about T-Bone. But he never would—talk all day—so I have to catch every syllable I can, when I can.

He motioned toward the window and the roofing materials outside on the grass. “What are you going to do when he finishes it?”

“God, I don’t know,” I sighed. “I’m hoping he gets bored before it’s done.”

“Not much chance of that. I think Spaceman’s here to stay.”

I slipped my hand across the table and touched T-Bone’s arm. “He’s a nice guy.”

“What does he do besides piddle with the roof?”

“He works on his computer, and he studies the stars. Every night he stands in the front yard, staring at the sky through his telescope. Sometimes, I think he stays out there all night.”

“It’ll be cold soon.”

I shrugged. Thomas wandered in, barechested, barefooted, his blonde hair wet from the shower, his jeans clinging low on his hips. He smelled of shampoo and soap. He greeted T-Bone and opened a soda from the refrigerator. He leaned against the counter and downed half the bottle, then casually pushed aside a Vietnamese cookbook, four eggshells, a shoe, and a hammer, and hopped up on the counter. His bare feet dangled in the air, his toes wiggling.

Thomas asked T-Bone what he thought of the homeless situation. T-Bone said it was a sad thing in a country as rich as ours. Somewhere music was playing, rock ’n roll, switched on by Thomas after his shower. The singer said he wanted sex. Thomas tapped his fingers to a beat I could barely hear.

“I’m trying to talk Maud into going to D.C. with me to protest our government’s indifference to the homeless,” Thomas said. “We could sleep in boxes in front of the White House.”

T-Bone’s long, lovely fingers tightened on the beer can. “She could be arrested.”

“That’s the point.”

“She could be hurt.” T-Bone crumbled the beer can in his fist.

“You said yourself the homeless situation wasn’t right.”

“She could catch cold.” T-Bone looked at me.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going today.” I smiled at him. “Today I’m cooking tuna casserole.”

T-Bone nodded and rose, gripping my shoulder for a moment as if it were aluminum instead of bone. “I’ve got some time on my hands. I’ll split some wood for you.”

“Thomas already has,” I said.

T-Bone stared at the young man with the pearly smile then searched my face. “I better get back to the farm then,” T-Bone said.

“But I appreciate the offer,” I said. “Why don’t you come back for tuna casserole?”

Thomas jumped off the counter and stood by me. He flung a friendly arm around my shoulder. T-Bone studied Thomas’s arm as if he were contemplating amputation. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

But he did.

The remains of that horrid tuna casserole was in the wastebasket, drying up and turning brown, when T-Bone called.

“Where are you?” I demanded.

“It must have been one helluva casserole,” T-Bone said.

“You wouldn’t know, would you? You chickened out.”

“Maud.”

“George hated it when people didn’t at least try everything on their plate. If they didn’t show up at all, they were off the guest list forever.”

“Maud.”

“What?”

“Can you come and get me at the hospital? They’ve shot me full of drugs, and they won’t let me drive.”

“Hospital? Drugs?”

That afternoon, as T-Bone chopped his own wood for the winter, the ax slipped and cut off two toes, two of his dancing toes. I yelled at Thomas the whole way to the hospital, as we bounced and swayed down Highway 100 at 85 miles per hour.

“He said he wasn’t watching what he was doing. How can you not pay attention swinging an ax as long as your arm? How can you miss a whole fucking chopping block?”

“He’s going to be okay, Maud.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“He did.”

“He should have called sooner.”

T
he night was quiet and full of waiting. My father would have said he smelled snow on the cold night breath. For the moment, it was clear, and Thomas was in the front yard with his telescope. He was searching the skies, as usual.

He shouted, calling me. I pulled on a coat and ran outside.

“I think I saw it,” he laughed. “It was just a smudge of light in the sky, but I know it was a comet.”

It was a cold sky, perfect for a speeding snowball. Thomas huddled in his down vest. He had forgotten his gloves again. I returned to the house, found his gloves, and took them to him.

“Here, put these on.” Thomas absently pulled on the gloves.

“I did see it,” he cried, grabbing my hand.

I studied the sky. It looked as if the sky had dropped thousands of feet and we could reach up and pluck a star. It was coldest when it was this clear. The day’s warmth escaped and mixed with the heat of the stars making them twinkle even brighter.

“Did you know that sunlight and solar winds always keep a comet’s tail pointing away from the sun,” Thomas chattered. “When Halley’s Comet left the solar system in 1985, it sped away tail first like a family movie played backwards. When it returns, I’ll be ninety-five.”

“And I’ll be one of those stars in the sky,” I said, “just a smudge on the cosmos.”

He burbled on about comets and how people used to think of them alternately as the souls of heroes on the way to heaven and the messengers of disease and doom. “How could anyone be afraid of a comet? How could anyone be afraid of anything in the heavens? It’s so beautiful up there.”

“We’re not afraid of comets,” I said. “We love them.” I remembered Amos and Bartholomew wearing Halley’s Comet T-shirts and how Freda’s son begged for a Halley’s Comet cap for Christmas. “That mail-order house is selling those caps for fifteen dollars a pop,” Freda said with disgust. “And they’re ugly. Nothing but a baseball cap with a comet streaking through the crown.”

“Everyone wants to know about comets,” Thomas said. “Will they shed light on our beginnings? Do they hold ‘the stuff of life’, as scientists believe?” Thomas laughed. “My father was about the only one who wasn’t excited about Halley’s. He said, ‘You—man—hold the stuff of life.”’

“You don’t believe him?”

“Sure. Some days.”

I left Thomas hunting the skies for comets and went to bed. Since Thomas was making himself at home on the sofa, I had moved back into my room. I slept badly in the pale room. I snuggled the covers up under my chin and thought of T-Bone’s room, how dark and cozy and simple it seemed. T-Bone chose wallpaper with deep hunter green and burgundy, earth tones. It’s a warren of a room, like the office, a hole where a man can hunker down amid his farm magazines and cologne-smelling sheets. It’s a solid room, a room that holds you and you can hold on to. It is nothing like my room, like my entire house. All the walls in my house are white, and the furniture is furniture color. For such a realistic decor, nothing seems real here. I hate my room the most. It lacks substance, heart; it has the soul of a turnip. It fills me with dreams.

George is always in them, of course, wearing his softball uniform. He stands in the center of the attic studio, his hands on his hips, popping gum. He rocks back and forth on the heels of his baseball shoes and asks what I’m doing.

I am painting.

George shrugs and starts pitching a ball up in the air, tossing it over his head, and pretending it’s a high fly ball. He dodges in front of the painting to catch it. Lucky you still paint those little greeting cards at the Round Corners Restaurant, he says, diving for the ball and crashing into the canvas. He grabs the canvas, rights it, and retrieves his ball. Again and again he tosses the ball, each catch leading to further destruction, each bobble ending in overturned jars of brushes, smashed chairs, and squirted tubes of paint. Finally, when the studio is sufficiently wrecked, he heads for the door.

I closed my eyes.

What I wouldn’t give for one night’s sleep, a peaceful sleep, maybe dreaming of bulls. Powerful Picasso bulls.

The cows were bawling when I pulled into T-Bone’s yard the next morning. It was ten o’clock. Clouds had rolled in while I was wishing for dream bulls. The weatherman predicted snow by nightfall. I slapped my cold arms and believed him.

Inside the barn, everything was quiet except an orchestra of angry cows. They wanted to be milked, and they wanted the deed done now. I flipped on the radio as I passed through the milk room. The cows shuffled uncomfortably in their stalls. I tried to soothe them as I began hooking up the machines. I spoke to them in what little French I knew.

“T-Bone knows I hate this beaucoup,” I told one put-upon bovine. “I bet he overslept on purpose, just to spite me. I try to help him around here and I don’t get an ounce of appreciation, not one
merci
.”

A cat, one of the huge extended feline family that made its home in the barn (no relation to Cat on the couch), rubbed against me. I shook my finger at it. “The human you own is a very poor patient. I’ve met bears with better dispositions. You have to wrestle him to get him to eat. And his diet stinks. Beer and potato chips. Potato chips and beer. I try to get him to eat a pretzel once in awhile, just for variety.”

I patted one cud-chewing bossy and shoved her to the side to reach the milking machine. She looked at me with sympathy in her eyes. “He sleeps on the couch in the office. In his clothes. His conversation’s gone to hell. Doesn’t read the newspaper anymore. He even forgets to fill the bird feeders. Speaking of food, would you prefer the hay à la orange or the hay cordon bleu today? Don’t worry; I didn’t cook it.”

When I finished with the cows, I stomped into T-Bone’s house, knocking the barn from my Nikes on the door jamb. I tossed my coat on a hook on the wall, washed my hands, and took a six-pack from the refrigerator. I knew where to find him.

T-Bone’s bandaged foot was propped up on the coffee table, which was covered with empty beer bottles, empty beer cans, and empty bags of potato chips. Crutches peeped out from under the sofa. Cat slept on his chest. He rolled on his side and groaned; the last edge of the afghan slipped to the floor.

The temperature in T-Bone’s office was freezing. I built up the fire in the wood stove. Then I scooped up some birdseed from the bag in the corner and ran out to the bird feeder. The wind was coming up and blasted its way through my sweater. I slammed the door loudly on my way back in.