Chapter 3

I wake up this morning with the sun in my eyes. Out the window, my cardboard boxes tilt precariously on the front porch. Max and I did a number of detours last night; some I remember, some I forget. We went to a bar and I guess I drank too much. I vaguely recall stopping at a liquor store after that, then Max dragging me up my steps and ringing the bell. Mary hauled me inside, giving me the skunk eye, then sent Max packing.

A radio is going in the basement now. Post-it notes are stuck to the walls. Each one is numbered according to urgency, which Mary accentuates with exclamation marks. “One to three are a must today,” she’s written. “Get started as soon as you’ve had breakfast.”

I sit at the kitchen table, listening to Mary moving things around downstairs. My son-in-law will be sleeping down there. Muller has sleep apnea, which requires him to wear a mask that sounds like a wombat (my daughter’s words). Judy can’t stand the noise, so we’re putting Muller next to the furnace with their two lovebirds, Meek and Beek. Judy takes them everywhere they go.

Judy calls while I’m eating my toast and starts going over diet requirements, especially birdseed. Then she says, “Did cops really bring you home last night, Daddy?”

“How did you hear about that?”

“Mom emailed me this morning.”

“He’s a security guard, sweetie. His name’s Max.”

“What were you doing with a security guard?”

“Long story. Daddy needs a coffee first.”

“Did you really leave a pressed ham on the front window?”

“That could have been anyone.”

“Mom says it was you or the cop.”

“Security guard, sweetie. Daddy has to go now.”

Hanging up, I look at the list Mary’s left on the kitchen counter. We need everything at this point: paint, drop cloths, edging tape. I put my coffee cup in the sink and look out the window. The grass is growing in crazy tufts, a smattering of dandelions along the fence. The phone rings again. Max is on the other end. “What is it, Max?” I say, “I’m trying to get to the store for paint.”

“Ruby’s back,” he says. “She left the engineer. Otis’s been playing The Stylistics all morning.” I could hear Max blowing smoke out his mouth. “It’s awful around here, man.”

“What’s so awful? Don’t you want Ruby back home?”

“Sure. It’s the atmosphere I hate.”

“It’ll work out.”

“Ruby says Otis crossed the line.”

“The man slept with your girlfriend, Max.”

“I know,” he yawns. “I’m starting to hate The Stylistics.”

“I thought Ruby destroyed all his albums?”

“He fished them out of the washing machine. Some are okay. He’s been getting replacements. Picked up some Larry Williams yesterday.”

“What’s Ruby been doing since she got home?”

“She’s starting a business. Not sure what it is yet.”

“Tell her good luck.”

“Why are you painting?”

“Because,” I say, closing the cellar door, “when you come home shitfaced, you have to pay penance. I’m stuck painting. And I’ve only got two weeks before my daughter arrives.”

“Ruby’s a good painter.”

“Glad to hear it, Max.”

“We’re both pretty good. Want us to come over and help?” I can hear a woman’s voice in the background. “That’s Ruby,” he says. “She’s up for anything that’ll get her out of the house.”

“You seriously want to help me paint?”

“Sure. It’ll be good for Ruby. Get her mind off Otis.”

“Let me see what Mary thinks.”

“We’re here if you need us.”

“I appreciate the offer.”

“We’ve got drop cloths, ladders and stuff.”

“I’ll pass it by Mary.”

“Okay. Let me know.”

Six rooms, a hallway, front foyer, all to do in less than two weeks. I don’t know what’s worse: having to paint, or waiting for my son-in-law to show up. I know Judy loves him to death, but he’s a bit of a dud. Mary hates it when I call him that. “He’s your son-in-law, Sam,” she’ll say, like I need reminding. Judy says, “Daddy, you just have to know him better,” which is fine if you like guys who keep nasal flush in their pocket. I guess I’m just pissed at all this painting I have to do before they arrive. Ruby and Max could help get the job done faster. That’s if Mary agrees, which is doubtful judging from the way she shooed Max off the porch last night. It’s still worth asking. I go downstairs, aware that Mary is probably holding a broom.