“It’s been a long time since I’ve had help carrying bags in,” I call to him as I follow. “I’m going to get spoiled.”
Climbing the steps to the back porch, he says, “You deserve to be spoiled, Demi.”
Once we’re inside, he sets the bags on the kitchen table and begins pulling out the items. “Plumber just left. He says he’ll have to come back later in the week to fix the shower. The copper piping is rusted out or something.”
“He’s fired,” I huff in frustration. “That’s the third time he has been out here and claimed he’ll have to come back for some other reason.”
“I can fix it myself, Demi,” Connor volunteers.
I’m about to say that would be great, but a thought occurs to me. “You know what? I’ll ask Jeff if he can fix it. He’s out of work and could use the money I’m sure. In fact, there are a few things around here he could help me with. He’s a great handyman.”
“How long has he been out of work?”
“A little over a month. But when you have five kids, and you’re a single income family . . . money was already tight. I think Wendy is starting to freak out.”
“I bet,” Connor agrees. “Well, let me know. I’m here to help.”
“Oh . . . by the way. I just found your first client. My neighbor . . . well, our neighbor,” I correct myself, “Brian. His transmission is messed up or something. He’s bringing it over this afternoon.”
Connor looks at me, his features are relaxed, but his eyes are animated with some thought or emotion I can’t decipher. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for all of this, Demi.”
“Blake loved you so much, Connor. That love kind of rubs off on people. I’m not just your cousin’s wife, I’m your friend too. Friends help each other.”
“I’m a lucky bastard to have such a good friend.” He smiles and gives me a small wave as he leaves the kitchen.
The next night, as promised, Connor enters my kitchen and begins preparing my ‘thank you’ dinner. I’ve tried to help him several times, but he keeps shooing me away and forcing me to sit at the kitchen table while he cooks. I watch him while he works; his focus seems so intense.
“Do you like to cook?” I query as I sip my beer.
“Eh, like is a strong word,” he chuckles. “But it can be a kind of therapy, I guess.”
“Therapy?”
“When I was . . .” he pauses on a sigh, “in prison,” he finishes quickly. “I worked in the kitchen. It was nice to have something to stay focused on.”
I have no clue how to respond to this. It’s not like I can empathize with such a feeling; the feeling of being caged and needing something to keep me busy to make time pass by faster. But I decide to take it head on. I think it’s important for Connor to be able to talk about his time in prison, and I want him to feel comfortable talking about it with me.
“So prison taught you how to cook?” I wager. “That could be useful information. Might have to have you cook for me more often,” I jest.
“Well, unless you like spaghetti and shitty meatloaf, you’re out of luck,” he laughs. When he bends over the stove and tastes some sauce on the wooden cooking spoon he’s holding, he smacks his lips. “I’d like to tell you it’s amazing,” he begins, “but that would be a lie.”
“Is it bad?”
“It’s edible,” he surmises.
“That’s good enough for me,” I assure him. “I’m not cooking it. That right there makes it amazing in itself.”
Music drifts into the room from the hallway where my Wurlitzer jukebox, one of my most prized possessions, plays.
“That jukebox is badass,” Connor notes in between songs as the records change.
“It’s the only thing I have left of my father’s,” I note. “He loved that thing.”
“How’d he go?” Connor asks, and I snort.
“On a Greyhound bus, I’m told,” I reply somewhat bitterly.
Connor’s gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “I’m sorry. I assumed you meant he died.”