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There are bad decisions, and then there are Princess-level bad decisions.
“Get down!” I scream at the two figures standing on the roof.
I don’t use the walkway to the sidewalk. I trample across my freshly laid sod that will now have boot-shaped divots because of her.
Her hands land on her hips before she faces me. “Excuse me?” she barks with equal force. Princess stomps her way towards the edge, and I rush forward in case she falls.
“Get down. Now.” I repeat, although I know damn-well she heard me the first time.
She edges the roofline like a damn mountain goat, sure of each step, while I waver beneath her like a schmuck ready to break her fall. At least she’s wearing runners today rather than those bloody high heels she torments the neighbourhood with.
The guy she’s there with says something to her that I don’t catch, causing her simultaneously to blush and sneer.
“Have you ever known me to put up with shit like this?” Princess points a hard finger in my direction. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.” She spits the words like she found a spider in her food.
Tommy giggles and I shout, “Language, Princess!” Tommy giggles again.
“I’ve heard worse from my eighty-five-year-old grandma, Owen.” I ignore Tommy’s reminder of how important my role is in his life. “I don’t think she wants you telling her what to do.” Tommy tugs on my arm.
“Don’t you have better things to do than harass your temporary neighbours on their own property?” she says.
Of course, I have better things to do. I always have better things to do than deal with the shit Princess cooks up. But when you’re doing that other shit, and you look out your window to see untethered people walking around on a rotten roof, priorities set in. Particularly when you’re trying to teach a young man how to be safe on a worksite.
“Get down and I’ll leave you alone.” I hate that I’m negotiating with her. I can’t leave her there, regardless of if she’s with someone who has the word “roofer” painted on the side of his truck.
“And if I don’t?”
Tommy puts a fist in front of his face to hide his fit of giggles.
The time for compromise is done. This woman is going to drive me insane. Workplace safety isn’t a joke. Putting her in her place is the only way for her to understand. Then I’ll put her in another place—far, far away from here in a new house of her own.
In three long strides I am at the base of the ladder, gripping the sides with enough force to weld the metal slides together.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” she screams.
And that mouth on her! Shouting profanities from the rooftop in a family neighbourhood. I climb the ladder like the house is on fire and loom above her. I stop short of hauling her over my shoulder like a firefighter. The weight of both of us on a small surface area would surely drop us both through the weak surface.
Exhaling angry puffs of air in her face, I silently but indiscreetly show my displeasure with her defiance and how serious I am about getting her off this unsafe rooftop.
She tilts her head to meet my angry gaze and with a threatening rumble to her voice rather than the shrill pitch I would expect from an irate woman, she screams, “Get off my roof!” She says it so loud that the roofer flinches and Tommy offers a taunting oooooh from the safety of the lawn below.
I’d love to tell her to suit herself, but I can’t. Danger usurps pride. She might end up over my shoulder after all.
The volume of her misguided outrage doesn’t affect me. Her stepping backwards does, though. I put my hands up in surrender to stop her retreat before she falls off the edge. Her eyes are drawn to the rawness of my latest tattoo on the inside of my left forearm. It feels like it’s about to jump off my body as my rapid pulse throbs under the sensitive skin. She’s trying to throw me; to get me to focus on something other than getting her on solid ground.
“I’ll go if you go.” I haggle again. I don’t want to be on this crumbling roof any more than I want her here.
She stomps her foot while screaming, “Dammit, Owen!” But my name dies on her lips with the cracking sound of her foot busting through the weakened roof.
My ears ring with a tinny sound. Like the residual noise after turning off power equipment, everything is blocked out for a few seconds.
I lunge forward and catch her under her flailing arms before she plunges through completely. Gripping so hard that she’ll have bruises, I lift and set her on her feet right in front of me. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is frozen open, although no air goes in and no sound comes out. The riled flush in her cheeks has already gone pale with shock. I envelop her in my arms and draw her in, away from the gaping hole. She’s rigid and trembling against my torso, and silent for a change.
“Breathe,” I instruct her. “Come on, take a breath.”
I hold her tight, keeping still; making sure the roof isn’t going to collapse under my feet too. Her head rests against my chest, but she doesn’t hug me in return. Her hands grip my arms and her nails dig into my skin like claws, as though they, rather than my whole body, keep her upright.
The scare has made my heart pound more furiously than when I was angry. The exasperated beats of seeing her on the roof bears no comparison to the rhythm of fear and anxiety. I make sure her leg is fine, prepared for fury to overtake as the dominant emotion once more if I see blood. Dust and debris cover her shoe and jeans to mid-thigh, but there’s no damage.
That could have been so much worse.
I squeeze her harder into my chest, swallowing the fear lodged in my throat.
“Just breathe,” I shush.
I smooth her hair away from her face and keep her in my stable embrace. A thin layer of sweat beads on her hairline and her body continues to quake from the adrenaline coursing through her.
“Are you okay?” the roofer asks at the precise moment I say, “You’re okay.” He comes forward, now watching where he lands each foot.
“You should know better.” I glare at him, closing my arms another inch around her, as if she needs to be protected from him as much as from the crumbling structure. This is more his fault than hers. What kind of roofer takes a client on a decaying roof, unsecured?
What if I hadn’t been here to catch her? A vision of her slipping the roof manifests in my mind and my heart rate races once more.
Princess unsticks her talons from my arms and tries to get out of my grasp, but I hold fast, only letting her get inches away from me. Her chin tilts and she sets her wide, fearful eyes on me.
“You’re okay,” I repeat, reminding both of us that the outcome was the best possibility. I smooth the hair away that’s stuck in the sweat on her temples.
“I’m fine.” She offers tight nods with her response, meant more for herself than for me.
Princess twists to see the crater and her body sags into my arms that grip her waist. Her hand clasps over mine, pressing it harder into her side. She doesn’t need to worry. I’ve got her. My other hand remains on the small of her back, nestled into the arch. Slowly, I guide her to the top of the ladder.
“Climb down and steady the ladder for her,” I say to the roofer.
I don’t let go completely until she has two hands and two feet gripping the rungs and rails.
I climb down last, still shaking my head at the state of this structure and the disaster that was narrowly avoided. Tommy comes rushing towards us and wraps his arms around Princess’ waist.
“You scared me, Izzy,” he says into her body. Her hands drop to his head and she combs her shaking fingers through his wild mane.
“Sorry, Tommy. I’m safe, though.” She tilts his head so she can look into his eyes. “Owen’s safe too.” He squeezes her again and she looks at me, shock and fear replaced with something that looks a little like concern over worrying this little boy so much.
“Owen’s always okay. He’s the toughest guy I know.”
I’m glad he didn’t recognise my weakness for what it is.
The roofer wastes no time grabbing a tarp from the bed of his truck. Princess watches him while I watch her from several feet away, examining her dishevelled form. Hair spills out in wisps from her topknot and catches in the breeze, fluttering around gently. One arm is wrapped snuggly around her waist, fingers digging into her ribs while she worries a manicured nail between her teeth, grinding side-to-side over the polished finish. The flush has returned to her cheeks, a sign I’m grateful for.
Tommy has tucked himself against her, like her protector. He’s told me he’s visited her house a few times. I wanted to get upset with him because he has no business going there, my initial rationale being that she would use him to get to me. I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud because it’s ridiculous to think she would do that to a child. He’s a kid who’s curious and is seeking adult attention. Something she’s happy to give.
I remember what it was like when I was young and Pops was busy during the summer construction months, working twelve or fourteen-hour days. I’d arrive on the job site after day camp and he’d always have a job for me to do right by his side. Something as menial as sorting nails by size was turned into a watchful lesson and time spent together.
I can do that for Tommy. I can do better.
When Izzy brings her focus away from the roofer back to me, she drops the nail from her mouth and places both hands on Tommy’s shoulders. She pulls her trembling bottom lip between her teeth to make it stop, but the emotion finds another way to escape and her eyes well with tears and cling to her lashes.
I should say something. I should do something because I understand the sense of defeat she feels right now. The pain that comes at the precise moment when you grasp your dream will never be your reality. For me, it was when I accepted my father would never teach me another thing. He wouldn’t build another house with me, and he’d never be able to tell me about my mother. That his memory is too far gone to be of use to either of us. That I failed her by waiting too long before asking the important questions.
Just like Pops doesn’t have the words for me, I don’t have the right words for Izzy. There are no words that can make it better for her.
Somehow, Tommy knows exactly what to do and he snuggles into her side again.
Absentmindedly, my thumb drags over the tattoo of my parents’ house. Her watery eyes follow my gesture, and I still.
I open my mouth to say the thing that everyone says when someone has experienced loss. I’m sorry.
She shakes her head at me. “Not today, Owen. I’m not interested in hearing your offer today.”
I’m too slow in choosing something better. She lets go of Tommy and opens her front door before I come up with I wouldn’t do that to you. The door shuts with a gentle clink and is followed by the much more troubling sound of her sobs.