Let's Stay Together (28 page)

All this hassle today has been worth it just to see her expression,
Patrick thought.

“You’re . . .” Mrs. Gildersleeve blinked at Patrick.

“Lauren Short,” Lauren said. “Hi.”

“May we come in?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. She stood back and let Lauren inside, Patrick following behind. She closed the door. “You’re really Lauren Short.”

“Yes,” Lauren said.

Mrs. Gildersleeve fell back against the door. “I don’t believe it.”

Patrick set down his tool bag. “Your message said you had a leak.”

“Um, yes, under the kitchen sink,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “It’s more than a drip this time. It leaked out onto the floor.” She hurried around them to the kitchen.

“You have an amazing effect on people,” Patrick whispered.

“I think it’s you,” Lauren whispered.

While Patrick had his head and half of his upper torso under Mrs. Gildersleeve’s sink, Mrs. Gildersleeve offered Lauren some coffee.

“I’m okay,” Lauren said. “I already had some espresso and hot chocolate.”

Patrick popped his head out. “You do have a leak. It’s fixable, though.”

Mrs. Gildersleeve sipped from a mug, her hands shaking slightly. “When Patrick told me, um, that you were his friend, naturally, I was skeptical.”

“Why?” Lauren asked.

“Well, he’s . . .” She looked down at Patrick. “No offense, Patrick, but you’re a maintenance man and she’s a movie star.”

“I
was
a movie star,” Lauren said. “I’m starting a new life with Patrick now.”

Patrick pointed at the tool bag. “Lauren, could you hand me the biggest wrench you can find in there?”

Lauren unzipped the bag and handed him a wrench as long as her arm. “Is this it?”

Patrick nodded. “You’re one for one.” He twisted slightly and returned to the pipe under the sink. “Make sure you talk loudly, okay? I don’t want to miss anything.” He began tightening both coupling nuts.

“We will,” Lauren said.

“How did you two meet?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked.

“We met online,” Lauren said. “He wrote me a sweet e-mail after my breakup. That e-mail lifted my spirits, and I wrote back. And then Patrick wouldn’t stop writing to me. He’s been mercilessly stalking me from three thousand miles away.”

Patrick laughed. “Why didn’t you get a restraining order, then?”

“Because I can’t be restrained around you,” Lauren said.

“I can’t. I’ve been stalking him just as mercilessly. Hey.
You
took Patrick’s picture. Right here in this kitchen. I recognize the blue ducks.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “I did.”

“Did he tell you about St. Louis?” Lauren asked.

“Yes,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said. “And I thought he was pulling my leg.”

“Patrick doesn’t lie.” She nudged his leg with her foot. “Do you?”

“No,” Patrick said. “I haven’t learned how. I’m not an actor.”

Lauren nudged his leg again. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not saying a thing,” Patrick said.

He tightened the jamb nut and felt the bottom of the trap, flecks of rust falling onto his forehead.
She needs a new trap.
He slid out. “All fixed. For now. Next time we come, I’ll have to replace your trap.” He stood and handed the wrench to Lauren.

Lauren hugged it to her chest. “For me? I don’t know what to say. Thank you. You really like me, don’t you?”

“I love you,” Patrick said.

“He gave me a wrench,” Lauren said. “I wonder how many men give wrenches to their wenches.” She placed it in the tool bag and zipped it up. “It was nice to meet you.”

“It was . . .” Mrs. Gildersleeve smiled weakly. “It was nice to meet you, too, Lauren.”

Lauren moved to the door, Patrick followed, and in moments they were up the stairs and in front of only three photographers.

“Lauren, what did you just do?” one of them asked.

Lauren bit her lip, fluttered her eyes, and put the back of one gloved hand on her forehead. “Oh, it was brutal,” she said sadly. “I don’t know if I can accurately tell you the sheer horror I’ve just witnessed.”

Patrick heard cameras going into overdrive. He also tried not to laugh.

“I handed a . . .” She sniffled. “I handed a wrench to my man. It was
so
heavy. I thought my arm would snap in two.” She dried an imaginary tear. “And he . . .” She grabbed Patrick by his coverall straps. “This strapping, strong man took that wrench. . . .” She whimpered. “He took that wrench, and he stopped a
leak.
I wish you had been there. It was so . . . inspiring.” She bowed and threw in a curtsy. “The end.” She laughed. “And we’re coming back soon to replace her trap.” She squinted at Patrick. “What’s a trap?”

“The curvy part of the drain at the bottom,” Patrick said.

“Ah,” Lauren said. “The curvy part of the drain at the bottom.” She shook her head at the reporters. “We’re working. That’s all. There’s no show here.”

“Where are you going now?” a photographer asked.

Lauren smiled at Patrick. “Where to?”

“Over to Bergen,” Patrick said. “They have no hot water. The pilot light probably blew out during the blizzard.”

“It sounds
so
dangerous,” Lauren said.

“It isn’t,” Patrick said.
And she has to know that.
“I’ll let you relight it.”

“I love playing with fire,” Lauren said, and she hugged him.

Two of the photographers faded away. The lone photographer shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re really becoming a handywoman.” He checked his watch. “I gotta go.”

Lauren smiled. “Good luck with your pictures.”

“I won’t need luck,” the man said as he moved away.

“These pictures are golden.”

For the rest of the morning, with no paparazzi harassing them, Patrick and Lauren made the rounds, relighting three water heaters and a furnace. They were strolling toward Patrick’s apartment—after savoring a meal of smothered chicken, candied yams, and string beans at the Soul Spot on Atlantic—when Patrick’s phone rang.

“A pigeon just flew through my kitchen window!” Mr. Hyer screamed. “There’s glass everywhere!”

“Is the pigeon still alive?” Patrick asked.

“Oh yes, it’s roosting on my refrigerator and whistling ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ ” Mr. Hyer said. “Of
course
it’s dead! There are feathers and bird guts everywhere!”

“I’ll be right there, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.

“What do I do until then?” Mr. Hyer shouted. “I’m freezing my ass off!”

“Try to hang something over the window,” Patrick said.

“A bath towel will do.”

“Why?” Mr. Hyer shouted.

“So no other pigeons join their friend and you can block the cold air.” He closed his phone. “Back to Baltic.”

“A pigeon flew through a window,” Lauren said. “Why would a pigeon fly through a window?”

“It was probably confused from the storm,” Patrick said.

“Or it just wanted to make Mr. Hyer’s day more exciting, I don’t know.”

Upon arriving at the apartment building on Baltic, Patrick went first to the basement to cut up some cardboard boxes with a box cutter and collect six three-foot-long two-by-fours.

“You’ve done this before,” Lauren said.

“Pigeons are little missiles,” Patrick said. “They bounce off most of the newer windows but not these old ones.”

He and Lauren walked up to 3B. Patrick picked through his tool bag and laid out duct tape, a whisk broom, a dustpan, a heavy-duty stapler, a power screwdriver, a box of wood screws, and a heavy-duty garbage bag in the hallway.

“Mr. Hyer doesn’t like me to take the tool bag into his apartment,” Patrick said. “He says it makes too much noise, which is strange, because he can barely hear.” He put everything into the pockets of his coveralls. He looked at the door. “I’m assuming there’s glass everywhere in that kitchen. Be careful. You whisk up the glass, and I’ll do the repair.” He paused before knocking. “One more thing. Mr. Hyer might remember me, and he might not. He’s about ninety. I would stand behind me until it’s safe.” He knocked loudly, and Lauren jumped. “Sorry.”

A series of locks moved and clicked until a hunched-over, balding man ripped open the door and snarled, “It took you long enough, um . . .”

“Patrick.”

“I knew that,” Mr. Hyer said, stepping aside.

Patrick moved inside, Lauren gripping his back pocket, and then he carefully and quietly removed everything from his pockets and laid it on the kitchen table. “Mr. Hyer, this is Lauren.”

Mr. Hyer slumped into a bright orange wooden chair beside the kitchen table and held a light blue cardigan sweater tightly to his chest. “Who’s she?”

“Lauren is my assistant today,” Patrick said.

“Hello,” Lauren said.

“We’ll have you fixed up in no time, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.

Patrick took the garbage bag and covered the pigeon before working the bird into the bottom of the bag. He stepped carefully around hundreds of pieces of glass to the window itself. “Be careful, Lauren.”

“I will.” She began whisking pieces of glass into the dustpan and dumping the glass into the garbage bag.

“It just flew into the window like a cannonball!” Mr. Hyer yelled. “Glass everywhere! I thought I was under attack! It was Pork Chop Hill all over again!”

Patrick removed large shards of glass from the left window frame. Then he opened the right window and stepped through to the fire escape and began measuring, writing down the window’s dimensions on a little notepad he took out of his middle pocket. “Lauren, Mr. Hyer served in Korea. He earned a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart.”

Lauren smiled at Mr. Hyer. “I’m honored to know you, Mr. Hyer.”

Mr. Hyer squinted at Lauren. “Who’s she?”

“My assistant, Lauren,” Patrick said. He returned inside and cut four pieces of cardboard based on his measurements.

“Oh,” Mr. Hyer said. “
Your
assistant.
I
need an assistant. I’m an old man. I could freeze to death before anyone notices, and now you have
both
windows open!”

“I would notice, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.

“What would you do with my body?” Mr. Hyer asked.

“I’d donate it to science, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.

“You
would,
” Mr. Hyer said. “I hate pigeons. Flying rats . . . grenades with wings . . .”

Patrick stapled two pieces of cardboard to the outside window frame, then sealed them with duct tape. After power driving screws into the two-by-fours, he screwed them tightly into the frame a few inches apart. He stepped through the other window and shut it. “I have to get the glass cut to fit, Mr. Hyer.”

“Why can’t I have all new windows?” Mr. Hyer asked.

“Windows from
this
century.”

“You know why,” Patrick said.

“Damn neighbors.” Mr. Hyer looked at Lauren. “They want to keep the building authentic. Can you believe that? They actually like drafty, warped,
authentic
windows.”

Patrick stapled the other two pieces of cardboard to the inside frame and sealed them with duct tape. After screwing in the other three boards, he shut the window and latched it. “That should do it.”

“Oh, that looks like shit,” Mr. Hyer said.

Patrick moved his hand around the edges. “I can’t feel any cold air, though.”

“It still looks like shit,” Mr. Hyer said. “How long do I have to look at it?”

“If I can get the glass cut tomorrow morning,” Patrick said, “I can have you fixed up by lunchtime. Is that okay?”

“It’s okay,” Mr. Hyer said. “It’s not as if I’m expecting any guests.” He blinked at Lauren. “Who’s this?”

“This is Lauren,” Patrick said. “She’s my assistant.”

Lauren whisked the last bits of glass into the dustpan. “Hello, Mr. Hyer.”

Mr. Hyer looked her up and down. “She looks too young to be working at any job.”

“Thank you,” Lauren said.

“You any good with plumbing, honey?” Mr. Hyer asked. “This one hasn’t got a clue. My toilet backs up every other day.”

“He’s an expert with my plumbing,” Lauren said.

“Huh?” Mr. Hyer said.

Patrick laughed as he collected his tools. “We’re done, Mr. Hyer. Anything else we need to check on for you?”

“No,” Mr. Hyer scowled.

“I’ll call you before I come to replace your window,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mr. Hyer said.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hyer,” Lauren said.

Mr. Hyer rose and pointed at Lauren. “You stay in school, young lady. You don’t want to do a job like this forever.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Hyer,” Patrick said.

Outside 3B, Lauren whispered, “Stay in school?”

“Mr. Hyer was a guidance counselor about thirty years ago,” Patrick said, zipping up the tool bag and putting it over his shoulder. “He usually tells me to stay in school, too. Today he forgot. You must have distracted him.”

After disposing of the glass in a snow-filled Dumpster, they walked a few blocks without an entourage to Bergen Street and Mrs. Moczydlowska’s apartment.

“Anything I should know here?” Lauren asked.

“I don’t know if I can adequately prepare you for Mrs. Moczydlowska,” Patrick said. “Be prepared for anything and everything.”

Mrs. Moczydlowska was eerily silent as Patrick and Lauren looked for rats. After twenty minutes, Patrick and Lauren met in the kitchen.

Lauren shrugged.

“No sign of them,” Patrick said. “No droppings anywhere.”

“I still hear them,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said.

“Not as much as before, though, right?” Patrick asked.

Mrs. Moczydlowska shook her head. “No. They are quieter.”

Patrick noticed the closed oven.
She listened to me.
“They’re getting bored. They’ll move away shortly. Any other issues?”