“Stetson,” said Jake. “Aftershave.” Jake was nowhere near shaving, but Bert said nothing. At least it wasn’t concealer. For the first time ever, Bert sat down on Jake’s bed.
“I want to make things right,” said Bert. He made eye contact with Jake, and his gaze wasn’t glazed by booze, framed with bloodshot. He cleared his throat and continued. “I want to say sorry for hitting you and for ruining your sewing machine.”
“So you want to make amends?” Jake looked away. He still did not trust Bert, and probably never would. This seemed like his mother’s doing.
“Yes, I do.”
Jake took a deep breath. The power dynamic had shifted, and he was going to take full advantage. He resumed eye contact with his stepfather. “Lately, I’ve become sort of an expert on these things.” Jake pointed at the AA book on his nightstand. “I’ve learned that just saying sorry isn’t enough.”
“What the heck do you want me to do, kid?” Bert stood up and crossed his arms, frustrated. “All I can do is say sorry.”
“Amends means trying harder, and living better.” Jake’s voice quivered at first, and then grew more certain, as he continued. “Amends is something you demonstrate.”
“What do you want?” Bert sighed and uncrossed his arms.
“I want you to build me a shoe rack,” said Jake.
Level
When Bucky and Black Mabel arrived to do the last of the work on the trailer, Jake came out to help. Rachel was nervous—it seemed improbable that this trailer house could survive being lifted without splintering into pieces.
Bucky drove a giant flatbed, loaded with cinder blocks. Rachel and Jake carried one at a time through the gate, Bucky and Black Mabel carried two each. When the truck was unloaded, Bucky went to the dump for yet another load, and when he returned, they resumed in earnest. Rachel couldn’t help but watch Bucky’s back, straining with the load, surprisingly muscular.
She watched as he placed the jacks under the listing north end of Rachel’s house, saw Black Mabel disappear underneath to begin stacking the cinder blocks. Eventually, Rachel gathered enough bravery to bring Black Mabel more, despite the spiders and centipedes that skittered around the pieces of skirting that had been unscrewed, propped up in the yard. Jake refused to go under the trailer house, because of his outfit, and because of his fear of the pale insects.
Despite the heat, Black Mabel kept her long leather jacket on, and Rachel was amazed that she didn’t sweat. Bucky was drenched. They kept at it until all of the cinder blocks were in place, Bucky working from the edges, until he finally reached Black Mabel, pinned beneath the pipes underneath the bathroom.
Finally, one-third of the house rested on cinder blocks, and Bucky removed the jacks.
Rachel and Jake helped them screw the skirting back into place, but Bucky and Black Mabel refused the twenty dollars that Rachel pulled from her pocket.
* * *
There was work to be done, finishing touches. They had grown to love this house.
They painted the kitchen cabinets. She had allowed Jake to pick out the colors, and he had chosen a butterscotch yellow. The linoleum on the counters had been replaced with a dark brown tile, and he was adamant that the colors worked perfectly together.
Rachel removed all the cabinet doors and placed them on sheets of newspaper on the kitchen floor. Jake unscrewed all of the knobs carefully, and he painted the doors while Rachel painted the faceless cupboards.
“I hope you’re going to line those shelves,” he said.
“Of course,” said Rachel. “I suppose you want to pick out the shelf paper.”
“I trust you,” said Jake.
“You never told me what you thought about Cannery Row,” said Rachel as she stood on her tiptoes and dabbed at a corner of the cabinetry.
“It was hard to read,” said Jake. “But it wasn’t bad. Not enough sex, though. And everybody was so grimy and filthy.”
“That’s Steinbeck, kid.”
“I didn’t hate it,” Jake said, and began painting the first door. “If you have any other recommendations, I will accept them without question. You have good taste.”
“I know,” said Rachel. “Except all I’ve been reading lately is Nancy Drew.”
“Jesus,” said Jake.
“They’re comforting,” said Rachel. “I can’t believe I never read them when I was a kid.”
“You were too busy causing chaos,” said Jake. “But that’s all over now.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Rachel. “I still feel like a grenade.”
“Don’t make me lecture you again,” said Jake. It was true—Jake had read enough Al-Anon literature that he counseled her like an expert. He demanded that Rachel forgive herself but admitted it was out of his control. He finished the first door and stood up to admire his work. The butterscotch was dazzling. The wet paint shone in the kitchen lights, and Rachel could tell, without having turned around, that he had paused his work, words unsaid. She held a paintbrush, and waited.