Tracey giggles like a tween. “I hate to jinx it by gloating, but we had an amazing time. He took me to a show at the Goodman and afterward we had the most delectable dinner at Nightwood. For the first course, we split hand-cut pasta with veal meatballs. Then I had weather-vane scallops in a tomato broth and he got a braised pork belly that—”
I moan, “Stop, you’re killing me! You know what I ate today? Peanut butter and lemon curd on an English muffin. Untoasted. Yesterday I had a tortilla filled with ham and mustard, a can of chicken broth, a drive-through cheeseburger, and a mushy apple. I’m considering robbing a 7-Eleven just so I can go back to jail and get a hot meal.”
“When will your kitchen be up and running?”
“As it stands now? A quarter past never, because the cabinets are just impossible and they need to go up before we move on to anything else. We’re at a stopping point and we’ve barely even started.”
“Why don’t you buy or rent those support things that hold up the cabinets while you drill?”
Hold the phone — what? “What are you talking about?”
“Here, let me Google it; I think I just saw them use something like this on
I slump down in disappointment. “Oh, well, no wonder Mac didn’t buy one. We can’t afford seven thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars.”
“No, Mia, it’s just seventy-nine dollars.”
“Tracey, I’m going to need to call you back.” I hastily put down the phone and rush out to Mac’s workshop.
“Mac! Mac!” I race to the garage with the dogs right on my heels. Mac’s at his worktable, studying plans. “Honey! Our problems are solved! All we need is a T-JAK! It’s some kind of support that’ll hold up the ceiling when we drywall it and that way I won’t get all crippled trying to install the cabinets either! It’s a miracle! It’s, well, it’s probably some kind of tube and platform and—”
“I know what a T-JAK is.”
That stops me dead in my tracks. “You do?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t we have one?”
He shrugs. “Because I heard pros don’t use them. They’re for amateurs.”
I think about the debacle we had a couple of days ago, when we ruined a whole sheet of drywall trying to install it on the ceiling, and reflect on how much my shoulders hurt from trying to hoist cabinets and the resulting tension, and I can’t stop what comes out of my mouth next.
The stack of bills in front of me is the same height as my mug of tea. I have them sorted into stacks of “late,” “very late,” and “they’re probably going to send some guys.” Every time I look at them, I hyperventilate. Now that I’ve finished my book, the money’s going to come, but I won’t see a check until I finish my revisions, and then another good six weeks. These bills need to be paid now. Each time the phone rings I’m shot through with anxiety and I hate it. I’ve gone my entire adult life making careful financial decisions specifically to never have to deal with a situation like this.
I’ve been running spreadsheets of our household expenses and I’m trying to cut every last bit of fat. While I pore over my paperwork, Mac strolls by eating an apple. There’s something about his cavalier attitude that makes a tiny part of me fantasize about stuffing the apple in his mouth and roasting him over a spit.
“Mac, can you come here for a minute?”
“What’s up?” He leans over my shoulder to see my array of paperwork.
“I’ve found an area where we can economize.”
Mac attempts to not roll his eyes. “Mia, this is all going to be fine in a month. I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself right now.”
“Why am I ‘torturing myself’? This is why.” I begin to slap envelopes down in front of him.“ComEd, North Shore Gas, AT&T, Comcast, Abington Cambs Department of Water Management, Abington Cambs Bank and Trust, Chubb, Geico, MasterCard, MasterCard, MasterCard, Visa, American Express, Discover Card, U.S. Department of Education, and. . Macy’s? Why do we have a Macy’s bill?”
Mac shrugs and takes a loud, wet bite. “I needed some new shorts.”
“Cool. What are we doing, switching to cheaper toilet paper?”
“Yes,” I hiss.“We’re going to stop wiping our asses on bonds and start using Charmin.”
He takes a step back and coolly appraises me. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mia.”
I stiffen.“Noted. Anyway, what we need to do is cancel our gym membership. We’re month-to-month anyway, so we’re not going to lose a huge membership fee. Plus, we’re getting quite a workout here.” All the physical exertion of rebuilding this place coupled with stress has had a marked reflection on my waistline. I’ve easily dropped fifteen pounds.151
Mac takes another noisy bite. “No can do. Where would we shower?”
“Here’s a novel idea,” I suggest. “Why don’t you quit screwing around in your workshop and wandering the aisles of Home Depot and actually install one of the new showers? Or hook up the tub; I’m really not picky at this point.”
He says nothing, opting instead to chew his apple slowly. I continue. “I just saw one of those save-the- children things on TV. You know, where some organization visits underprivileged families in Appalachia and brings the kids candy bars and crayons and stuff? The announcer was all, ‘This family only has cold running water in their bathroom,’ and I got jealous over their ability to take a chilly shower! Mac, we live in what was — and hopefully someday will again be — a mansion, yet I envy people who receive charity. What’s wrong with this picture?”
He finishes his apple with a slurp and attempts a three-point shot into the garbage with the core. Only he hits the can in such a way that the whole wastebasket tips over. “Fine. I’ll do it tomorrow, or as soon as I get the west wall of the workshop organized.” Then he stalks off, most likely to do something inane and useless, like sort screws by length and diameter.
I’ll admit that the few projects we’ve completed successfully happened because Mac could immediately locate packets of molly bolts in his huge workshop. When he needed to whittle down a door edge, I was grudgingly impressed by how he’d labeled all his various wood planes by function, e.g., for smoothing, polishing, routing, etc. So perhaps there’s some merit in being orderly, yet a tidy workshop does little to negate the fact that
I call the gym and cancel my membership immediately, and it’s only once I hang up that I realize my mistake. I haven’t showered yet today. If I call back and leave my membership open until tomorrow, I’ll be charged for another whole month. As I see it, I’ve got three choices: I can go without, I can hop in the lake, or I can get arrested.
My stomach growls, causing me to longingly recall the oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies I had in the holding cell. Yet as understanding as the judge was, I really can’t risk another appearance at the Abington Cambs lockup. I’m all sweaty and dirty from yanking weeds, so I guess it’s time to hit the lake.
I grab my shower bucket and towel, and because I just do not care at this point, I take the trail through the woods and to the sand instead of climbing down our rocky promontory.
I haven’t even gotten in up to my waist when I realize I’m not alone. In my peripheral vision, I notice a familiar apple-cheeked toddler wandering into the light surf. I’m shocked to see that the kid isn’t all done up in zinc oxide and floaties and a sun hat, because I get a real protective vibe from that family.
I crane my neck to see Lululemon, and brace myself for her ire at being on her beach, but she’s nowhere in sight.
Hold on a second — is that kid down here
