Pen pal, p.2
Pen Pal, page 2
“Right outside the garage door.”
He nods. “Dig it. I’ll take a look at that, too. Should take me an hour or so to get through everything, then I’ll give you an estimate for the repairs. Sound good?”
“Sounds great, thanks. To get into the attic, the access is on the second floor through the master bedroom closet. The ladder’s in the garage.”
“Cool.”
“Holler if you need me. I’ll be around.”
“Will do.”
I leave him to it and head into my office. I’m able to work for a while before the headache starts. It’s a dull throbbing around my temples and pressure behind my eyes so strong, it makes them water. I lie on the small sofa with the shades drawn and the lights off until Eddie appears in the doorway with his toolbox.
“Oh, sorry, man. Didn’t know you were sleeping. I was just gonna check the outlets in here.”
Disoriented, I sit up. “I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes. I have a terrible headache.”
He nods in sympathy. “I used to get crazy migraines.”
Used to, past tense. I feel a weird pang of hope. “Did you find something that helped them? Nothing I take makes a dent.”
“You’ll laugh. Mind if I turn the lights on?”
“Go ahead. And I won’t laugh, I promise. I’m too desperate.”
When Eddie hits the switch and light floods the room, I wince. I try to stand, but discover I’m too dizzy. So I sink back onto the sofa, close my eyes, and gingerly pinch the bridge of my nose.
When did I last eat? I can’t remember.
Eddie ambles around, hunting for outlets. He’s so slim, his footsteps are silent on the floor. I’ve known cats who made more noise.
“After I started seeing a therapist, the headaches went away. Poof, man. Just gone. Turns out, I had lots of emotions bottled up.”
I open my eyes to find him crouched under my desk with a small power meter in his hand. He sticks it into the electrical outlet, waits a moment as he reads whatever it’s telling him, then stands and moves to the next outlet where he repeats the process.
“Psychosomatic illness, they call it. Your brain literally makes you sick. Stress is that toxic. Far out, isn’t it?”
“Far out,” I agree, wondering if he lives in a commune or co-op. They’re all over Washington and the Seattle area, communal-living groups started in the free-love sixties where people share housing and resources and eschew modern things like cell phones and GMO foods.
I’m much too private to live in such close quarters with people I’m not having sex with, but I don’t judge anybody’s life choices.
Standing, he turns to look at me. “I can give you my doc’s name if you want. Unless you don’t think stress could be a problem for you.”
“Does losing my husband count as stress?”
I don’t know why I said that. Or why I said it in the biting way I did. I don’t normally wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’m not sarcastic like Michael was. He dealt with depressing or morbid things with black humor that sometimes came off as insensitivity, but I knew was just a coping mechanism. The man was a marshmallow.
Confused, Eddie stares at me. “You lost him?”
No one can possibly be this dumb. “He died.”
Now he looks stricken. “Oh, dude. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Was it recent?”
“New Year’s Eve.”
“Holy shit! That’s only a couple weeks ago!”
I should stop talking now. Every word out of my mouth makes poor Eddie more and more upset.
I’ve always had a problem over-empathizing with other people, which is one of the reasons I tend to keep to myself. Everyone else’s emotions piled on top of my own can get suffocating sometimes.
“Yes. Anyway.” I manage to stand this time, then avoid Eddie’s eyes as I say, “So what’s the verdict?”
In his pause, I feel him looking me over. Reading the stiffness in my body and the artificially bright tone of my voice. Maybe he’s empathetic too, because he takes pity on me and changes the subject.
“Well, that leak in the roof is a bummer. It’s coming from the roof deck by the turret, which means you’re gonna have to remove the shingles and cut away the wood to repair the leak. Between the gables, the turret, and the steep pitch of the roof itself, it’s gonna be a major job, I’m sorry to say. You’re definitely gonna have to bring in a specialist.”
My heart sinks. Anytime a specialist gets involved, the price goes up. “I tried calling three different roofers before I found you, but couldn’t get hold of anybody.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, don’t know why, but roofer guys are notoriously flaky. I’d give you a recommendation, but I don’t know anybody I trust with a job like this.”
“Okay. Thanks anyway. I’ll just keep trying. I was hoping to avoid calling a firm from Seattle because they’re so pricey, but I guess I have to.”
After a beat, he says gently, “If you want, I can look at the quote you get. You know, so you don’t get ripped off.”
Because I’m alone, he means. Because I won’t have a man around to negotiate for me.
Because someone in my position—grieving, disoriented, desperate—is a target for scams.
When he smiles, I know he’s not trying to flirt with me. He’s just a genuinely nice guy trying to help someone out who he can tell is in distress.
If only the whole world were made up of such kind people.
“That’s very sweet of you, Eddie. But I can handle it. I come from a long line of ball-busting Jersey girls.”
His smile turns into a laugh. He has a crooked front tooth, which is oddly endearing. “I knew one of those once. She was only four-foot-ten, but she scared the living shit outta me.”
I smile at him. “Even small dragons can still breathe fire.”
“True that.”
“So how about the electrical? It’s bad, isn’t it?”
He shrugs. “No. Everything checked out.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it checked out?”
“I mean there aren’t any problems. The current’s strong, breakers aren’t tripping, can’t find any frays in the wiring, there’s no arc faults, hot spots, dead outlets, or loose connections…” He shrugs again. “Everything looks groovy.”
“That can’t be right. What about the flickering lights?”
“Could be a problem with the local power grid. You might want to ask a neighbor if they’ve got the same thing happening. Parts of the network around here are over a century old. Whatever the cause, it’s not coming from inside the house.”
“And the exploding light bulbs? That’s definitely not normal.”
“It’s more common than you think. Either the manufacturer didn’t put enough insulation in the base so the filament overheated, or there was a loose connection between the bulb and the socket that made the current jump. Just make sure you don’t buy cheap bulbs from now on, and also make sure they’re screwed in real tight.”
I’m getting a little exasperated. Did he even check the wiring or was he up in the attic smoking pot this whole time?
“Okay, but the doorbell rings when nobody’s there. And what about the burning smell when I run the dryer? How do you explain that?”
He hesitates. I sense him carefully choosing his words.
“I mean…you have been under a lot of stress lately, man.” He adds sheepishly, “What with your husband and all.”
For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I get it, and I have to take a breath before I speak so I don’t bite off his head. “My mind isn’t playing tricks on me, Eddie. I’m not hallucinating electrical problems.”
Uncomfortable under my stare, he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful. All I can tell you is that when I was in a bad place, I thought I heard whispering voices and saw shadows move.”
“Did any of that happen while you were under the influence of mind-altering substances?”
His expression is pained, which I take as a yes.
Either way, I think our business relationship has reached its conclusion. Maybe whoever I get to do the roof can recommend an electrician who’s sober. “Never mind. Thanks for coming out to check. What do I owe you?”
He stuffs the small power meter into the back pocket of his jeans, bends to pick up his toolbox from where he left it on the floor, then straightens and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“No, that’s not right. You should be compensated for your time.”
His smile is lopsided. He flips his long hair over his shoulder. “I appreciate it, but it’s my policy that if I don’t find a problem, the visit is free.”
I have a sneaking suspicion he just made up that policy on the spot because he feels sorry for me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Nah, we’re cool. But maybe if one of your friends needs a handyman…?”
“I’ll recommend you. You bet. Thanks, Eddie, I really appreciate it.”
He grins at me, flashing that crooked tooth. “I’m outta here, then. You take care now, okay? And call me if you want my doc’s name. He’s really the best.”
I force a smile and lie. “I will. Thanks again.”
“I’ll let myself out. See you around.”
He leaves. When I hear the front door open and close, I go after him to make sure it’s locked. Then I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, but stop short when I see the envelope sitting on the table.
Even from halfway across the room, I can see the LOVE stamp in the corner and the neat block printing in blue pen spelling out my name.
My breath catches in my throat. My heart starts pounding. My steady hands begin to tremble.
Then all the overhead lights in the kitchen ceiling grow brighter.
With a sharp buzz of noise, they flicker and go out.
3
Dear Kayla,
You didn’t respond to my last letter, which I understand, because you think we’ve never met. You’re wrong. I could bore you with the details, but for now just trust that I know you.
In every way one person can know another, I know you.
I know the sight, sound, taste, and smell of you.
I know your darkest darks and your lightest lights.
I know your dreams, your nightmares, and every secret you’ve ever kept hidden, all those nameless desires you never admitted even to yourself.
I know the shape of your soul.
I know your hands tremble as you read these words, and your heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. I know you want to tear this letter up, and I also know you won’t.
How I need to touch you. How I need to hear your voice. I can’t, of course, because I’m here and you’re there, but the distance doesn’t make the longing go away.
I can still taste your skin.
Dante
4
I stand next to the kitchen window with the letter in my hands and read it again in the gray afternoon light. Then again. Then once more, because it’s so bizarre, my brain refuses to come up with any plausible explanations for it.
Probably because there aren’t any.
The overhead lights flicker back on, illuminating the room.
Throwing my arms in the air, I say to the ceiling, “I wish you’d done that when Mr. Everything’s Great Eddie was here!”
Then I fold the letter, put it back into its envelope, set it on the table, and pour myself a glass of red wine. I gulp it down, deciding on impulse that I need to make sure the house is secure. I go from room to room, checking window latches and door locks until I’m satisfied that I’m locked in tight.
After that’s done, I sit down at the kitchen table and make a list. I always think best with a pen in my hand.
POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS
Someone is fucking with you.
I immediately cross that out, because obviously someone is fucking with me. The question is why? And why now?
This Dante person saw the article in the newspaper about the accident
He smells money
He’s trying to pull a lonely-widow scam
As soon as I write that down, I think I’ve nailed it.
He’s in prison, after all. To get there, he had to do something bad. So the man has what could be politely called compromised morals. He probably trolls the obituary section of the newspapers and sends these letters out to new widows all over the place, hoping one of them will take the bait and write him back so he can strike up a relationship and seduce her into sending him large sums of cash.
But the letter is too weird to be scam bait. And too specific. He should’ve just said he was a lonely guy looking for a pen pal, not that he could still taste my skin.
Or that he knows the shape of my soul.
What does that even mean, anyway? What does any of it mean?
“Nothing,” I mutter, glaring at the envelope. “It’s a fraud.”
I specifically don’t address the mystery of how a letter arrived on my kitchen table without me knowing how it got there—again—because I suspect I’m having more lapses in memory and brought it in from the mailbox myself.
I take a little consolation in the fact that the letter from the mysterious Dante had no overtones of hostility. Admittedly creepy with all the “I know you” business, at least he isn’t threatening me harm.
Though I suppose he wouldn’t be able to. I think I read somewhere that prison correspondence is monitored. He’d probably get in trouble if he tried to send a violent threat through the mail.
Not that he’d have a reason to send a threat. Michael didn’t have any enemies, and neither do I. We’re your average middle-class married couple, both overworked and overtired so our idea of fun is snuggling together on the sofa to watch a movie on Friday nights.
Was. Our idea of fun was watching a movie together.
We’ll never do that again.
The sudden tightness in my chest makes it impossible to breathe. Dizzy, I rest my head on my forearms and listen to the rain tapping against the windows like a thousand fingernails.
“He’s just a jerk felon who’s trying to prey on a vulnerable woman,” I tell the tabletop.
It doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.
Who does this guy think he is, sending me this crap?
Whoever he is, he clearly has mental problems.
I sit up abruptly. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s not trying to run a scam on me at all.
Maybe the mysterious Dante is simply out of his mind.
I’m not sure which I feel more: empathy or trepidation. I mean, if the poor guy is only locked up because he’s got some kind of mental illness that wasn’t diagnosed and he should really be medicated, not incarcerated, that’s one thing.
On the other hand, he did something to land himself in prison. What if it was something violent?
He could be dangerous.
I remove the letter from the envelope and read it again. An odd impulse makes me lift it to my nose and sniff.
A faint whiff of cedar and wood smoke fills my nostrils. And something else, earthy and musky, like the scent of a man.
Or an animal.
The thought unsettles me. I fold the letter quickly and slide it back into the envelope, then take it upstairs to my bedroom and stuff it in the back of my underwear drawer.
Then I go back downstairs, log on to my computer, and do a search for Seattle roofers.
When the doorbell rings two days later, I’m in the laundry room, folding towels. I head to the front door, hoping an actual person will be there this time when I open it.
There is.
And he’s everything sweet, smiling Eddie is not.
His height and size are immediately intimidating, as is his stony expression. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark beard covering a square jaw. Wearing faded jeans, battered work boots, and a hunter green button-down shirt rolled up muscular tattooed forearms, he looks like he just wandered out of the forest after building himself a cabin from trees he cut down with an axe.
To my great surprise, I find him sexy.
It’s surprising because he’s not my type at all. I like the clean-cut, Wall Street type. A man with an advanced degree or two, excellent hygiene, and a solid understanding of how a 401(k) works.
This guy looks like the founder of an underground fight club.
He stands in the doorway gazing at me in intense silence until I say, “Can I help you?”
“Aidan.”
When it becomes apparent that’s all he’s going to say, I assume he’s looking for someone named Aidan who he thinks lives in this house.
“I’m sorry, there’s no Aidan here.”
His stony expression flickers with what appears to be contempt. “I’m Aidan. From Seattle Roofing.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the white pickup in the driveway with the company name stenciled on the side in red letters.
Embarrassed, I laugh. “Oh! Sorry, I thought you weren’t coming until next week.”
“Had an opening in the schedule,” he says without a trace of warmth. “Thought I’d drop by. If this is a bad time—”
“No, no, this is great,” I interrupt, swinging the door open wider. “Please, come in.”
He steps across the threshold. Instantly, the foyer feels smaller. I shut the door behind him and gesture toward the kitchen.
“I’ll show you where the leaks are, if you want to start there?”
He answers with a wordless nod.
I feel as if a rabid wolf is following behind me as we make our way into the kitchen. No, not a wolf. Something bigger and even more dangerous. A gorilla, maybe. Or a lion.
“So that’s where the water’s coming in,” I say, pointing to the kitchen ceiling. “I had a handyman out to look at the electrical. He also looked at the roof and said something about the deck needing to be cut out and replaced near the turret.”
