shaft of sunlight scorching through the half-moon window above the sliding glass door leading out to the patio. The light traverses an impeccable interior before resting on a tidy couch where Alex should be. In his place, she finds folded sheets and neatly stacked pillows. How is it possible? She remembers seeing her brother when she got home last night after inventory. Somewhere around two A.M. she navigated the collateral damage of his late adolescence, guided only by the amber glow of streetlight filtering in through the blinds. Alex had been asleep, and not wanting to disturb him—and, let’s be honest, she was exhausted, little more than a withered twig in a lab coat after twelve hours on her feet—she silently grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and an oatmeal cookie sandwich from the pantry, before retiring to her room, pausing to kiss her brother on the forehead. “Good night, papo,” she whispered. He had been home. She saw him. Didn’t she?
“Alex?” She sniffs the top pillow and lurches. It’s damp and redolent with a tangy mix of sweat, grease, and musk—the sharp scent of teenage boys. He definitely spent the night. “You home?”
No answer.
Though there are few places to hide, she checks them all. The half bath in the foyer is vacant. The kitchen empty. The patio undisturbed.
He must’ve gone out. But this early? And where? And why? Alex is not one to rise before noon for any reason. She can recall only one instance in which he got up in the A.M. without a lot of hassle: the morning of their father’s funeral. But that was an exception, one she prefers to not dwell on.
She checks her phone to see if there’s something in the long list of notifications she ignored. Sure enough, a text: going out. No further details. She counts herself lucky that he bothered sending that much. Esther never got even that small courtesy when he ran out on her, and now she’s persona non grata after sending him to live with his sister—like that’s some great punishment. If anybody should be pissed at Esther it’s not Alex.
The time stamp on the message reads 8:30. Something is definitely up. What does he have to do at 8:30 in the morning? It’s not like he has a job. She opts for the light touch when texting him back.
Cool come home early k? Need ur help with the shutters luv u
She might get into it with him tonight, explain (again!) the importance of letting her know where he’s going to be and impressing upon him the merits of basic civility toward those who love and care about you...
But today is her day off and she’s determined to keep it for herself. She will waste no more energy on worrying about her selfish brother. It’s a quarter after ten and the only thing she wants right now is coffee!
THE FROG-CROAK SOUND OF DUCT TAPE TEARING JOLTS him awake.
An army moves around him. Men go in and out of the house, shouting at one another to mind plants and to tend to various pieces of equipment arranged throughout the limestone patio. Some climb onto the roof, where they stitch together heavy yellow tarps with rows of alligator clips, while others feed a tube under the tarp and test seals. Overnight, his sedate home has transformed into a midway abuzz with activity.
Cheryl hands him his coffee. “Here. Drink,” she says, her voice stripped of whatever softness it possessed the night before.
“The doll?” he asks, clearing his throat and wiping the sleep from his eyes. His pipe, long extinguished, rests on the hard bubble of his gut. His entire body aches.
“In the car with our suitcases.” She stashes the pipe in its usual place. “They’re just about done. We should get going.” She helps him to his feet. “You’re sweating. I told you to come in last night. Now you don’t even have time to change.”
“I’m fine. Never better. Feel like a million bucks.” He stretches himself like an elm scratching at the sky and stomps his feet to get the blood circulating. He shakes his body like an earthquake, rolls his neck, windmills his arms, and cracks his back. And in one bearish gulp he empties the coffee mug, announcing his satisfaction with a yawp.
The foreman peeks out from beneath the tarp. “Hey, lady. We’re about to close ’er up. If you forgot anything, now’s the time to get it.”
“No. Go ahead,” she calls back.
But before he can duck inside, Thaddeus beckons him. “Just a few questions!”
Thaddeus turns to Cheryl, who busies herself returning the lounge chairs to their original positions, mumbling something about UV and sun bleaching. “Do you have the doll?” he asks again.
She sighs. “In the car. Along with our suitcases.”
The foreman waddles over, tossing a glance at his loitering crew. He checks something on his phone, then looks up at Thaddeus. “I went over all of this with your wife. What do you need?”
For a long time Thaddeus doesn’t speak, only stares at the yard.
“Hey, guy, you got a question or what?” The foreman squints in the early-morning sun. He’s a large man, and already a tributary of sweat marks the valley of his spine. He smells of mulch and high-en-durance deodorant. “Yours ain’t the only house we got today. Ain’t even the only one we got in this neighborhood. You’d be surprised what bad shape a lot of these old houses are in.”
Thaddeus purses his lips. “How long until we can use the pool?”
He shrugs. “Should be fine now, unless it’s broke. We only do the inside. Inside.” He points at the house for emphasis. “Look, I left a pamphlet with your wife—”
“This pool,” Thaddeus says. He wraps an arm around the foreman’s shoulders and drags him along the perimeter. “The contractor—a good-looking lady-contractor, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five—she wanted to charge twenty thousand for it. Do you know what I told her?” He grins, awaiting a response.
“Look, we really need to get started here—”
“I said, ‘No way, Josephina!’ Ha!” He taps the foreman’s chest. “I could do the job myself for half that if I knew about construction.”
“Yeah? Good for you. Like I said, I gave your wife the rundown. Just avoid goin’ inside and you’ll be good—”
“‘Materials alone are going to run twelve grand.’ That’s what she told me.” Thaddeus narrows his eyes. “Okay, so I told her I could go as high as fourteen thousand. Hey, two grand’s just a weekend in Vegas anyway, right? But it wasn’t enough. ‘I have my crew to think about,’ she said. We went back and forth for twenty minutes. I don’t have to tell you about negotiating.” He gives the foreman a knowing nod. “Finally I said, ‘Fifteen thousand. That’s my final offer,’ and showed her the door. And what do you think she did?”
The foreman glances back to his crew and motions for them to seal the house.
“She said, ‘You drive a hard bargain.’ But she took the job. I liked her style, so I said, ‘What the hell, with the five grand I’m saving I’ll start a scholarship to help more girls like you go to trade school.’ I can’t help it; I’m a feminist. When the job was done I gave her an extra two hundred bucks for her trouble. No big deal.”
The foreman slips away, and moments later a quiet hiss signals that the gas has begun to fill the house.
“Let’s
