+ + +
That he could be so enamored of a toilet flush was something Will had never imagined in his life. He hit the lever again, captivated as the swirl filled the bowl. He watched until the water disappeared through the drain with a loud gurgle. He stepped into the kitchen, refreshed from the hottest shower he’d ever taken int his life. He marveled at the slickness beneath his feet, and the soft gleam of sunlight reflected up from the floor. It was astonishing, the transformation from the wreck he’d first laid eyes on that first day he viewed this kitchen in the light of day.
Maartens had proven himself a craftsman and designer beyond anything Will could have found on his own. He’d stolen a few feet from the pantry and included a shower in the downstairs bathroom, a simple, tiled floor to ceiling glass doored enclosure that took up the entire end of the room. The sink was a simple porcelain pedestal. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white. The was no closet. Towels, soap and cleaning supplies were stored on two shelves. Simple. The walls were four-foot, white wainscoting, the walls a pale blue.
The kitchen was wainscoting as well, the walls above it a muted gold hue. The cabinets were white with dark blue porcelain knobs and pulls. The countertops were granite— “Composite,” Maartens corrected him, “but there isn’t anybody who can walk in here and tell the difference.”—with a drain board incorporated in the material at one side of the sink, and a butcher block cutting board inserted at the other. The sink was ceramic enameled single bowl with a high backsplash. The fixtures sprouted from the center of the back, in chrome, a knob for hot and cold. There was a soapdish affixed above the fittings. Will had initially complained about the single dish.
“I’m stuck using a pan to rinse shit?”
Maartens answered him by swinging a well disguised panel open beneath the counter, revealing a dishwasher. “That,” he said, pointing to the sink, “for all practical purpose, is a glorified garbage disposal.”
Will made no further complaints.
Maartens had also taken it upon himself to select the appliances. He’d added a matching stove and refrigerator that appeared to have been designed by a nineteen thirties automobile manufacturer, all art deco soft lines with chome and small, subtle highlights matching the paint on the walls. The stove was a beast, with dual ovens and stovetop equipped with five burners and a grill/griddle. The refrigerator was also enormous. It had rounded edges and a doorhandle that ran from the top of the door to its base. He expected it would take a solid tug to pull it open, but it swung with little effort. He could have stored an entire calf in the lower unit and a hog in the freezer. Standing with Maartens, who’d summoned him after completing the final touches, he was dumbstruck. Fully modern, yet “period authentic”, it bore no resemblance to his grandmother’s kitchen, yet he could not imagine it as anyone else’s. He knew it would have brought tears to her eyes. It didn’t bother him a bit that he’d never once been consulted regarding any of the finishing work.
When able to speak, all Will could muster was, “My God.”
“Yeah,” Maartens answered. “It’ll do. Monday we get down to some practical work. Getting that roof the way it should be could take more than a week. There’ll be a few more dumpsters here that morning, so don’t be surprised if you wake up to one helluva racket. See you then.”
Will had been so thrilled he was out the door behind Maartens and went to Maastricht and bought a coffee maker, a small table and a pair of chairs.
The entire week had actually gone well, considering how it had started. Will had managed to get the old propane tank replaced, filled and hooked up in time to heat his water. Ouillette’s crew from Save Our Native Sons had completed their groundskeeping mission. Will caught them before leaving the property, and had sent them away with a hundred dollars to be spent on pizza, burgers, soft drinks or whatever else the boys wanted before being returned to “the facility.” Bourke had been a voice of dissent but, with some arm twisting by Will and an alluded threat of complaint to Loren Ouillette, he accepted the offer with a grudging nod. The boys—and Marchand—had been thrilled. He also promised them he’d do all he could to find them more “hours”. This, of course, meant Will was compelled to make a visit to Blom’s sooner than later. He’d also decided that it could wait until after the weekend.
Will crossed the kitchen floor to the sink, rejoiced at the flow of water escaping the faucet, and filled his coffee pot. He marveled at how smooth the floor felt beneath his feet, and delighted in the lingering smell of newness that enveloped him. He was still reliant on a generator for electricity, but Maartens had rigged up a battery and it didn’t have to be running to throw on a light switch or keep the fridge cold. The only electricity in the house was in the kitchen anyway. He’d called the power company, but they couldn’t give him a precise date for getting him hooked up.
As the coffee perked, Will went to his chair and table, a purchase that would not doubt had Maartens huffing with disgust. What he’d bought was at best an Ikea knock off. When he brought it in, he was almost disgusted himself. Function over form, for the time being, he decided. When he came up with something better, he’d add it to the pile of scrap lumber and brush on the other side of the driveway. He slipped on a pair of socks, then went to the stoop where his golfbag, a five gallon pail of balls and his shoes were standing.
Will had regained some good fitness habits while he was sequestered at the Resort, Spa, Casino and Entertainment Experience, and felt it would be a terrible disservice to himself if he abandoned them. He sat on the stoop and put his shoes on. Wearing nothing else, he shouldered the bag, lifted the bucket, and made his way toward the rear of the house.
All in all, a decent week. A better week than Will had experienced in months—considering how it started. His brain had managed to settle into a normal rhythm. He found a patch a few yards behind his new propane tank that was level and closely shorn. He pulled a handful of tees from the bag and dropped them at his feet. As he pulled on his glove, he viewed his target area, a wide patch of seedlings framed by a fifty-foot gap in the windbreak. Perfect. He tipped the bucket and a few dozen golf of various brands and condition spilled over the tees. He pulled the driver from the bag, picked up a tee and pushed it into the ground.
Blom’s advice to ignore his neighbor had probably been the soundest of offers. Will probably should have let it go for a couple of weeks. Trespassing… Had he given himself some time, he probably could have come up with some discrete, subtle plan that would have had a satisfactory result that all could easily have lived with. In retrospect, all he’d accomplished with his approach was scaring a young housewife with a couple of little kids by putting her in the middle of it. If this Mikkelson was such a stubborn ass, he couldn’t think of any better means of motivating the man to further dig in his heels and make this a bigger mess than it was. So be it. It wasn’t as if Will had been fulfilling a lifelong dream of farming. As he saw things at the moment, the likelihood of his remaining past the last coat of paint on the last room to be restored would be nil. Putting the house back together was as much as a pair of dead people could ask, and there were plenty of places far more interesting to be the local oddball. For the time being, he’d decided his plan of action would include being the best oddball in Limburg County he could be.
Will planted a tee, placed a ball. The morning sun felt glorious on his skin, all of it.
+ + +
For the moment, it appears I’m at a point where the words aren’t putting up much of a fight. I’m gonna ride it ’til it sputters out again.
AND NOW A WORD FROM MY SPONSOR (S)
