“You honestly think someone up there is listenin’?” He scratches his sweaty head under the ragged ball cap, leaving a smear of white paint on his forehead.
But the aging man doesn’t offer any indication that the words registered, he doesn’t even move. The rocking chair he sits in matches the faded wood of the porch, as if the same can of wood stain had serviced them both. His loafers are planted firmly so that the chair doesn’t rock as he grips his rosary, moving seamlessly from one bead to the next. His eyes are closed, making the crow-feet lines that jut outward from the corners more prominent, while his lips murmur silent prayers
The young handyman sighs as he shakes his head, before continuing his work quietly. One final layer of paint will completely conceal the weathered door frame beneath—it was a short job, but a job nonetheless.
A warm breeze blows through the wind-chime in the otherwise silent countryside. Late afternoon sunshine spills over the railing from the west, forming pools of radiance on the deck.
“My pa used to pray,” the handyman doesn’t pause from his work, but his brush strokes are quicker when he talks. “Ain’t done no good, far as I could ever tell. Stubborn old man killed himself tryin’ to save them cows from the creek. Drowned.” He pauses, holding the brush handle to his lip in contemplation.
The elderly man is only a few beads from the crucifix now, but otherwise hasn’t moved.
“I reckon I was ten or eleven. We had a few bad harvests, but Pa always said: ‘have faith, just like Job.’” His deep, long vowels are testimony to his southern background. “Nah, I was twelve! I remember cuz it happened around my sister’s sixteenth birthday—we’re four years apart, see. That year had some of the worst rains. Raised the water level until we had to pile sandbags along the bank, not that they did much good during the worst storm. Ended up flooding the pasture, so much for a sweet sixteen, huh?”
A glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye turns out to be the elderly man just gently shooing away a bumblebee.
The handyman takes a short break, leaning up against the railing of the porch. He wipes his sweaty brow with a handkerchief before gulping down what’s left in his canteen, carelessly dripping water down his chin and onto his shirt.
A pick-up truck lugs by on the dirt road in the distance, leaving a trail of dust behind it.
“It was a special birthday, see. My sister had polio since she was a girl, ended up havin’ to use a wheel chair most of the time. Doctors said she wouldn’t live long, most like not past fifteen or sixteen. Heck, they were wrong though.” He lights a cigarette, savoring the first drag. “Emme got through them years!”
The young man examines his employer, who has somehow crossed a leg over the other without him noticing.
“Anyway, poor Pa, pig-headed as he was, wouldn’t give up. Even after Ma’s hollerin’ and cryin’. Shoot, I woulda drug him outta there myself if I weren’t up to my knees in mud tryin’ to get them senseless beasts to higher ground, the ones he saved from the flood.” His gaze becomes distant as he pauses, as if he were seeing the storm play out once again. “Woulda left ‘em and helped Pa, if I’d known how bad it was gona get… how fast the current had become…”
The elderly man dares a sidelong glance at his unblinking employee, who fails to notice that he has his attention now—had had it all along.
“The rain was comin’ in sideways,” he continues, still transfixed by the memory, “like needles in your eyes. But I still saw when that fence collapsed, the water burstin’ through like a rampant bull. Pa was already waist-deep, tryin’ to push that last damn cow outta there. I yelled, but…He didn’t even see the barbed wire comin’.”
Then, as if his employer could see it too, could see that there was no more to see except for a distraught boy on his knees in the mud and rain, screaming after his father, weeping as he struggled to trudge after him, fighting the arms that held him back… He softly clears his throat—an honest sound—as he moves to his crucifix, successfully pulling his handyman from the tragic memory.
The painter snaps out of it with a shake of his head, knocking the long line of ash from the end of his cigarette. There’s a renewed sense of vigor in his voice as he says, “Saved most of them cattle though, which meant we weren’t gona starve at least; it was all we had left that was worth somethin’. It wasn’t easy losing Pa though…it ain’t fair,” he sighs, glancing out towards the horizon.
The sun is sinking into the vast hay fields now, and the crickets have begun to sing. The far-off horses appear to be shadows in a sea of gold, though the occasional whicker brings them to life.
He suddenly launches himself from the railing and grabs his paint brush from the tray. “But heck, after that, Ma had an idea on how to use the hide of the cows that did drown. Boy, did we ever make a fortune! Sewing’ and sellin’ leather, see.” He pauses, his forehead wrinkling in retrospect, “I think it distracted her from Pa’s death.”
Where the paint has dried, he begins his third coat, glancing once or twice at his employer to detect any interest in his story.
His voice takes on a cheerier tone once again, “Leather jackets, leather gloves, and even ladies’ hand-bags!” Being caught up in his story had him unknowingly flicking ashes into the wet paint. “Shoot, Ma even opened up a shop of her very own in town. Eventually, we could afford the latest treatment and medication for my sister, and with hired help, I had more time to expand my skillset,” his chin tips up slightly as he smiles in a proud fashion. “I can also fix cars, anything with an engine really.”
He finally notices his employer has finished; his rosary hangs off a nail on the arm of the chair. The elderly man rocks gently now, nodding ever so slightly as the story progresses. But his hands are shaking subtly as he twists the wedding band around his finger. He stares at a tarnished fifties Ford truck in front of him. The spot on which it sits used to be the top of the driveway, but grass and weeds have replaced most of the dirt and have grown up and around the tires. The front of the truck is wrecked, the damage hardly worth fixing.
The handyman follows his gaze to the truck, wondering why it was never taken to the scrap yard. The passenger side is so smashed in that if there had been anyone sitting there during the collision… but the painter doesn’t consider it. Instead, he just assumes that there hadn’t been.
After a moment, he looks back to his employer. “See, ain’t no one up there listenin’.” He gestures at the sky with a paint-speckled finger. “All that prayin’ didn’t help my Pa that rainy night, and nobody saved my sister from polio neither.” The paintbrush clatters onto the tray before he lights a second cigarette. “I got no job lined up after this, gona be broke and there’s nothin’ to be done about it. We’re on our own in life, that’s what I think.” His eyes fix on a barren tree beside the wreck, devoid of life.
He bends down to replace the lids on the paint cans, the cigarette hanging from his lips as he does so. But he is startled when his employer finally breaks his vow of silence.
“Did she live?” his deep voice is hoarse, and cracks a bit on the last word. He is sitting upright now, but still gazing into the yard, at the truck.
After a moment to ponder the random question, the handyman replies from his still kneeling position, with a hand resting on a can of paint. “My sister? Yeah. She’s not even in a wheelchair anymore; Emme sure surprised them doctors. Got a little boy now too, named after Pa.”
“Hm.”
As the handyman leans forward in anticipation, he doesn’t notice the long line of cigarette ash that falls onto his boot.
Gaze still transfixed on the wrecked truck, the elderly man continues, “Well, seems to me that your Pa’s prayers were answered. A humble man doesn’t pray to avoid death, son, but for the health and prosperity of those he loves.” A nostalgic sigh escapes his nostrils. “We can spend our lifetime trying to understand why we lost our loved ones, why bad things happen to innocent people, or where to place the blame… or we can chose to appreciate the hidden blessings that are bestowed upon us daily.”
With tired, though kind, eyes, he finally turns to look at the young man now, whose face is contorted with confusion.
“There are more boons to your story than you give credit for, no?” After a moment without any reaction that indicated understanding, the elderly man elaborates, “What of the cattle whose hide paved the way for your mother’s successful business? It redeemed all the bad harvests, saved your farm, and generally improved quality of life, did it not? Certainly for your sister, at least. It seems, to me, that her recovery was nothing short of miraculous, given the initial prognosis of her condition.” The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “It was a blessing to have beaten the odds, don’t you think? To grow up and experience the gift of motherhood that may not have been possible otherwise, without the tragedy.” His smile fades as his face softens. “I know nothing could validate the death of your father, but faith has a way of easing our burdens.”
“I suppose so.” The handyman cocks his head in reflection, and smiles, having never considered anything other than his father’s death.
The elderly man nods contently before rising stiffly to his feet. The handyman also stands—instinctively, a habit of respect taught to him by his father—and moves aside when his employer nears the door.
But he pauses at the threshold beside the tentative employee that seems to be faithfully waiting for him to continue his words of wisdom. The elderly man says, “Come back tomorrow, I got a truck that could finally use some fixing. It’s going to be a big job, so I hope you’re available.” He turns his head slightly in the direction of the stunned handyman and the door frame. “And be sure to fix that,” he mumbles before proceeding into the house, the screen door pulling itself shut behind him.
The young handyman finally notices the ashes from his cigarette that have begun to dry into the white paint. After a quick wipe with the still-wet brush, he gathers his things and turns to leave, whistling merrily as he does. But just before lowering himself into the driver’s seat of his own truck, a small cluster of foliage catches his eye. On a branch of what he thought was a barren tree, a burst of life contradicts his initial assumption; though unperceivable from the porch, now the budding blossoms amidst the patch of green are fully visible. He laughs, grateful for being wrong.
©
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