Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories (15 page)

She had made ham and cheese sandwiches and had BBQ potato chips and ranch dressing to dip the chips in. The three-year-old had his own sandwich and soda and the baby drank from a bottle—I was almost afraid she’d whip out a tit and start breastfeeding the tot. She also had a bottle of wine.

I can’t drink, he said, not now, now when I’m working. Well, I can drink, she said.

It was cheap wine, didn’t even have a cork. She poured the wine into a plastic cup, holding her baby.

The three-year-old played with one of the branches. This is nice, he said.

I wanted to do something nice for you, she said, working hard like this, I wanted to show you that me and the kids appreciate it.

What’s really going on? he said. Tell me the real reason why you’re here, he said. Something is wrong, he said.

Nothing is wrong, she said.

Something is up, he said.

The sky, she said.

Maybe I will have some wine, he said.

She handed him her cup. He looked at me but I acted like I was too busy with my trimming work. I didn’t care if he had some wine. I had a flask in my back pocket.

She said, My period’s late.

He said, Oh.

She said, Did you hear me?

He said, How late?

She said, A week.

He said, Is that something to worry about?

She said, I’m not sure yet.

He laughed, just a little. He laughed and said, I’ll pack my suitcase and get the hell out Dodge. He laughed so she knew he was joking.

She didn’t like what he said.

She said, That’s not funny.

I’m sorry, honey, he said.

After work, David and I went to the bar like we always did. I bought him a couple of vodka tonics because I felt sorry for the guy.

I can’t afford another kid, he said. Three kids. One was enough, more than enough, and I have two. I can’t afford three.

Just get rid of it, I said.

Abortion? No. We don’t believe in that.

Didn’t mean to offend, I said.

We’re not die hard pro-lifers, he said, we just don’t believe in doing that.

You like kids, I said, kids are nice.

You ever change a diaper?

No.

You ever sit up all night with a baby that has the flu, scared to death the baby might die and you’d have to live with that forever?

No, I said.

We had another drink.

I might not come to work Monday, he said, I might really just pack my shit and become a piece of shit, a deadbeat dad on the run. I might bolt from this life and start somewhere new where I have no one to look after but myself.

He was serious.

Monday: David showed up for work bright and early. We had a full day of trees to deal with so I was glad.

So you didn’t hit the road after all, I said.

She started her period last night, he said.

M
y son sits next to me in my truck and I’m driving him home and he says, “I don’t want to go back.”

“I know,” I say.

He’s playing with a toy truck. The toy truck is silver. My truck is dark blue. My son, he’s ten, and his name is David.

David says, “We could drive away to another city.”

It’s not a bad idea. I’d be arrested for violating the court custody order. “Yeah, well,” I say.

He knows. He nods. He says, “I don’t like it there anymore.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“No,” he says, “but I don’t like it there anymore.”

“Is it because of Bill?” I ask.

“Bill? There’s no more Bill.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Jeff,” my son says.

“Who’s Jeff?”

“He comes around a lot now.”

I can’t keep track of my ex-wife’s rotation of boyfriends.

“Does Jeff drink?” I say.

“No,” my son says, and goes quiet. We’re near the house where my ex-wife lives. It used to be my house. I don’t miss it that much.

I park in the driveway. There are two cars there—a Camaro and a Datsun 280-Z. The Z belongs to my ex-wife. Her name is Marilyn.

“Ohhkkeyy,” my son says, getting his backpack in order.

“See you in two weeks,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Want me to walk you to the door?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Call me if there’s a problem.”

“There are never any problems,” he says. He gets out of my truck and goes back to his mother.

I feel like getting laid. It’s a sudden desire; I’m driving away from the ex-house and my son and I’m thinking that getting laid would be nice. I haven’t gone out on a date or been laid in seven months.

So I go to a bar. I have some beers and I’m not quite sure what to do. There are women here, and some of them are alone. Some of them are young, some are my age, and some are a number of years older. The beers taste good. I don’t drink like I used to. I used to really drink. That’s why Marilyn divorced me and I see David every other week.

I start a conversation with a young woman. She has short blonde hair and her name is Lucy. She works at a supermarket.

“So what do you do?” she asks.

“I take pictures,” I say.

“You’re a photographer?” she says, interested.

“Well, I take pictures of houses with water damage.”

She looks at me and goes, “Huh?”

“I’m an estimator for an insurance company,” I say. “Water damage is my specialty. A house gets water damage, I take pictures of it, I make an estimate on how much it’ll cost to repair.”

“Oh,” Lucy says, looking at her drink. “Isn’t that kind of boring?”

“Isn’t working in a supermarket boring?”

“Yeah, well, what do you expect,” she says.

This conversation isn’t going too well. I don’t think I will be leaving with Lucy to have sex.

One beer later, I’m talking to another woman. She also has blonde hair – it’s long and stringy. Her name is Rene and she works at a cyber café monitoring people on Internet-hooked computers.

“How do you like working there?” I ask.

She shrugs and says, “It’s pretty boring.”

I am alone in my bed when I go home. I’m thinking of the houses I have to take pictures of tomorrow. I’m thinking of going over to Marilyn’s and confronting this guy Jeff. It’s easy to have violent fantasies. I picture myself having a few drinks with this Jeff and liking him when I want to hate him; we become the best of friends and this irritates Marilyn and I’m thinking this might be the route to go.

My phone rings. It’s my son.

“I can’t sleep,” he says.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” David says. “I just can’t sleep. Were you asleep?”

“No.”

“Tell me a story,” he says.

“A story? What kind of story?”

“A bedtime story,” he says.

I’ve never told him a bedtime story before. My father used to read to me from books when I was his age. I can’t remember any of those stories. I could tell him that once upon a time there was a man who led a wild and crazy life, got married, thought he found some peace in having a home and a family, but messed it all up when he went wild and crazy again.

“I don’t know any stories,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me one?”

“That’s not my job,” he says.

“It is your job now,” I say. “I just hired you.”

“All my stories are boring.”

“Try one on me.”

He yawns. I know it’s fake. “I’m tired now. I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

“Okay.”

“Good night,” my son says.

He hangs up the phone and then I hang up the phone and I close my eyes and it takes a while to fall asleep but I finally do fall asleep. Not even the ringing phone wakes me.

T
he phone had been ringing at all hours of the day—morning, noon, night, 4 A.M. At first, the other end would hang up. The Caller ID was blocked but I had a feeling it was she, the one I used to love, and still love; the one that is not here with me and said she loved me too.

Next, the caller didn’t hang up but stayed on the phone and was silent.

Speak up, I said.

Nothing.

I could hear background noise—car horns, cars driving by; people giggling; TV shows—mostly game shows and reality shows.

She—the one I once loved and still do—liked to watch reality shows, especially the dating ones.

I started to hear breathing, usually when the calls came before the sun rose and a new day began.

Call all you want, I said.

Silence; breathing.

If you have a question, I said, ask.

Silence; breathing.

Ask, I said.

Breathing; silence.

The answer is yes, I said.

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Cover design by Steven Seighman

Copyright © 2010 by Michael Hemmingson

978-1-4804-2607-8

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