August 1987
Danny swings his hammer and drives a framing nail into a two-by-four. He stands inside the skeleton of a house under construction, sweating in the summer humidity. He reaches into his tool belt, pulls out another nail, and lines it up. He takes a swing and misses the nail—hitting his thumb instead.
“Damn it!” he shouts, throwing his hammer down onto the plywood floor.
He shakes his hand, trying to wring out the pain. He checks his watch. It’s not quite quitting time, but close enough.
He collects his hammer and heads over to the foreman, who hands him a check. Danny stares in disbelief at the numbers on the paystub.
“Uncle Sam sure takes a bite, don’t he?” the foreman says.
And people say I’m a crook, Danny thinks.
He almost opens his mouth to ask for more hours. He sure could use the money. But he hates the work. There’s got to be an easier way to make money.
He climbs into his van and heads home. At a stoplight, he examines the palms of his hands. The soft flesh is full of blisters. He keeps waiting for calluses to form and for his skin to toughen up, but it hasn’t happened yet.
I’m not cut out for this type of work, he thinks.
The only problem is that the one type of work he is cut out for is illegal. He’s been walking the straight and narrow since January because he knows that another bust will put him in prison for who knows how long. There will be no leniency this time. No deal.
No get-out-of-jail-free card.
He pulls up in front of the town house, which is in need of a new paint job.
Inside, he finds Nancy crouched in the kitchen behind the dishwasher, which she’s slid out from the counter. A slick of soapy water covers the linoleum floor. Her son, Benji—oblivious to the difficulties of the world—is playing in the puddle. Nancy has a roll of duct tape and is wrapping it around a pipe.
“What the hell are you doing?” Danny says.
“The damn thing’s leaking again,” Nancy says without looking up.
Nancy Rish is a knockout. Twenty-five years old. Petite. Platinum blond. When she dresses up for a night on the town, she looks like a Barbie doll.
But right now, her hair is damp and hanging in her eyes, her sweatpants are soaked with soapy water, and she has grease on her hands and forearms like she’s an auto-shop mechanic instead of a stay-at-home mom.
“That should do it,” she says, and stands up.
She presses the button to start the dishwasher again. The motor begins to hum, and they watch for more water leaking out. It appears she fixed whatever was wrong.
She grabs a mop and starts to clean up the floor. Danny knows he should help, but he’s dog tired after working all day, so he just watches her.
When she’s finished mopping, she leans against the handle and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking. It’s time I go back to work.”
“No,” Danny says without considering it.
“Honey,” she says. “We need the money.”
Benji is walking around the kitchen, searching for puddles. There’s no more water for him to splash in, but his shoes are wet and he keeps leaving dirty footprints on the linoleum.
“I’ll think of something,” Danny says. “I’ll get back on my feet. I promise.”
Nancy approaches him, and even in her soaked sweatpants and dirty tank top, she is still beautiful. She puts her arms around his neck and pulls his face down for a long kiss.
“I’m so proud of you for not dealing anymore,” she says. “Times are tough right now, but they’re going to get better. You’re doing the right thing. Let me help you.”
Danny shakes his head. When he first met her, Nancy had been working two jobs and somehow taking care of Benji in what little free time she had. She’d gotten pregnant and married as a teenager and ever since she divorced her husband, she’d worked odd jobs: waitressing, selling makeup, cleaning houses. He’d been able to take her from that life. He’d be damned if he was the reason she had to go back to it.
He wraps his arms around her and embraces her. She closes her eyes and rests her head on his chest.
They hear Benji splashing in a puddle.
“I thought I got it all,” Nancy says, opening her eyes.
The dishwasher is leaking again.