If, he had said. If you frame with ’em. At least he hadn’t said if you’re stupid enough to frame with ’em. Because by my reddening cheeks and averted eyes he must have guessed by now that we had done exactly that. “That’s right though, isn’t it? A ceiling is eight foot; so is Sheetrock and plywood. So the two-by-fours should be eight foot, too. Shouldn’t they?”
“You got a top and bottom plate. Don’t forget. Use an eight-foot board an’ nothing will fit right. Too tall. A dead-on stud is what you use for framing. It’s ninety-two’n five-eighths, not ninety-six. Top and bottom plate make it add up right.”
Well, that was perfectly obvious. At least, it was now. Why I hadn’t thought of it before was beyond stupid. Because I had nothing to lose at this point, and because I was growing accustomed to looking like an idiot, I asked, “So if a person did use them to frame something, like maybe a shop, what would they do to fix it?” I looked at the toes of my shoes, expecting to see my courage seeping out in a puddle right there on aisle twenty-three. “I mean aside from ripping it out and starting over?”
“For a shop I wouldn’t rip nothing apart. You got some extra work though. Need to cut strips of plywood to make up the difference—put it at the top, under the eaves. Siding’ll cover it. But that won’t fall right either, so you’ll have an odd siding piece at the bottom, most likely. Inside’ll be the hardest to make right. Hang your paneling or chipboard, whatever you got planned, then I’d double up some one-by-fours for trim along the base. That’s what I’d do.”
Thank everything that’s holy I hadn’t ordered the lumber for the entire house yet. I also thanked Pete for his help and we shook, though he seemed tempted to hug me like a long-lost relative he’d finally found between the treated lumber and the eight-foot two-by-four not-studs.
“Call me anytime you’re in a bind. I’ve built a house or two, and I’ll help you out for twenty-five an hour. Can bring a buddy who’ll work for the same. Get you past worrisome parts and leave ’til you need us again.”
I left believing that little Pete was as big, brave, and noble as any knight in shining armor. And I had no doubt there were dragons in my path.
Drew and I followed Pete’s advice to finish the shop walls. The plywood strengthened the structure, so we felt a lot safer climbing around on the roof to nail up the plywood and tar paper. I realized we never should have put the rafters in place until the plywood was up. It had been dangerous and unstable to climb around on the hollow walls with flimsy braces. Again, I was happy we were learning these things on a smallish shop rather than a full two-story house, where every disaster would be multiplied to a dangerous scale that could turn deadly. I had never once thought the project was dangerous when it was on paper, not more than a sliver or smashed thumb, but on site, the potential for sawn-off digits and falls from a deadly height loomed large.
I hired a garage-door company to install the door after we had the header in place, which proved to be a good decision, based on the difficulty they had getting it to open and close smoothly. We had the shop watertight and locked up by the end of Christmas break, though it wasn’t finished by any stretch. It was missing siding and shingles outside as well as insulation and paneling inside. Drew wanted to keep going and finish it out with tool benches and pegboards, but I was determined not to let it turn into a distraction from the house, no matter how afraid we were to tackle the fifteen hundred cinder blocks stacked around the foundation. The purpose of building the shop first had been to have a place to store tools on site. We would work out the details later. Our construction clock was ticking and we had a lot of house to build by September 13, the bank’s final inspection day.
They had already completed the first inspection, to make certain I was spending their cash on a house instead of crack cocaine, and the city had also sent an inspector over, prior to the pour, to make sure I had the rebar reinforcement in place.
Everything was signed off on and ready except our courage. Oh, and the electricity and water. The electrician hadn’t shown up yet, and the plumber was failing at every turn. Yes, I was the plumber, but that didn’t stop me from being mad at what a failure the hookup to the city main had been so far. I was still trying to work out how to get the 250-foot trench to the house dug, and since the water main was on the other side of the street, I had to get someone to bore under the street to get to it. In this case, I was in over my head in a literal as well as a figurative sense.
All in all, I was still confident that we would nail this project—pun intended. I had even bought tiny dollhouse furnishings for our stick house so Jada and Hope could put bookcases, a Victorian sofa, and framed pictures in place. Hope crocheted miniature rugs and let Roman march his Lego people around as long as she or Jada was helping him avoid booby traps.
He wasn’t the only one skipping over land mines. I still watched my rearview mirror for Adam and woke in the middle of the night convinced that Matt stood over me, hands reaching for my neck. Fi-fah. When I was anywhere but the job site, I felt small, incapable, and as weak as I had for too many years. Hershey patrolled the yard with a silent promise to keep us safe, her tail dipping low between her legs when she ran across a suspicious scent. I wondered if dogs remembered the details of their own trauma like humans. Doggy PTSD. I hoped not.
I was up late on Christmas Eve, catching up on projects for work and even writing a few pages. I had trouble falling asleep, even though I was beyond exhausted. I eventually meditated my way into a dreamless rest. Benjamin seemed to have vanished after I had finally let him in and felt at peace with him. I missed his little land of timeless light.
Dim winter sunlight woke me, but I tucked my head under the comforter and willed myself to go back to sleep. Roman yawned in the bed beside me and lifted his arms over his head in a full-out stretch that two-year-olds do best. He had no clear memory of what Christmas meant, and it hadn’t crossed his mind yet that it was a special day. Next year would be different. When he was three, we would probably have trouble getting him to sleep past four on Christmas morning.
I slipped out of the bed and tiptoed into the den to plug in the Christmas-tree lights. Hershey growled and I heard a noise outside. Even though we hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, I’d never stop wondering if it was Adam, especially on holidays and birthdays. The lights blinked in a repeating pattern, all red this year, like little warning lights. Danger. Danger. Danger.
Jada, my only morning child, giggled and made me jump. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, red snowflake wrapping paper peeled back like flower petals from a small box she’d pulled from her stocking. According to our complex family Christmas rules, stocking gifts were fair game to early risers, but tree gifts had to wait for the family.
Roman ran toward me, sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked. He stumbled, caught himself, and ran to the Christmas tree.
“Santa!” Roman yelled. “We can open!”