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"It's funny, very tender, and enormously, tremendously human. In fact, Clear Heart just might be one of the most human books I've read in a long time." —Colleen Mondor, Bookslut
" I LOVED this book. In fact, I couldn't put it down. It's about a 55 year old ex-hippy carpenter named Wally—and the interaction between true craftsmen, their good-natured joking, routines and habits (like sometimes getting too friendly with female clients). It's male bonding at its finest, filled with endearing characters and fast-paced, nail-biting mishaps. And it made me want to ask Wally: 'You hiring?'"—Kari Hesse, The Village Carpenter
" I just couldn’t put it down. It was a great read. Now I have met many of the people in Joe’s novel, quirky sub contractors, stupid clients and the like. I found myself (I believe for the first time) actually rooting for fictional characters. The book is gripping. It is a love story and so much more. I should also tell you that it is a book for adults. I wouldn’t have my (prude) sister read the book."—Stephen Shepherd, Full Chisel Blog
Clear Heart
a novel by Joe Cottonwood
Smashwords edition: Copyright © 2009 by Joe Cottonwood
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
David Minard, graphic wizard, designed the book cover. Tom Dodd and Terry Allen, good builders and good men, improved many of the construction details. David LeCount and Taruno Vega improved my Spanish, especially the cussing. Connie Mariottini, a fine decorator, was my tour guide to bad taste in the Silicon Valley. Doctors John Rosenberg and Leah Malhotra were my medical advisory team. Jiab Sopitsuda Tongsopit helped me with Thailand. Thank you, all.
Tools are special and individual. Each of us has a different size of hand, strength of muscle, sense of grace. When I name a particular tool in this story, it’s neither placement nor endorsement. It’s just how tradesmen talk. My own hammer (a Vaughan California Framer, hickory handle), which balances so nimbly in my hand, might feel in your fingers like a Chevy rear axle.
One more thing: I made up the characters. Carpenters, clients-from-Hell, everybody is fiction. What exists in real life are the tools, the sawdust, and one particular toy chest—plus a few of the houses, each one a miracle.
ALSO BY JOE COTTONWOOD
For Grown-Ups:
The Naked Computer
Famous Potatoes
Frank City (Goodbye)
Poetry:
Son of a Poet
For Children and Grown-Ups:
The Adventures of Boone Barnaby
Danny Ain’t
Babcock
Quake!
One
Somehow, each new day, year after year, the plywood seemed heavier while the quality seemed crappier—just like my body, Wally was thinking. Awkwardly balanced on the ladder, Wally pushed a raggedy four-by-eight-foot panel up toward the roof. Sweat trickled along the hairs of Wally’s armpits and dripped to the second-story subfloor fourteen feet below. He supported the plywood with the top of his belly, a splinter digging into his flesh, as he shifted his grip.
Standing above Wally, straddling two roof trusses, Juke was ready. While Juke took hold of the top of the panel and lifted from above, Wally pushed the plywood from below.
Wally’s arms trembled.
They both saw it.
“Fork it, Boss,” Juke said. “You’re too old for this.”
“Respect—” Wally said, panting, “—your elders.” Wally was fifty-five. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his gray hair tied back in a ponytail.
Juke, less formal, wore no shirt at all, just cutoff shorts, steel-toed boots, and a living mural of tattoos. Laying the plywood over the trusses, squinting a practiced eye, Juke lined up the edge and set to work with the nailgun. Phap phap phap.
“No bounce-nailing,” Wally said as he climbed down the ladder.
“Yes, sir, fork you, sir,” Juke said indifferently as he concentrated on the nailing. Phap phap phap phap phap. “And fork your mother too, sir.”
“Bounce-nail, go to jail,” Wally said, equally without passion.
“And I tender my forkin’ resignation.” Juke shifted his weight over the nailer. Phap phap phap phap phap phap phap.
It was a well-polished conversation, abbreviated from years of practice.
In bounce-nailing, a skilled operator—and Juke was as nimble as they came—could bounce the pneumatic nailer down a sheet of plywood, driving a nail each time the tip of the gun made contact with the surface of the wood. It was like precision dribbling of a basketball. In fact, watching Juke on a roof reminded Wally of a Harlem Globetrotters warm-up routine. Instead of a ball, Juke bounced a Duo-Fast nailer they’d named Debbie Doofus, a venerable tool, indestructible like a block of concrete, too heavy for most carpenters—but not for Juke.
Wally hated bounce-nailing, though it was common practice in the industry. Since the trigger was permanently on, the nailgun would fire on contact with anything. Besides the danger, in the hands of an amateur it left a sloppy line of nails. Wally had tried to ban it years ago, but Juke threw a legendary shit-fit that ended with Juke shouting, “I tender my forkin’ resignation.” So Wally gave in—if Juke agreed to wear safety glasses. Juke hated the “goggles,” but that was the deal.
Wally had a head for business, caution, and social skills. Juke had a head for craft, speed, and trashy women.
Phap phap phap. “Who you gonna hire?” Juke called down from the roof. Phap phap.
“Had a guy,” Wally said, sliding the next sheet of 19/32 CDX ply up the ladder. “Maybe you saw him. Showed up yesterday morning, supposed to start—”
“Yeah, saw him.” Juke reached down for the plywood, which was still below his grasp. “Blue forkin’ Dodge with side boxes.”
“—and he’s holding a beer can in one hand and a joint in the other. At eight in the morning.” Wally, now at the top of the ladder, raised the sheet above the angle of the truss.
“So I guess you fired his ass.” Juke was no stranger to alcohol—or marijuana—or just about any method of impairing one’s brain—but he knew Wally’s Laws, plain and simple. Wally’s Law #14: Get wasted after work. Juke could abide. He liked working for Wally.
Still leaning down, Juke grasped the top of the plywood with his fingers and pulled.
And at that moment on that hillside where the frame of a house was rising among live oaks and wild oats with a red-tailed hawk soaring above, the world stirred. On this calm day, with neither Juke nor Wally noticing, clouds had formed. The oak branches bent. The oats flattened. The hawk shot out of sight.
Juke was just turning sideways when the wind hit. Suddenly, from out of nowhere a bolt of air was pulling the plywood—and Juke along with it—like a big, stiff kite.
Down below, meanwhile, Wally still had a hand on the plywood in addition to supporting it with his belly and, for one brief moment, no grip on the ladder. The updraft whipped the plywood out of his fingers and knocked his body off balance. Instinctively, Wally shifted his weight.
The ladder shifted, reacting to Wally’s sudden move.
Up above, Juke realized that if he didn’t let go he would be lifted to hang-glide into the sky under a four-by-eight panel of plywood. So he let go. The rough edge of the sheet ripped the tips of his fingers and sailed away. Juke fell back against Debbie the Duo-Fast, which started to slide down the slope of the roof decking. Juke, with raw, bleeding fingertips, reached for the nailgun and at the same time saw that Wally had lost his balance on the ladder just below.
Their eyes locked.
Wally was fourteen feet up a ladder that was moving to the right while his body was twisting to the left. Juke lunged for Wally’s hand just as Wally, whose body had now spiraled a hundred and eighty degrees, was desperately reaching over and behind his head to grab the king post of the truss. Juke had the nailer in his grip. All three—nailgun, Wally’s hand, king post—met at the same moment.
Phap.
For Wally, it was a moment of absolute clarity. He felt—and even smelled—the puff of compressed air, stale from a hundred feet of hose, that had driven the nail through his wrist. He felt Juke’s hand grabbing his own free left hand, the one that wasn’t nailed to the post. He heard the sliding of the ladder and then the clatter as it hit the floor below. He heard a mighty thud and a splintering of wood as the nailgun, dropped by Juke, struck the floor a moment later, and he even had time for the passing thought that the damage had been to the subfloor, not to Debbie Doofus. He kicked his feet in a broad arc searching for support even though he knew that nothing was there.
“Jesus fuck!” Juke shouted from above.
And there was a woman. Where she had come from Wally had no idea. Already she was lifting the fallen ladder, but she wasn’t strong and the ladder was heavy.
Inside the nailed wrist, Wally felt two separate bones grinding against the nail. Or maybe the nail had shot right through one bone, splitting it in two. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that inside his body, bone was in contact with steel, that the bone and nail and flesh were supporting the weight of his body, that the flesh was ripping as he wriggled, that the nail felt solid and unforgiving, that the bone felt as if it was bending and would be torn from its little sockets and pop like a broken spring out of his skin. Weird explosive shock waves were racing up the nerves of his arm to overload and confuse his brain. Even more urgent, rising into Wally’s awareness above the flood of pain: He couldn’t breathe. The weight of his body was stretching the muscles across his chest so that only with a supreme effort could he exhale, making quick ineffective puffs. With rapidly de-oxygenating air in his lungs, he was suffocating.
Juke, still holding Wally’s left hand in one of his own, lay down flat on the roof decking and placed his free hand under Wally’s armpit. When he had a solid grip he moved his other hand to Wally’s other armpit, supporting all of Wally’s weight.
With an explosion of fusty air Wally exhaled, coughing, and then sucked a deep gasp of breath.
Juke’s face was now pressed up against Wally’s, cheek to cheek, stubble to stubble, sweat to sweat.
Wally was panting, catching up on oxygen.
Meanwhile, down below, the woman couldn’t lift the ladder. Whoever she was, she’d never before dealt with the unwieldy heft of an OSHA Type A Louisville fiberglass extension ladder.
Juke called down to the woman: “You—uh—you—”
Wally could feel Juke’s jaw moving against his own.
“You gotta—” Juke was trying to tell the woman how to raise the ladder but he was handicapped by his speech impediment—an inability to open his mouth without cursing. Juke’s personal law of carpenter etiquette wouldn’t allow him to swear in the presence of a lady. He might be rough but he was gallant. Or if not gallant, at least fearful: Juke still had nightmares starring angry nuns.
“Walk it up,” Wally said in a voice that sounded strangely high-pitched to his own ears.
The woman, confused, raised her face toward Wally. “What?”
For an instant, Wally stared. Her eyes, even at this distance, the eyes of a puppy, luminous and brown.
Juke, meanwhile, stared as well. He could see right down the front of her jersey. Nice rack.
“Grab one end,” Wally squeaked, trying not to screech, to remain calm, to ignore the electric buzz that was running up his arm. “Place the tip against the wall, and then walk under the ladder, lifting it higher as you go, keeping one end against the wall. Can you do that, please?”
The please came out a little higher than Wally had intended. Screechy high.
The woman tried. She raised the ladder half way, sliding it up the studs. A moment of extended arms, trembling. As she tried to shift her grip, she lost it. The side of the ladder bounced against her shoulder and then rattled to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Briefly she laid a hand on her shoulder, wincing.
“You all right?” Wally said.
“My God. What a thing for you to ask right now.” Already she was trying again. This time she seemed to get a better angle on it, walking the ladder up the frame of two-by-fours without overextending her arms.
With something like a ballet move, Wally was able to arch his potbellied body and swing his legs sideways while the woman slid the ladder until his foot, and then two feet, once again supported his weight.
Juke could now let go of Wally. There were bloody fingerprints on Wally’s arm. Wally’s body was blocking Juke’s access to the ladder. Juke whispered, “Now what, Boss?”
Wally spoke to the woman below. “See that saw? No, behind you. The Milwaukee. There. Yes, that. Can you bring it up the ladder and give it to my partner here? You’ll have to reach around my body—no—better idea—I’ve got a free hand—you hand it to me and I’ll hand it to him. Carry it by the handle so you don’t touch the trigger.” Always Mr. Safety. “Make sure it stays plugged in to the extension cord. Okay?”
Oops. His voice had squeaked again on the okay.
Juke whispered, “No, Boss. I ain’t cuttin’ your hand off.”
“Cut the post,” Wally said.
And that’s exactly what Juke did.
Wally walked on his own two feet out of the house and straight to his truck, his hair powdered with fresh sawdust, his left hand cradling an eighteen-inch piece of two-by-four Douglas fir that was still nailed to his right wrist, trailing blood. But then as Wally reached for the door handle his knees buckled.
Juke grabbed him by the belt.
“How about my car?” the woman said. “He could lie down.”
And so it came to pass that Wally lay in the rear of an old Subaru wagon on a blanket smelling of dog, driven to the emergency room by a woman he’d never seen before, a woman with thick, rich chestnut hair gathered loosely in a blue ribbon. Juke was riding shotgun, silent, stiff, nervously beating his knee with his fist and glancing to the rear where two golden retrievers were wagging their tails and taking turns licking Wally’s face.
“By the way, I’m Wally,” Wally said from beneath the slobber of a dog. “And this is my partner Juke.”
“I’m Opal.” The woman flashed a smile. “Pleased to meet you. Well. You know what I mean.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wally said. He was glad that his voice was no longer screeching, though the pain that had moved temporarily to the background while he was arranging his rescue was now coming full blast. There were two separate tortures: one from the specific point where the head of the nail was embedded in his flesh up against the bone, the other a more general agony that made his brain throb.
Juke said nothing.
Wally wished he could have another look at Opal’s face, into those puppy eyes. He said, “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you—”
“I’m a photographer,” Opal replied without turning around. “For the belt sanding? At lunch time? Guess I was late. Sorry.”
On Fridays they raced belt sanders. Word had spread, and lately every Friday at lunch a small but rowdy crowd would gather at the construction site. Some came to watch, some to bet, and some came to match their own belt sanders against Wally and Juke and anyone else who happened to be on the construction crew that day. This particular Friday a newspaper reporter came too, but his photographer never showed up, so he didn’t think the editor would run the article.
“Maybe,” Wally said, “you were just in time.”
Juke relaxed slightly. This was no lady. This was a photographer. He turned to face Wally: “Hey, Boss, I am so forkin’ sorry—”
“At least you missed my heart,” Wally said.
“Yeah, Boss, missed your brain too,” Juke said. “Speaking of brains, you hear about that forkhead who was unjamming his nailgun, had it cradled in his forkin’ lap, still had the forkin’ air hose connected, and—”
“Agggh,” Wally gargled, instinctively crossing his legs.
At the sound of Wally’s agggh, the golden retrievers intensified their licking.
“Leary! Timothy!” Opal turned to the dogs. “Leave the poor man alone.”
Wow. Those eyes. Combined with that chestnut hair she reminded Wally of a dog he once had, high-strung and high-joy, a nervous, playful mostly-Irish-setter pup. “Too bad,” Wally said, “you didn’t get your picture.”
Opal faced the road again. “Got one,” she said.
Two
Opal gave Juke a ride back to the construction site. She’d pitied him in the hospital waiting room, flopping about like a fish in a bucket. Clearly he was not a man to be confined. Or to make small talk. He was lanky, awkward like an overgrown kid, tongue-tied in the presence of unfamiliar women, nearly indecent wearing boots and cutoff shorts, no shirt, with red chest hair and vibrant tattoos. Not cute, but she knew plenty of women who would find Juke irresistibly sexy: strong, wild with a hint of danger, a stallion in need of a bridle.
In the Subaru they rode in silence, side by side, up the long, winding road from the flatlands into the hills overlooking the Silicon Valley. Juke fidgeted. The dogs panted in the rear. She wanted to ask Juke about Wally, an odd mixture of a man, this fellow with the face of a scholar who wore a tool belt patched with duct tape, a man who while hanging nailed to a board asked her if she was all right.
Finally she said, “Should we call somebody? His family?”
Juke shook his head.
“He has no family?”
“Kids gone. Just the wife.”
“He has a wife?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then shouldn’t somebody call her?”
“No, ma’am.”
“They’re divorced?”
“Uh, no. No, ma’am.”
“Separated?”
Juke stopped fidgeting for a moment and looked her straight in the eye. He seemed angry. “She ain’t forkin’ there, ma’am. Okay?”
“Okay, gotcha,” Opal said, blushing. She hated being transparent. Even this roughneck carpenter could see what she was up to, probably better than she knew herself. What was she up to, anyway? And why did she have the feeling that Juke was trying to protect Wally from something? From her? “I mean,” she said, “I figured, like, with a man you never know, but since he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—”
“He’s still married,” Juke said. “Can’t wear a ring in construction. Catches on shit. Rip your finger off. Writes a letter to her. Every forkin’ day.”
She discerned an almost imperceptible pause, a slight pursing of lip, a tiny tension before the word “forkin’.” A filter, she realized. It reassured her to find a hint of civility in this man who—face it—had probably never, ever, flossed his teeth.
“A letter?” Opal said. “That’s sweet. Where is she?”
“She’s gone.”
“She left him? Is that it?”
“No, ma’am.”
Opal tried to drop it. She told herself, Please, just once in your life, leave somebody’s relationships unexplained. But about a minute later she said, “Couldn’t he call her sometimes? Send e-mail?”
“You don’t get it.”
“My God. Is she in jail?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why can’t she—? I mean where would—? Antarctica?”
Juke sighed. “She’s dead, ma’am.”
“Oh, how awful.” And yet somehow, Opal was relieved.
“He’s still married, ma’am. Writes her a letter, every forkin’ day.”
“Does he mail it?”
“No, ma’am. He ain’t psycho.”
Three
The sun was setting as Juke stepped out of the Subaru. Alert for movement—thieves, vandals—he crossed the construction site. In the panic they’d left their tools out, unguarded. The rest of the crew had gone home after the belt sander races, something Wally let them do every Friday. Only Juke had stayed with Wally to help finish off the roof decking.
Some coals were still glowing in the barbecue. One of the crew, a big man named Steamboat, always brought a barbecue to the site and cooked himself some lunch. Fridays, he made ribs for everybody. Finger-sucking good ribs.
Twice before, the site had been vandalized. Snotty-ass kids. Somebody had spray-painted THIS HOUSE SUCKS on the foundation wall, and another time somebody had slashed twenty-two sacks of ready-mix concrete and then pissed over them, spelling out what looked like a raggedy "BeelZe," which had hardened over a weekend into concrete graffiti. And then there was the uphill neighbor, a guy named Pilpont, big-shot stockbroker who kept filing bullshit lawsuits trying to stop the construction, keep the view, preserve the land as open space. Everybody suspected Pilpont had something to do with the spray paint, not that the man would do it himself in any way that could be traced to him.
Right now, though, the site was calm. There was a smell of fresh-cut wood borne on gusts of wind. The sky was orange, visible through the skeleton of the house. To Juke a fully framed house was a thing of beauty, lovely like a woman, sensual, strong and yet vulnerable, naked to the weather, the vandals.
Gotta button up fast now, roof and siding, before she gets hurt. This house sucks? Plumb and true, each and every stick, and solid as granite. No gaps in these joints, no bow in these boards.
“Forkin’ tight, Boss,” Juke said to himself.
A rustle.
The sound of his voice had flushed some creature—or some person. Where? Juke, a born hunter, stood absolutely still, listening. Shadows, a slight motion behind a stack of insulation batts. Juke crept closer. He dove. Tackled. Legs, blue jeans. Got ’im.
A scream. Kicking. “Let me go, let me go!” It was a girl. Teenager. Zit face.
Surprised, Juke let go.
And immediately something solid like a steel pipe smashed him on the neck.
“Hey!”
She was running.
Juke leaped to his feet and chased. The first floor was a maze of two-by-fours, the bones of walls you could pass right through or dodge around. The girl scrambled between studs and leaped to the ground. Juke hurtled through the six-foot frame of a window and raced after her.
She was quick.
He was quicker. Caught her arm. Held on. “You,” Juke said. “You—”
“Let me go!”
“No. You . . .”
She gave up struggling. She was panting. A big girl. Stocky. Clouds of breath in the evening air. In her hand a long black Maglite, switched off.
Juke tried again. “You—uh—you . . .”
She looked scared. Juke still had a hand clamped over her parka. She said, “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I ain’t.”
“Please.”
“You. Uh. Look. You. Hey. Uh.”
Juke had the feeling she was studying him, sizing him up. He tried again: “You . . .”
Pause.
“You. Hey.”
Suddenly she looked defiant. “What’s the matter, can’t you talk?”
“Yeah. You . . .”
“Would you please let go of my arm?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So what am I supposed to do—suck your dick?”
Juke drew a deep breath. “Forkin’ little bitch. I oughta call the cops.”
Again she looked scared. “Please don’t.”
“I oughta.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Then what in holy horseshit are you doing here?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah? You ran.”
“Because you scared me.”
“You bashed me. With the forkin’ flashlight.”
“Because you tackled me.”
“You were hiding.”
“Because you look like a creep.”
“I work here. You’re trespassing.”
“You assaulted me.”
It stopped him. He held on, silent, glaring.
She glared back. “What do you want?”
“Somebody’s been jacking this place. Spray paint. Tore open the ready-mix and pissed on—”
“I didn’t do that. Jeezo. You think I—? Jeezo. I chased them away.”
“You chased them?”
“Yes.”
“You know them?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“Yes.”
“So you been here before?”
“Yes.”
“You live around here?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Yes. I live around here.”
Juke let go of her arm.
She didn’t bolt. She shivered, shaking from head to foot like a dog shaking off water. But she stayed.
He should talk to her parents. Yeah, right. And say what? Juke knew how he’d appear to the people in this neighborhood of electric gates and security cameras. He could build a house on their street but he’d better not knock on their doors. Around here twenty acres was considered a small plot and guys like Pilpont, if they didn’t like how you landscaped your estate, they’d file a lawsuit. Juke came from a place where nobody had landscape, just parking space, and if you had a dispute with your neighbor you shot out his windows.
“What’s your name?”
“FrogGirl.”
“What?”
“Frog. Girl.”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“Mine. It’s my name.” She ran a hand through her hair, which was red, curly, short.
“Hey,” Juke said. “I get it. You’re French?”
“No.”
“So then. What?”
“Look. I don’t have to explain my name.”
Juke squinted, studying her. “You don’t look that much like a frog.”
“Thank you.”
“No. I mean.”
“I know what you mean. It’s all right. We can’t all be cute.”
“Yeah. I mean.”
“Yes.”
Two uncute people. Their eyes met briefly. Hers were dark green and at the same time bright. An angry teenager from a rich neighborhood. And Juke was a convicted felon. Not to mention what he wasn’t convicted of, what he wasn’t even suspected of, what the law didn’t know and Juke wasn’t telling. He could see who had the power here. Big danger. Assaulted her. Shit. And yet something about her seemed okay. Like he knew her. Like she was a kid sister, a troublemaker, but kin.
“Okay, hey,” Juke said, looking away. “Just don’t come messing around here again.”
“Nobody took your tools. I made sure.”
“Uh, hey. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She started to walk away. It was almost dark now. “Cool house,” she called, looking back. “Forkin’ tight, Boss.” She flashed a smile that lit up the twilight. Then she turned away.
Juke noted her walking: like a man. No waddle to her butt.
She never turned on the Maglite. She simply disappeared into the deepening shadows.
Four
Wally, from a sound sleep, heard a ringing phone, sat up, tried to grasp the handset with the bandaged hand. Why wouldn’t his fingers close? He beat at the handset with his bandage, sending explosions of pain through his arm. Which woke him up. Using the left hand he picked up the phone. The room was black, lit only by the glow of the clock radio dial.
“You all right?” It was his daughter’s voice. Sally.
“I’m fine. Are you? Sally, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” Sally was a Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya. “It’s about you, Dad. You sure you’re okay?”
“Sally, it’s five in the morning here. What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I’m standing at the edge of a corn field. A bunch of little kids are staring up at me. I borrowed this satellite phone and there’s only about thirty seconds left on the battery. Dad, I saw the picture. You really okay?”
“What picture?”
“On the Internet. The picture of you nailed to the house.”
“There’s a picture?”
“You didn’t see it?”
“Sally, I was in the emergency room until midnight. I’ve had about three hours of sleep. My arm feels like—like a bullet went through it. My God, Sally. I’m your dad. You call a dad at five in the morning and do you have any idea what kind of horror runs through my head? But I love hearing your voice . . . Are we still connected?”
Silence.
Apparently, the battery had died.
Kids. You gotta love ’em. Sally kept in touch with the home town news whenever she could find an Internet cafe.
How do they build in Kenya? Mud? Grass? Or stick-frame construction? Would they use two-by-fours or some weird metric crap? Wally lay back, imagining. It scared him having her in Africa—terrorists and AIDS and all the evils of the world out there, and he could do nothing to protect her.
Remembering the warm sound of her voice, for a few minutes he could forget the cold pain in his body.
The next call came at eight in the morning.
“You okay?” It was Leo, Wally’s youngest.
“Yeah, sure, I’m okay.” Wally was in the kitchen, pouring Grape-Nuts into a bowl. “How’d you know?”
“I saw a picture in the Post-Dispatch.” Leo lived in St. Louis.
“So,” Wally said, “a construction accident in California is news in St. Louis?”
“It was just a great photo. You’re in a work of art, Dad. Didn’t even give your name, but I knew as soon as I saw it. Man, that must have hurt.”
“No big deal.”
“Dad, it had to hurt.”
“Okay, it hurt. It’s over.”
“Break anything?”
“Nicked a bone. Nothing broke. Stretched something—tendon or ligament or whatever—hanging there with all my weight on it. Missed the artery. Coulda been worse.”
“Anything I can do, Dad?”
“Just keep calling. Just let me hear your voice.”
“I’ll do that. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” Wally lied.
After saying good-bye, Wally lay down on the kitchen floor. A wave of nausea was rising as, under the bandage, tramping elephants were crushing his arm. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday—after sleeping in them, including his boots—because with one useful hand he couldn’t figure out how to button the pants or retie the shoelaces if he took them off. Likewise he hadn’t changed his bandage in spite of the nurse’s instructions and it was soggy with yellow ooze. The floor was gritty with sand and smelled of rot. Turning his head to the side Wally could see a fruit, shrunken, fuzzy with fungus, in the toe space under the sink cabinet. Months ago, he vaguely recalled, he’d dropped an avocado and never bothered.
Maybe the nausea was something serious like a heart attack. Maybe he would just die right now and remain lying on the floor until he too was shrunken and fuzzy with fungus. Bummer.
He was still lying there when the doorbell rang.
Five
In the hierarchy of real estate values on the San Francisco Peninsula, altitude means wealth. Other than a few pockets of comfort such as the leafy estates of Atherton, the least desirable property is located in the flatlands east of the railroad tracks, which is where Opal found Wally’s neighborhood, a low-rent section of Redwood City where clunker cars were parked three-deep on front lawns and half the houses had iron gratings over the windows. Wally’s yard had no cars on the lawn, but then it had no grass either, just an old water heater lying on its side, some plastic buckets, and a mound of bare dirt. There were no iron grates, but one window was broken, covered with cardboard. Paint was peeling; gutters drooped; a screen door had no screen.
Blurt, she told herself. Don’t be frightened. Just blurt. It’s what you do best.
Opal rapped her knuckles on the door.
For a minute nothing stirred.
She rapped again.
Now you can go, she told herself. Nobody could blame you.
She heard a shuffling sound from within the house. A bump, a crash. More shuffling.
The door opened.
He looked like the house: unmaintained. It wasn’t just the dirt-smeared bandage around his hand and arm. It was the hair, uncombed; the face, unshaved; the clothes, same as yesterday. Had he slept in them? Had he slept at all? He smelled of sweat and sawdust and something more—something both putrid and medicinal wafting from the gauze that was taped around his wrist.
Blurt, girl.
“Hi!” Opal said with as big a smile as she could muster. “I brought you some extra copies of the paper. I suppose you’ve seen it already?”
“Yeah.”
“Lucky shot, right? Didn’t it come out great?”
A moment of silence. Staring blankly, Wally said, “Congratulations.”
“I can’t brag,” Opal said, “because you’re the star. The way your arms are spread out, that expression on your face where you look resigned and—and, you know, angry and—so woeful all at the same time. Even your toes point down. And the track of blood, the way the clouds light up in the background, the angle of the shot from down below . . .” Suddenly Opal got it. “Are you in pain?”
“Some.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. You want to sit down?”
“Yes.”
She reached for his elbow. “You need help?”
“I can walk.”
“I’m so stupid.” Opal followed Wally across a cluttered living room and into a grimy kitchen. “Here I am babbling about my wonderful photo without even asking how are you and all the while you’re standing there in agony and naturally you hate that picture. It humiliates you. Right?”
“Sort of.”
“You’ve been building houses for thirty years or something and you’re probably a superb craftsman and when do you get your picture in the paper? When you get nailed.”
Wally sat down. On the table in front of him was the front page, the photo, the caption: “A bad day at the office.” For a moment he stared at her through wire-rim spectacles while Opal tried not to be repulsed by the greasy gray ponytail, unbrushed and flecked with sawdust. She tried not to look at the ceiling, cobwebs hanging tattered with dust and dead flies. She said, “Didn’t they give you something? For the pain?”
“Doesn’t work.”
“And you don’t want to take something stronger, right? You probably hate drugs?”
“Yeah.” Wally looked at her curiously.
“I think I know how you feel. Because pain is lonely. Nobody can see, nobody can feel, I mean people can know you’ve got pain but nobody can do anything about it and it’s such a lonely thing. It puts you on the other side of something. It alienates you.”
“Yeah.” Wally was watching her with open wonder.
“And here I am intellectualizing,” Opal continued, “which doesn’t help you one bit. I’m sorry. But I think I know how you feel. Lonely.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there.”
“You bet.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No!”
“Good.” Wally smiled. “Because I’m a lousy therapist.”
“I don’t need a therapist. I’m sorry I gave you that impression.” Sometimes when she was in blurt mode, she felt herself slipping out of control. This was one of those times. “Can I come back and start over? Here I barge into your house and start talking about pain and loneliness. You must think I’m toxic.”
“At least you got me off the floor.”
“Omigod. You were lying on that filthy floor?”
“A little nausea.”
“That bandage looks oozy.”
“It’s supposed to drain.”
“Do they always smell like that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been nailed before.”
“I’d better take you back to the emergency room.”
“No!”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Wally was studying her again, as if she were a puzzling photo in a gallery. “You like some tea?”
“Yes, please. You? Let me fix it.”
“I know how to cook water.”
“But you’re hurt. I didn’t mean anything. Can’t we be friends?”
“Yes.” Wally’s eyes widened. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
Silently, digesting those last words, Opal filled a sauce pan with water, lit the gas, found mugs and tea bags without having to ask. Not coffee. Tea. Who was this man?
Seating herself at the opposite side of the table from Wally, dabbing the Lipton’s bag up and down in the mug, Opal said, “I feel like I know your wife.”
Arched eyebrows. “How so?”
“I know where to find things. It’s like I’ve known this kitchen all my life, like I organized it myself. Except I’d clean it.”
Wally smiled. “So would she.”
“Juke told me. He didn’t want to, but I pried it out of him. That your wife had died. Am I being intrusive?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you make this table? And the chairs? They’re so lovely! What kind of wood is this? I’ll bet it glows. That is, it would if it was . . .”
“Clean.”
“Yes. Cared for.”
Wally shrugged. “I’m a little behind in the housework. A couple years.”
Next to Wally was half a wall with ragged edges of torn-out drywall and exposed wiring covered in a layer of dust and grease. Clearly the kitchen had once had a breakfast nook, and he’d stopped in the middle of tearing it out.
On the table was a full bowl of cereal, dry Grape-Nuts. By the bowl was a newspaper and a sheet of paper, the letter half written, the penmanship abominable. Opal tried not to look, tried to keep it from creeping into the corner of her eye. But Wally caught her anyway.
“I admit,” Opal said, “Juke told me you write letters.”
“You want to analyze that?”
“No. I think it’s sweet.”
Wally reached for his tea. “No more letters. For a while.”
“Why?”
“Using my left hand—I get this feeling she won’t be able to read my handwriting.” He laughed, softly.
“Want to dictate the letter to me? I have good handwriting. And don’t worry, I’ll attach a note to explain that I’m your temporary secretary and assure your wife that our relationship is purely platonic.”
“Is it?”
Their eyes met. His were a deep, warm brown.
Wally laughed nervously.
Opal pushed back her chair. “I’d better go.”
“Please. Don’t.”
She stood with her side against the stove. “Honest to God, I’m not like that.”
“Me neither.”
“And that’s not why I came here.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Something stupid. Never mind. And it wasn’t to brag about my picture, either.”
There was an electric clock built into the backboard of the stove, humming, the clock face covered with old brown spatters of grease.
“The last time I made a pass,” Wally said, “it must have been thirty-five years ago.”
“And she ended up marrying you?”
“Yes.”
“Must have been one heck of a pass.”
“Better than that one I just made.”
“Next time you want to hit on somebody, change your bandage first.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And you might wash your hair and change your clothes.”
“I’ll remember that too.”
“Not that I should be giving advice. And not that you should make another pass at me.”
“I’ll definitely remember that.”
Opal placed thumb and index finger over her eyelids, breathing in, breathing out. When she opened her eyes she saw Wally sitting patiently, hopefully, at the table gazing up at her. Like a friendly dog. She said, “I’m sorry if I was seeming flirtatious.”
“You weren’t. I leaped to a conclusion.”
“I think I give out the wrong—I mix my signals a lot. Somebody used to call me the Queen of Mixed Signals. What you should know is, I sing in the Presbyterian choir.”
“I see.” Wally nodded his head. “Yes.” He smiled. “If I’d known you were Presbyterian, I never would have made a pass.”
“Okay. I must sound like a complete idiot.”
She was still standing. Wally gazed up at her from the table and said, “I want you to know I’m not normally the kind of guy who hits on women. Once every thirty-five years. That’s my limit. So who called you the Queen of Mixed Signals?”
“Some guy.” Her ex-husband, actually. He’d also defined her, somewhat fondly, as Ms. Blurt-and-Backpedal.
An empty dog food bowl lay in the corner next to the back door. Opal asked, “Where’s your dog?”
“It died.”
“Omigod. I’m sorry.”
“No letters.”
“I wasn’t even thinking—”
“Look, I appreciate you being here. Being so perky. I could use perk. Won’t you please sit down?”
She’d come on a mission. So far, it had been a disaster. Could she possibly pull it off now? She thought of two dogs meeting for the first time, approaching on tiptoe, fur erect, going through all those funky dog-greeting rituals before they could relax and play. Eventually she and Wally would be ready to relax, to move on. Beyond butt-sniffing. Already she knew some things about him. It was in his choice of words, his gentle manner. And in spite of his hair and his housekeeping she knew without asking that he flossed. Every night.
Retaking her seat, Opal gulped a slug of tea without tasting it. “Just so you know, I have two children.”
“How old?”
“Abe’s eighteen. Ronny’s two.” And she thought: This man hasn’t wiped his stove during Ronny’s entire lifetime.
Wally leaned forward. “Big gap.”
“I had a big gap between marriages. Different fathers. I mean, just so you know. Two husbands, two children, two exes.” She watched to see if Wally flinched. She’d just told him in a continuation of butt-sniffing that she was damaged goods. Twice failed.
Wally was nodding. “Me, three kids. One wife.” An ironic smile. “Just so you know.”
“It’s okay, the age gap thing. Matter of fact at this very moment Abe’s watching Ronny. An in-house babysitter. But I’ll lose him in September. He starts college. Princeton.”
“Ooh la la.” Wally ran a finger around the rim of his mug. “So Abe’s a good kid?”
“Oh yes. Except when he gets in a mood. Then he goes out and sits on the roof. In the rain, even. For hours.”
“How often does that happen?”
“About twice a day.” She laughed. “He’s got some things to sort out. It’s hard. He never had a father figure. Actually, he had a couple of anti–father figures. My fault of course. So out of guilt I’ve probably been too soft on him. I don’t want to make him sound like a spoiled brat because he’s not, but he needs a little focus. A little discipline. This is mother talk. I’m sorry. I must be boring you.”
“I like mother talk. Does Abe have a girlfriend?”
“Sort of.” Without thinking, Opal had picked up Wally’s pen from the tabletop and was doodling in the margins around her photograph. “With all the usual issues.”
“What issues?”
“Hormonal.” Opal shifted in her seat. “The icky stuff.”
“Ick?” Wally looked amused. “Ick happens.”
“It is happening. And I know I can’t stop it. But must I approve? And if I don’t approve but I don’t want them sneaking around should I, like, enable it?” Opal sat up straight. “You’ve been there. What did you do?”
“Enabled,” Wally said.
“In the house?”
“Sleepovers. Sure.”
“But I don’t want to walk in on—I don’t even want to hear—I mean didn’t it ever get, like, icky?”
“They had to be discreet. That was the deal. Discretion is advised. Like the example I hope we set ourselves.”
“Discretion is advised. I’ll needlepoint that and hang it on the wall.”
“You can bet those kids don’t want you walking in on them, either. Or hearing them. They’ll be careful. Because to them—” he smiled “—you’re the ick.”
“I am not,” Opal said. Then she laughed, hearing herself. “Of course I can’t even talk to him about it.”
Wally’s finger moved faster around the rim of the mug. “This summer. Abe got a job?”
“No.” The pen, without Opal’s awareness, advanced up the page to begin doodling around the weather report.
“He doesn’t want a job?”
“Not if I find it for him.” The pen was obliterating the entire forecast: Today, utter blackness. “But he’s shy. Doesn’t like to—to present himself.”
Wally’s finger slowed, still circling the rim of the mug. “Any work experience?”
“None whatsoever. Other than babysitting.”
“Skills?”
Opal looked up, pen poised. “He’s very smart.”
Wally’s finger stopped, rested on the rim of the mug. “Is he physical?”
“As opposed to mental? No. I’d have to say mostly he’s a thinker. Loves astrophysics. And pure math.”
“Is he strong? Athletic?”
“No. Used to play soccer—badly. And baseball was a disaster. Your basic skinny kid with eyeglasses. Not totally spastic but . . . He just never seemed to be paying attention in sports. He’s into music. Mandolin. Good with his fingers.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
Wally stared at his finger on the rim of the mug.
Opal set down the pen, crossed her legs, and folded her hands on her lap. She forced herself to be silent for five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
Finally Wally looked up. “Can he swing a hammer?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Wally heaved back in his chair. “Far out!” He was grinning, shaking his head. “Is that why you came here?”
Opal nodded. “You hire a lot of teenagers?”
“One or two every summer. I seem to get the misfits. Pissed off, punk, picked-on, maybe just plain weird—but they come around. Not always. But mostly. You build something, you see the results, you feel good. Teamwork. Discipline. Pride.”
“You sound like the Marines.”
“We only shoot nails.” Wally was still grinning. “Why didn’t you just ask about the job?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually a devious person.”
She was checking me out, Wally realized. And I almost flunked the secret test. All right, so he shouldn’t have made a pass at her. A perky Presbyterian, for Christ’s sake. With two children and some mystery baggage, because beneath the poise she was frightened of him—he’d picked up the vibe. She’d manipulated him, found the kid a job. What was she so scared of? And yet here she was, sitting in his broken-down breakfast nook: a woman who understood the loneliness of pain. A woman who came to him in a moment of clarity as a nail blasted through his body, as he looked down into those puppy eyes, as he saw what a pathetic piece of crap his life had become. Writing letters to a dead woman. In a kitchen full of crud.
With those thoughts, all Wally said was, “Isn’t this a case of what Abe hates—of you finding him a job?”
“You’re a father. A real one. You’ve been there. You’ll think of something.”
And Wally knew he would. Not because he was keen on hiring this klutzy kid but because for the first time in ages, he’d felt that electric thing. That attraction to the scent and quiver and explosive emotions of a living, breathing woman. A dog person, the best kind. Freckled like bird’s-eye maple. A lush, casual head of hair. Earrings, little white doves. He wanted to see her again. He wanted more than that. He wanted to overcome her fright. He wanted to play. To share food. To watch old movies and drink lemonade from sweaty glasses and cuddle on the sofa while dogs scratch on the rug. He wanted someone, perhaps, to love. And ick.
Six
Ground fog covered the job site. It was one of those California mornings where everything is wet, the trees are dripping, and no rain has fallen. In the parking area in front of the power shed and Steamboat’s barbecue, Wally stopped his old yellow truck next to a brand new gleaming black beemer.
Patience, Wally commanded himself. Maintain calm and peacefulness. Ommm . . .
The BMW belonged to Anton Krainer, boy wonder, who had owned it less than two weeks. A rack on top of the car held a couple of Litespeed bicycles—likewise owned less than two weeks—each titanium frame worth more than Wally’s entire Toyota long-bed, which he’d owned for over two decades.
“There’s a hole in that roof truss,” Krainer shouted cheerily as a greeting. He was standing on tiptoe, holding the string of a plumb bob against the top plate of the wall between master bedroom and master bath. The bottom of the plumb bob, at floor level, was swinging like a pendulum.
“Little accident,” Wally said, joining him. “Fix it today.”
“My friends are asking me why I’d hire a contractor who nails himself to houses.”
“I’m sure you’d rather nail me yourself.”
“Ho ho,” Krainer said sarcastically.
Won that one, Wally was thinking. Neutralized him with the truth. Wally tried to avoid jock humor—the kind that was competitive and aggressive without being particularly humorous—but it was the only way to spar with this kid. Krainer had blond hair and dimpled cheeks. Life came easy to the golden god. He’d dropped out of Stanford to found an Internet startup company that in less than a year had an IPO that spiraled into a bidding frenzy. Krainer bought an old ranch on a hillside overlooking Silicon Valley. He hired an architect who in turn recommended Wally for the construction because the architect had dealt with Wally before and they’d worked well together.
The original plan was to preserve most of the acreage in its natural state as a private, personal wildlife refuge where deer could browse and coyote could roam. Overlooking the meadow, and with a view of the entire Silicon Valley plus the San Francisco Bay and the mountains beyond, would be a house that was modest in scale but perfect in detail. The gig appealed to Wally, whose standards of workmanship could be summed up as “Slow down and do right.” Also, it was a wonderful piece of land. He wanted to be paid for working among the spirit of hawk and wild oats, the rush of wind through a lone Bishop pine, the rough and craggy arms of oak trees, the ghosts of ancient redwoods cleared and gone. There was even a plan for a butterfly garden, an area stocked with native flowering plants that would bloom in sequence through the seasons attracting a timely progression of butterflies including the migrating Monarchs.
Then, as the construction began, stock in Krainer’s company soared. Krainer had gone from merely wealthy to obscenely rich. And the prospective house began growing in size, from modest to mansion, from ten rooms to thirty-three. The goal of perfection in detail remained, but the details had grown in scale.
Wally had signed up to catch a marlin and now he was chasing Moby Dick. He would never accept such a large project if it were presented in advance. He had to sub out work he’d normally handle with his own crew, which made it harder to maintain the quality. Also, Krainer could throw the occasional tantrum. Wally found himself checking the stock market about once a week and, oddly, he was hoping Krainer’s wealth kept growing—not so Wally could add more rooms but so Krainer might reach the magic billion. In Wally’s limited observation, once you have a billion dollars, it tends to sober you up. Not always—not one particular software mogul, for example, suave, satyric, sue-happy, of whom tradespeople told stories that would, um, never mind—but sometimes it helped.
Krainer seemed to believe that his wealth validated his sense of taste even as it became increasingly apparent that he had, as Wally would put it, aesthetic impairment combined with wretched excess. There was, of course, the mirrored ceiling to be installed in the master bedroom with video cameras hidden in all four walls and Wally didn’t want to ask why. There was the master bath with hot tub, fireplace, built-in wine cooler, and big-screen television, plus mirrors on every possible surface including one mirror etched with the sandblasted image of a life-size couple who were, well, coupling. There was the media room with purple velvet–upholstered chairs and strip lights down the aisles. Every room would have remote-controlled curtains; all lights would be controlled by a central computer; heating and cooling would be a state-of-the-art geothermal system involving underground pipes for heat exchangers whose cost could never be justified in this mild California climate.
And then there was the grotto. Next to the outdoor pool, Krainer wanted a fountain of his own design—a winged and very naked angel with water spouting from her breasts—at the top of a waterfall running over rocks. The fountain was bad enough, but Krainer wanted the “rocks” to be built by a group of “artisans” from southern California who had built the faux rock “hardscapes” of Disneyland. Both Wally and the architect had taken a stand on that one, conceding the fountain—you have to choose your battles—but arguing that the mini-Disneyland hardscape would be tacky, tasteless, ugly, and stupid, that it would look like something the highway department had installed. Still, they would have lost the battle if Wally’s landscaper, Little Landscaper Lucy, hadn’t come up with an alternate plan. Lucy had only signed on because she loved the idea of the butterfly garden, which remained as an afterthought but was now in the background of larger schemes. Lucy proposed a grotto using real dirt growing real moss and real ferns combined with real rocks placed by cranes. Her rocks would cost half as much as the Disneyland ones and, as she pitched it, “look just as authentic as the fake ones.” Further, she said, there was a quarry near Santa Cruz that had “the perfect rocks.”
Bingo. The perfect rocks. Anton was sold.
What bugged Wally the most was that Krainer believed he’d earned that money. Otherwise, the guy was likable enough. You just had to remember the main thing: Krainer was a kid. Half Wally’s age and would never grow up. Would never have to.
Wally knelt at Krainer’s feet, steadying the plumb bob so it wouldn’t swing.
Krainer’s female friend was wandering among the stud walls with a camcorder. Her name was Lenora. Willowy, wearing a bulky fisherman’s knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up, long dark hair gathered in a tight knot on top of her head with a few loose strands dangling carelessly, Lenora from the waist up looked casual, East Coast, old money, sophisticate, ballerina, anorexic. Waist down, she wore tight stretch pants with the cameltoe clearly visible at the crotch, glittery ankle bracelet, bright red toenails, high platform shoes—like a Las Vegas prostitute. Krainer had first introduced her to Wally as “Lenora from Gomorra,” which Lenora had tolerated with an icy smile.
Peering through the camcorder, Lenora seemed to be filming every wall, board by board.
Krainer called, “Lenora, you get that truss on tape?”
Lenora didn’t bother to answer. She too treated Krainer as a child—though, in physical age, she was younger. She made Wally nervous. Once when Krainer was out of sight she’d flirted—blatantly—with Wally, fixing him in a steady gaze and casually lifting her own shirt and tracing her long red fingernails over her concave belly as she spoke. There was a line of black hair like a fuzzy caterpillar starting just below her navel, crawling over the lower tummy, then widening at the bottom as it disappeared into the top of her pants. In a husky voice with a vaguely British accent she said she used to be a student at Stanford, psych major. She told Wally, who hadn’t asked, that she was forced to leave Stanford after a compromising situation involving the chairman of the psychology department that was his fault, but she got the blame. Also without being asked she said she was born and raised in Boston but would never go back, not even in a coffin. Smiling, momentarily looking vulnerable, she said, “It’s so cool you know what you’re doing. You’re strong and you can build things. I envy that.” Wally wasn’t remotely attracted.
What you hope for with somebody like Krainer, somebody who grows too rich too fast, is that he finds a woman who brings everything he lacks—a woman with taste and values and social skills—a woman who can fill the gaps. Lenora, in Wally’s opinion, only widened the gaps. She broadcast a general vibe of kinkiness, though vague and undefined. He’d never seen anything resembling a look of affection between her and Krainer and could only assume that it was a relationship of convenience: frequent and probably outlandish sex for Krainer, money and security for Lenora. Plus she looked magnificent in a convertible. A trophy mistress. The whole world of uncommitted sex was a mystery to Wally, though he enjoyed puzzling over it. All he’d really wanted in life was a good and steady woman, preferably well-padded, cheerful, and smart.
Juke was leaning against a window frame, silent, alternately glowering at Krainer and studying Lenora—below the waist. Juke, Wally thought, is somebody who could understand what makes her motor run.
Lenora started filming Juke.
Juke, glaring into the camera, methodically picked his nose.
Lenora, giggling, filmed the entire nose-reaming.
“Isn’t the bathroom supposed to be bigger?” Krainer said.
Here we go again. Aloud, Wally said, “Juke, would you go to the trailer and bring out the plans?”
With a nod, Juke walked down the rough stairs to the first floor, then down the gangplank and across the mud.
Lenora followed with the camcorder, filming every step.
“What are we doing with this plumb bob?” Wally asked, still kneeling.
“Is the wall straight?” Krainer asked. “It looked off.”
“It’s within a sixteenth,” Wally said, standing.
Krainer pocketed the plumb bob. “Meaning it’s off by a sixteenth of an inch. It’s a fact.”
“Sixteenth is tight,” Wally said. “Most contractors settle for a quarter inch. Three-eighths in the tracts.” Talking to Krainer, Wally often felt like a high school teacher lecturing a bored but dangerous student. “Over time, those walls move. Moisture changes. Wood expands and contracts.”
“Shouldn’t we at least start with plumb? Give the walls a fighting chance?”
“A variation of one-sixteenth of an inch over eight feet of span is plumb, Anton. With the lumber you get today, that’s great construction.”
“What you’re saying is, ‘That’s great enough construction.’ I don’t want great enough. Remember the goal here? We’re building the perfect house.”
Wally had seen plenty of grandiose mansions where they’d built the fireplace out of Italian marble but undersized the floor joists, where below expensive crown molding you could bump your shoulder against a wall and feel the entire house shake from end to end, where condensation formed because of sloppy insulation, where builders cut corners and buyers bought glitz. Wally called it Hollywood construction, and Krainer—in spite of his efforts with the plumb bob—was a Hollywood buyer. What saved Krainer from himself was the fact that he’d hired a good architect and an honest contractor, though he sometimes seemed bent on alienating them both.
“What I’m wondering, Anton, is why you came here today bringing a plumb bob. It’s not something most men carry around in their pockets—unless you’re trying to make up for a deficiency.”