mother died when I was eighteen and a freshman in college. Her death was one of the reasons I was back in the area. Nolan was too young to be on his own, and our father had long since fled the family.
“How long were they engaged?” I ask for some reason, thinking back to my own engagement years ago and the eventual divorce from my wife.
Sullivan shrugs again. “Don’t know. She was, and then she wasn’t.”
My shoulders sag with sympathy. Rita is still a thorn in my side, but this information softens the wound a bit.
“You about done?” Sullivan asks, nodding at the last corner of my sandwich. Shoving the final bite in my mouth, I nod, and we wad up our trash. Nolan’s been making my lunch in a brown paper sack because I refused to use a lunchbox like some damn kid. Considering I was once a student in natural resource studies, I should be using an environmentally sound carrier for my meal and need to reconsider the idea of a paper sack. After years of eating off a segmented tray, I need to rethink many things in my life.
Rita returns late in the afternoon, but I’ve lost track of time. It’s been a gloomy day, and the underbelly of the house is dark. I’m in the basement installing the electrical box with a bright halogen work lamp hooked to a generator that highlights the space.
“You can call it quits,” Rita says from somewhere behind me.
“I just want to finish this.” I hate to leave things left undone, and I have the electrical box hung but no wires installed. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice Rita’s leaning on the makeshift railing of the basement stairs. She’s wearing some kind of woman power suit, complete with formfitting skirt and a blazer, and those damn hiking boots again. “Quite the fashionista.”
Rita glances down at her attire, swiping her hand along the hips of her skirt before gazing up at me with those piercing eyes. The red-rimmed glasses have returned.
“I can’t wear heels at a construction site.”
It makes sense, but she looks ridiculous, and I turn my back on her. Keeping those hiking boots in mind cancels out the effect of those glasses and dampens any naughty boy fantasies of being punished by Rita as a teacher. I hear her trod back up the stairs and dismiss Sully. This isn’t a large house, and without the drywall, it’s a hollow shell, so noise travels.
“You don’t need to stay,” I holler to her, forgetting myself for a second as I concentrate on the work before me. Heavy feet trudge back down the staircase.
“Yeah. I do.” The authoritative reminder puts me in my place. I need to be supervised. I need to be watched. I hate the distrust.
Around us grows quiet until we hear the voice of Sullivan at the top of the staircase.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Sully asks, calling down to Rita, expressing his concern for her safety. “I can stay if you need me.”
“I’m not an ax murderer,” I mutter under my breath, fingers slipping along the initial wire I’m running through the box.
“I’m good,” Rita calls up to him, surprising me. Her confidence speaks volumes. She’s trusting me, at least at this moment.
As we hear the stomp of Sully’s feet leaving the house, Rita mumbles, “No one thinks you’re an ax murderer.”
I huff in response and continue working on the box. She’s silent, but I can almost hear the gears turning in her head.
“Just ask.”
“Ask what?” she snaps, and I twist enough to glance at her at the base of the staircase. She’s removed her blazer. Leaning against the bare studs, she’s still a juxtaposition in her uptight shirt and those damn boots.
“Whatever’s on your mind, sweet.” I struggle with another wire leading into the box.
“Whatever you did, you can talk about it, if you’d like.”
“Attorney-client privilege,” I mock.
“Or if you just need someone to talk to.” Her softened voice surprises me, but I ignore the tenderness. I don’t have anything to say about what happened seven years ago. It happened. It’s over. Almost.
“Not much of a talker,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the wires before me. I can’t concentrate with her watching me, knowing those damn eyes are assessing me behind those red rims.
“You seem like you have plenty to say about my appearance,” she mocks, a light chuckle in her tone.
“That’s different.”
“How is it different to verbally insult my clothes but not talk about what happened?”