Marcia Talley: This Enemy Town

The fifth book in the Hannah Ives series, 2005

Pay it back or pay it forward?

That one’s easy. If I had to pay back every saint who left a fresh-baked loaf of bread or a hot casserole on my doorstep during the worst of my chemotherapy days, I’d be standing in the serving line at the Clay Street Helping Hand shelter, dishing up baked beans and mashed potatoes until the next coming of comet Kahoutec.

So I pay it forward, like in the movie. Out of the blue and for no reason, I do favors for strangers. And when they ask how to pay me back, I say they have to pay it forward. To three more people. Each.

When I first met Dorothy Hart at the Naval Academy Wives Club luncheon in January, I never dreamed that paying it forward would involve the use of power tools. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as much a handy-mom as the next woman on Prince George Street. You have to be when you live on Prince George, a three-block section of gorgeous, but chronically needy, eighteenth-century homes. My husband Paul signed us up for cable, in fact, so I could watch Talk2DIY on Home and Garden TV and House Doctor on BBC America. And, I was first on the block to raise my hand when Home Depot started offering Do-It-Herself home-improvement workshops.

When our upstairs toilet overflowed, ruining the living room ceiling, I turned DIY into a family affair, dragging my sister Ruth along to their session on plastering. She went grudgingly, lured out of Mother Earth, her New Age shop on Main Street, not by me, but by Home Depot’s catered veggie platters and dark, gooey brownies. Ruth needed the workshop, heaven knows, even though she probably planned on meditating away the plaster that rained on her head every time she opened her store’s storage room door.

In March, I’d be learning to lay brick. My neighbor, Brad Perry, the Corporate Lawyer, elaborately sidesteps the loose bricks on our front porch and warns me, congenially, that they’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.

So, I’m not opposed to power tools, per se . It’s just that there are hundreds of other ways I’d rather spend my time.

Paul gave me a nifty Barbara K Toolkit for my birthday. I use it occasionally, but store it in the basement, so if I’m up on the third floor with a nail between my lips, holding a picture against the wall, trying to decide where to hang it, I’m not going to be wild about laying everything down and trotting downstairs for a hammer. The heel of my shoe works just as well, thank you very much.

In the kitchen, I have a steak knife with a broken tip that doubles as a screwdriver (both Phillips and regular), and I can’t imagine how anyone manages without a good pair of chopsticks. When my grandson chucked my Timex down the toilet? Chopsticks. A hint for Heloise. I should send it in.

When I told Dorothy yes, I didn’t know about the power tools, of course. I had been grazing around the hors d’oeuvres table in the Midway Room of the Naval Academy Officers and Faculty Club-part of architect Ernest Flagg’s “New Academy” of 1899-sipping a glass of indifferent but deliciously cold Chablis, when Susan Fuquea, the petite, effervescent blonde married to the deputy commandant, introduced us. “Hannah, I’d like you to meet Dorothy Hart, Admiral Hart’s wife. They’ve just moved to Annapolis.”

Dorothy was a rail-thin brunette badly in need of a hair stylist. The bouffant “do” that bloomed from her head had gone out with Lady Bird Johnson. At least I hoped it had, but these days one can never be sure. If it’s really retro, it’s probably back.

I stuck out my free hand and tried to think who Admiral Hart was. The only admiral assigned to the Academy was its superintendent, and the superintendent’s name certainly wasn’t Hart. “Nice to meet you, Dorothy,” I said, and because in military circles wives are often defined-rightly or wrongly-in terms of their husbands, I quickly added, “My husband’s on the faculty here. Paul teaches math.”

Dorothy squeezed my hand, then dropped it to pluck a plump, chilled shrimp from a passing tray. “Ted’s stationed at the Pentagon,” she said, following my lead. “He’s Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Navy for Weapons Acquisition and Management. Or maybe it’s Under Secretary for Weapons Management and Acquisition.” She chuckled. “I don’t even think the Navy knows for sure.”

“The Pentagon?” I couldn’t imagine why anybody in his right mind would choose to live in Annapolis and work at the Pentagon. The Pentagon is a grueling commute to northern Virginia and back, one hour or more in the best of traffic. Each way.

Susan Fuquea’s smile dazzled like an ad for Crest White Strips. “And Dorothy’s son, Kevin, is a second classman.”

Dorothy’s cheeks grew pink as she nervously tucked the empty toothpick she’d been holding into a fold of her napkin. “Kevin loves being here, so when Ted was offered his choice of Hawaii or the Pentagon, we didn’t think twice.”

“It must be nice to have your family together for a change,” I commented. “Where do you live?”

“We rented a condo near Reston for a while, but recently we bought a place in Davidsonville.”

I sipped my wine and nodded in approval. Davidsonville was near the intersection of 50 and 424, midway between Annapolis and Washington, D.C. Admiral and Mrs. Hart, I soon learned, had split the difference, and bought a ten acre lot in the heart of an area that had once been a prosperous horse farm.

Dorothy was describing how Homestead Gardens was transforming her flower beds into a bower of delight when Susan Fuquea waved a beautifully manicured hand to someone across the room. “Don’t mind me, ladies,” she said, turning in the newcomer’s direction. “Carry on. You two have a lot in common.”

A lot in common . I knew what that meant. I studied Dorothy’s pale, sunken features and felt my face grow hot. Her hairdo. That mushroom-shaped disaster I’d been so critical of a few minutes before was, I realized now, a wig.

I nibbled the dark chocolate off a strawberry while considering how best to bring up the C-word.

Dorothy saved me the trouble. Clearly Susan had filled her in on my medical history, and the introduction to Dorothy was no accident. She tugged on her bangs, sliding her wig to and fro over her scalp. “Chemo,” she said simply. “Three months to go. You?”

“Done!” I declared, instantly warming to a sister in arms. “Ages ago, thank goodness. I’ve been in remission for almost five years.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Dorothy said, leaning toward me and speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “But I’d like to appoint you my new role model. You look terrific. It’s good to know that someday I might get my hair back.”

“Guaranteed,” I reassured her. “My hair grew back with a vengeance. It used to be straight, now look at it!” I spread my fingers and combed through the tight auburn curls that cascaded over my forehead. I decided not to mention my eyebrows, battalions of tiny hairs that had gone permanently AWOL. Each morning I fill in the blanks, brushing on eyebrows from a box labeled “Shaping Taupe.” “Where are you going for treatment?” I inquired.