CHAPTER 16

“What about this one?” Tommy asked, holding out a screwdriver with black tape around the handle.

Gincy looked at it and shook her head. “Too big.”

They were alone together in the part of the basement that had been their father’s workspace. Ed Gannon had kept his tools carefully labeled and stored, the floor swept clean of all wood chips or metal shavings, and his copies of Popular Mechanics and Woodworkers Guide neatly stacked.

They were looking for a screwdriver of a particular size. Gincy had noted that the screws in several plates covering outlets on the first floor needed tightening. It was a job she could easily handle. At home, she, not Rick, was the one to change the lightbulbs and hang the pictures and fix the garbage disposal when it broke down because Rick had accidentally dropped a fork into it. Or the lid of a small metal can. He did that at least once a month.

“I’ve never been good with my hands,” Tommy said, replacing the too-large screwdriver in its slot. “Not like Dad. He tried to teach me stuff but, I don’t know, I never really got it.” He ran a finger along the edge of the worktable. Gincy saw that his nail was ragged and there was a scar on the back of his hand. “Maybe I never really paid attention.”

The tone of wistfulness and regret in her brother’s voice struck Gincy powerfully. Certainly she had never heard it before, but maybe she simply hadn’t been listening.

“Not everyone is good with his hands, Tommy,” she said. “Rick is a menace around sharp objects but that doesn’t make him any less valuable as a person.”

Tommy smiled a bit.

“This should do.” Gincy held up a screwdriver with a red plastic handle. And then something tucked at the very back of the worktable, against the rough basement wall, caught her eye.

“What’s that?” Gincy asked.

“I’ll show you.” Tommy reached across the table and carefully drew toward them a lovely, partially carved oval frame.

“It’s oak,” Tommy explained. “Dad could tell what sort of tree a piece of wood came from just by looking at the grain. He tried to teach me that, too, but . . . Anyway, this was for Mom’s grandmother’s old mirror—you know, the one in her bedroom. The glass is okay, but the frame is cracked. Dad was replacing it for her but then he died. It wasn’t a surprise or anything. Anyway, I wish I could finish it but . . .”

Gincy looked down at the intricate carvings of flowers and vines. It was a beautiful piece. And it was a typically kind gesture on the part of her father, and a romantic one, too. Replacing the frame was something only a husband who truly loved his wife would do for her. Like hold her hand when they went for walks.

“Dad meant everything to Mom,” Tommy said, as if reading his sister’s thoughts. “She relied on him totally. It should have been Mom who died first. Dad was stronger. He would have been okay. He wouldn’t have forgotten to pay the electric bill or to throw out the milk when it went bad.”

Gincy shook her head. “Tommy, you’re exaggerating. All Mom did was criticize Dad, and he was only ever kind to her.”

“That’s so not true,” Tommy replied forcefully. “You should have seen her all those times Dad went to visit you in Boston. She hardly slept. She was worried he was going to get mugged or killed in a car accident or pushed onto the tracks in a T station. She worried he was going to eat something weird that might make him sick. She worried about everything. When he walked through the front door she’d be like, beaming. And she always made him his favorite meatloaf the day he came home. And he always said how glad he was to be here. He meant it, I know he did.”

Gincy frowned down at her father’s handiwork. Could what Tommy was telling her be true? Could she really have been so wrong about her mother’s love for her father? Her parents holding hands.... The evidence certainly was piling up against her.

“You don’t know everything, Gince,” Tommy said, more quietly now. “You’re way smarter than me, but you don’t know everything.”

“You’re right, Tommy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I gotta go. I’m working at the convenience store today. You know something, Gince? I like to work. Didn’t used to, but I do now.” Tommy shrugged. “Funny how things change.”

Gincy smiled and watched her brother slip into his coat and trudge up the basement stairs. The coat—so he did actually have one—was threadbare, as well as stained. She wasn’t sure it would survive a washing in her mother’s old machine at the other end of the basement. Her father’s winter parka was probably upstairs in the tiny front hall closet, but Ed had been a much bigger man than his son. There was no way Tommy could wear his father’s coat and be comfortable. Gincy sighed. At least Tommy had a wool hat, even if it was a bit too small for his head and didn’t quite cover his ears.

Suddenly in her mind’s eye she saw her brother as a little kid in his big, puffy blue snowsuit with a long woolen scarf wound tightly around his neck. He had had such an adorable smile. What had happened to that innocent child? Everyone had promise of some sort when they started out in this life. What had happened to Tommy’s promise?

Gincy shook off a powerful wave of sadness. It wasn’t easy to do. Then she stuck the screwdriver in the back pocket of her jeans and went upstairs. Tighten the plates surrounding the electrical outlets first, and then start one of several loads of laundry.