Marin Thomas - Ryan's Renovation

“Jones, you’ll be with Eryk and me,” the bald man, Leon, announced, then headed to the break room, the others trailing behind.

Except Eryk. He continued to study Ryan. “I swear I’ve seen you before.”

Maybe the other man had come across the newspaper photo of Ryan after 9/11. “I don’t live around here.”

After a thoughtful nod, Eryk walked off, leaving Ryan alone in the garage. He held his breath until the break-room door closed, then a powerful rush of air burst from his lungs, leaving him dizzy and shaky. He’d given presentations to a convention room full of peers and had never been this nervous.

Those were the times you enjoyed being the center of attention.

The lukewarm welcome from his coworkers convinced Ryan he needed a new game plan to endure the next three months. Something along the lines of…mind his own business, don’t ask personal questions and where the company secretary–slash–boss lady was concerned…don’t, under any circumstances begin a conversation. Aloofness was the key to survival.

“Have you ever worked construction?” Eryk asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“No.” Ryan was wondering how to keep his guard up when a man wearing twenty-pound construction boots walked across a concrete floor without making a sound.

“Demolition?”

“Some.” Ryan’s one experience with destruction had been the night he’d torn apart his bedroom. By the time his anger, hurt and frustration had been exhausted, nothing salvageable remained—save for the memories of 9/11. Those were indestructible.

The break-room door banged against the brick wall. “Let’s go.” The furrows bracketing Leon’s mouth deepened.

“Don’t mind him,” Eryk whispered. “He hasn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in over a month since his daughter and son-in-law moved in with him.”

Great. Apparently, Girl Friday wasn’t the sole motormouth in the place. Leon slid onto the driver’s seat of the empty dump truck. Ryan hustled to the storage cupboard and grabbed a pair of work gloves. Eryk stood by the passenger door, motioning for Ryan to hop in first.

“Anna said she was able to donate most of the furniture to nonprofit groups, so we might get away with one haul to the dump before we rip out the flooring and fixtures,” Leon commented as the truck edged out of the bay and into the street.

“Good,” Eryk grouched. “I’m dead tired after this weekend.”

“Babysitting does that to you.” Leon chuckled, jabbing Ryan’s side with a bony elbow.

“I can’t believe my sister-in-law talked my brother into having four kids. The brats ambush us when they come over.”

Ryan refrained from adding to the exchange. He never engaged in guy-banter with his employees. Personal lives remained personal—in and out of the office.

“Your sister-in-law’s a pretty woman. I doubt she was doing any talking in the bedroom.” Another elbow landed against Ryan’s side.

“Pretty or not, her kids are holy terrors,” Eryk complained.

“So now they’re her kids and not your brother’s?”

“Hell, yes. She stays at home and raises them while my brother busts his ass to put food on the table.” The truck stopped at a light. Eryk unrolled the window, hacked up a wad of phlegm and spit it at the pavement. “You got any kids, Jones?”

“No.” Ryan fought off a pang of sadness at the memory of almost being a father. At least his siblings were making their grandfather happy in that department. His younger brother, Aaron, and his wife, Jennifer, were expecting their first child around Christmas. His elder brother, Nelson, had inherited a teenage son when he’d married his wife, Ellen.

“Count yourself lucky.” Eryk interrupted Ryan’s thoughts. “One weekend a month, Pam and I watch the nieces and nephews. We began six years ago when they were two, five, seven and ten.” He snorted. “Hell, it was easy back then. Now the sixteen-year-old has a mouth meaner than a hooker’s. Can’t drag the thirteen-year-old away from his video games. The eleven-year-old’s favorite expression is make me. And the eight-year-old—shoot, she’s the best one in the bunch. Give her a box of Froot Loops and she’s a happy camper.”

The truck rolled into the intersection. “Then tell ’em you’ve had enough,” Leon insisted.

“A couple of times Pam and I almost stopped babysitting,” Eryk added.

“Why didn’t you?” Damn. Ryan hadn’t meant to voice the question.

“Guilt. My sister-in-law almost died during 9/11. That day changed my brother. Changed all of us.”

Changed didn’t begin to describe Ryan’s transformation after the attack.

“Once a month, they go off alone somewhere,” Eryk went on. “My brother’s afraid each weekend might be the last he and his wife have together.”

9/11 had forever changed thousands of peoples’ lives. Many, like Ryan’s, for worse, and some, like Eryk’s sister-in-law’s and brother’s, for the better.

Leon slammed on the brakes when a car cut in front of them. “Anna says going off for a weekend is romantic.”

“The woman insists peanut butter and jelly is romantic,” Eryk grumbled.

“You’re a good uncle. God will reward you in heaven.”

Ryan used to believe in heaven, but after 9/11 he doubted he’d ever see the pearly gates.

“Good uncle, my ass. I put up with the hooligans because Pam wears her French-maid costume to bed Sunday night after the brats leave.”

The bawdy comment startled Ryan but didn’t stop Leon from adding, “My Helga wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those sex getups. She locked me out of the bedroom for a month when I brought her a pink thong from Victoria’s Secret for Valentine’s Day. Accused me of being a pervert. Shoot, I’m old, but I ain’t dead. I’m fond of her big ol’ butt cheeks.”

“What do your ladies wear, Jones?” Eryk asked.

Eyes trained on the dashboard, Ryan grunted, “I’m divorced.” He had no desire to chat about women, sexy lingerie or butt cheeks.

Silence ensued. About time. After the next traffic light Leon turned on Fish Pond Road. Many of the homes were old and decrepit, but a few houses had been renovated, and one property had been demolished for new construction. Leon stopped the truck in the middle of the block, shifted into Reverse and backed into the driveway of a ramshackle two-story brick bungalow.

A rusted chain-link fence surrounded both the front and side yards. Apparently, the home had died along with the owner. Weeds had choked out the grass, and the bushes barely clung to life, refusing to shed their crusty brown leaves. Even the ceramic angel, with a broken wing and arms raised skyward, begged to be rescued from her desolate resting place.

As they piled out of the truck, Eryk cautioned, “Watch the porch steps. The second one’s rotted.”

Leon studied the damaged step. “We’ll have to slide the heavier pieces off the end.”

The inside of the house fared worse than the outside. Ryan gagged on the putrid air—a combination of mold, rodent droppings and cat feces.

“Jones, you take the second floor. Toss what you can onto the lawn. Eryk, clear out the garage. I’ll be in the basement.”

Pop. Creak. Snap. Ryan gingerly navigated the stairs to the second floor. When he reached the landing, an object—big and black—dived at his head, and he ducked, losing his balance. The trip down the stairs lasted half as long as the climb up. Ryan bounced to a stop at the front door, shoulder throbbing and elbow on fire.

“What the hell happened?” Leon rushed into the room and gaped. “Stair give out?”

“Tripped.” Damned if Ryan would admit a bat had scared the crap out of him. He accepted a hand up and swallowed a moan of pain.