John Saul: Black Creek Crossing

But rather than backing away, O’Donnell was smiling at him. “Still want an ambulance?” he asked quietly. When Sullivan made no reply, he said, “The way I see it, you might just want to be quitting, Sullivan.” The other man’s brows furrowed uncertainly. “Or would you prefer me to fire you?”

“You can’t fire me,” Sullivan began, his voice still truculent, but less belligerent than a few moments earlier. “We got a union that says—”

Again, O’Donnell didn’t let him finish. “You got a union that says you can drink on the job?”

“I never—” Sullivan began.

“How dumb do you think I am, Sullivan?” O’Donnell said. “You think I can’t smell the stink on your breath?”

Sullivan lurched back a step, and O’Donnell moved closer.

“You think everyone on this job doesn’t know what’s in that thermos of yours?” He shook his head almost sadly. “It’s dumb enough to be drinking on the job, but it’s even dumber to think no one’s going to notice. So here’s the deal — you get your stuff and get off this site right now, and that’ll be the end of it. And don’t think anyone else in town’ll be hiring you, because I’ll see to it that they don’t. It’s way too dangerous having someone like you around.”

“You can’t do that,” Sullivan yelped. “My union—”

“Or we can go talk to the union about it,” O’Donnell said, his words silencing the other man, though he hadn’t raised his voice. “Both of us. In fact, we’ll take the whole crew with us.” He glanced around at the dozen men who were now watching the confrontation. “How about it, guys? Want to go down to the union and defend Brother Sullivan?”

None of the men responded, and as Marty Sullivan’s eyes moved from one man to another, they either shook their heads, turned away from him, or edged closer to the foreman.

“I’ll have Rebecca cut your check right now, Sullivan,” O’Donnell said.

But Marty Sullivan was already walking away. “Screw off, O’Donnell,” he said, the alcohol in his blood fueling the anger boiling inside him. “You think I’m gonna hang around while that bitch tries to figure out how to do some real work?”

Grabbing his jacket and his lunchbox, and wondering where the nearest place to get a drink, Marty Sullivan shambled away from the site.

YRA SULLIVAN STRAIGHTENED UP, PRESSING HER left hand against the small of her own back to ease the pain. It had begun burning right after lunch, but she’d refused to give in to it until she finished the job at hand.

As the pain had spread from her back into her hips, then down her legs into her knees, she silently repeated Father Raphaello’s adage: “Pain is the reward of work well done.” Until today, she’d never quite understood what the seemingly self-contradictory words meant; after all, how could pain be a reward for anything? But now, as she gazed at the gleaming tile floor of the rectory’s kitchen, the meaning became clear, and she nodded with satisfaction.

There was not a smear anywhere on the bright yellow glaze of the tiles, nor the faintest stain in any of the grout between them. She’d spent the last three hours on her hands and knees cleaning those crevices between the tiles with more than a dozen solvents and bleaches. Sighing, she tossed the old toothbrush she’d used to scrub every inch of grout until every speck of mildew was gone into the wastebasket at the end of the sink. Tomorrow, she would start on the counter, but at least she could stand up for that job.

As she admired her work, the pain in her body began to ease, and she recalled Father Raphaello’s adage again. Though her body ached, her spirit was buoyed by the work she’d accomplished. Then, glancing at the clock, her spirits sank again. It was already five-fifteen. If she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t have Marty’s dinner ready on time, and then it wouldn’t matter what Father Raphaello might have to say — she’d feel no satisfaction in anything for the rest of the night.

Gathering up the bottles of cleaning solvents, she packed them into the bucket and took them down to the basement. Then she left the rectory, by the outside steps, cutting across the backyard and through a gap in the hedge to the back of the duplex that faced onto the next street. Though the half of the duplex that she, Marty, and Angel lived in was cramped, at least they could afford it. Or they could afford it when Marty was working. When he wasn’t — which seemed to be most of the time lately — she was able to work off the rent by taking care of the rectory.

As she fit her key into the back door, Myra silently chided herself for what she’d just been thinking about Marty. After all, he’d been working for Jerry O’Donnell for three months now, and it looked like the job would be good for at least a year, maybe even a little more.

Count your blessings, she heard Father Raphaello whisper in her head.

But as the key stuck in the lock and she heard the phone ring, words rose in her mind that had nothing to do with blessings at all. She turned away from them before they were fully formed, just as she tried to turn away from all sin, no matter how slight.

She rattled the door, then banged on it loudly. A moment later, through the window, she saw Angel appear at the door that separated the kitchen from the living room. Her daughter hesitated, as if deciding which was more important, the phone or her mother, then picked up the phone, shrugging helplessly to her. A moment later Angel put the phone down on the kitchen counter, came to the door and opened it.

“It’s Aunt Joni,” Angel told her as Myra worked at loosening the jammed key.

Turning the job of getting the key out over to Angel, and glancing at the clock to see how much time she had before Marty came home, Myra picked up the receiver. “Joni? Is this important, or can I call you back?”

“I’ve found a house for you,” Joni Fletcher replied, eliciting a heavy sigh from her younger sister. “Just listen, all right? And despite what Father Raphaello might say, I’m not Satan, sent to tempt you.”

“He never said you were,” Myra said, opening the refrigerator to inspect its contents as she talked to Joni. “But covetousness is a sin, and how many times do I have to tell you that we can’t afford a house?” Finding nothing in the refrigerator that would please her husband, she nudged it closed with her hip. “We’ve got next to no—”

Her eyes fell on Angel then, trying to extract the key from the lock in the back door. “Just a moment, Joni.” Covering the receiver with her hand, she said, “Get the WD-40, downstairs, in the cupboard next to the washer.”

As Angel disappeared down the stairs to the basement, she turned her attention back to her sister. “Sorry, I just didn’t want Angel to start worrying. But we don’t have any money for a house, Joni. You keep finding houses, and I keep telling you — we’ve got next to nothing in the bank, and—”

“But you don’t need much! Not this time! And the house is perfect! It has three bedrooms and—” She stopped abruptly as Myra uttered a brittle laugh. “What, exactly, do you think is so funny about a three-bedroom house that’s only eighty-five thousand dollars?” she asked coolly when Myra’s laughter died away.

“I’m sorry I laughed,” Myra said. “But do you have any idea how many houses you’ve described as ‘perfect’? I think you need some new adjectives. Which, in our case, would be things like ‘cozy’—meaning ‘small’—and ‘fixer-upper’—meaning ‘falling-down wreck.’ ”