J. Lennon - Castle

She shrugged again, this time cocking her head flirtatiously to one side. “For one thing, I get a nice commission from this. You made my month!”

I felt the edges of my mouth begin to curl. “Well, I’m glad I could fill your pocketbook,” I said.

She straightened, frowning. “Well, that’s not the only reason I—” She stopped, and bit her lip.

“You were saying?”

“Nothing,” she said.

I waved her away with one hand, and used the other to open the door of my car. “I think I understand,” I said. “And I’m flattered. But I’d prefer it if we kept things between us on a professional level.”

She appeared shocked. “You what?”

“Jennifer,” I said. “I know we’ve had some pleasant moments together. But I’m just not interested in any kind of—”

Her little hands curled into fists now, and her forehead creased. “Hey, look here, mister! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

I climbed up into my seat. “Forget it, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you shouldn’t have!” She was truly angry now, her face crumpled into a mass of pink flesh. “You really should have just left it alone!”

With a grim smile, I shut the door and started the engine. Jennifer took a step back, her mouth open in astonished disgust. She was shaking her head in mock disbelief as I pulled away. I was given, in that awkward moment, to wonder what had happened in this town to cause its inhabitants to behave so peculiarly around me. Given Jeremy Pernice’s coldness, and Jennifer’s absurd antics, I felt as though some strange malaise had gripped Gerrysburg in my absence, rendering all its denizens nervous and impolite.

Back on the road, I calmed my racing heart with thoughts of the work ahead. There was much to be done at what had at last become my house, and soon, Jennifer the real estate agent had ceased, once and for all, to trouble my mind.

That Monday, when I arrived back at the house after closing, I found that the power had been turned on. I walked through the empty rooms, pressing the wall switches, and to my surprise found that half the ancient light bulbs still lit. I tested each of the outlets by plugging in a high-intensity halogen clip lamp I had bought, and most of them worked, as well. It occurred to me that the remaining outlets might also be operational, that perhaps the problem was a blown fuse, and so I strolled around the place, looking for the cellar door.

I found it in the kitchen, next to a chipped, nineteen-fifties vintage refrigerator that appeared to be broken. The door was strange, half-painted from the top down, as if someone had been interrupted during a renovation. It had a ten-inch-square hole cut into one lower corner, as if to allow the passage of a cat, and sat crookedly in the frame. It opened with a scrape and creak to reveal a primitive wooden staircase leading down into a blackness that stank of mold. The light switch just inside the door had no effect, and I wondered if perhaps it was such a good idea to tramp down these rickety old steps in the dark, and fool around with an electrical system that might well present a grave danger to my personal safety. After a moment’s thought, I shut the door, or at any rate tried to — now that I had loosed it from its frame, it would no longer fully close. Worse, gravity caused it to fall open when I released the knob. Such a danger was unacceptable: it was all too easy to imagine myself stumbling on the threshold, falling down the stairs, and lying helplessly on the cold floor. I might end up sprawled there, immobilized by broken bones, as rats and insects crawled across my curdling flesh. I could starve to death there, and never be found…

No, that would not do. My solution was to go outside, find a rock, and use it to hold the door shut: inelegant, of course, but good enough for now.

I had picked up a copy of the Milan phone book from my hotel, and now used it to make an appointment with an electrician. I would need all the outlets to be grounded, and the wiring to be inspected and upgraded if necessary. The electrician said that he could make it on Thursday morning, which was perfectly acceptable.

My phone, I should add, was quite new — I had bought it before I left for Gerrysburg more than two weeks before. It was a cell phone, of course, and I now added the electrician to my personal directory, where he joined the hardware store and power company. Jennifer, the real estate agent, was still listed as well, so I selected her name and number and deleted them.

It was getting a bit late in the day, but the electric power would give me the opportunity to work at night. I drove down to Milan and rented a drum sander, then returned to the hardware store and gathered up several packages of sandpaper to fit the sander, in several different grits. I picked up enough finishing wax to coat every floor in the house, and more paint, this time for the interior walls. I also lifted several gallons of water into my cart, and some cleaning supplies, before wheeling over to the bank of cash registers. Most were unmanned, and atop each stood a container of small American flags, the kind that could be mounted on the doorframe of your car. I approached the single register staffed by a checkout clerk.

The clerk recognized me from my previous trip. He was a tall, thin man, perhaps retired, or maybe a refugee from a previous failed career, and was quite inquisitive. I am not unfriendly, so I responded as politely as I could without rewarding his nosiness.

“Looks like you’ve got a major project going!” the man said, dragging my cans of paint across the bar code scanner.

“That’s right.”

“Bought a house, did you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Well, good for you. New in town?”

“No,” I said, as brusquely as possible.

“We could use some newcomers, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s no concern of mine.”

This quieted him, however briefly. When I had paid, he offered to help me carry my purchases to my car.

“I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.”

“Oh, don’t be stubborn, let me give you a hand. Pretty awkward, doing all that by yourself.”

Finally, I met his gaze with as much directness and authority as I could muster. “What is awkward,” I told him, “is the need to deflect your attention away from my private business. I do not need any help conveying these things to my car.”

If the clerk was taken aback, he certainly didn’t indicate it with his expression, which was one of mild puzzlement and acceptance, with perhaps a touch of arrogance. He shrugged, held out his empty hands, and said, “Okay, okay. Suit yourself, soldier.”

I had been about to leave, and had wrapped both my hands around the handle of my heavily laden cart. But the clerk’s method of address pulled me up short. I turned to him now and, bracing myself against the counter, leaned forward.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, quietly and clearly. “But what did you just say to me?”

The man stood his ground. “I said, ‘Suit yourself.’”

“You called me ‘soldier.’”

He crossed his arms over his chest and breathed in through his long, thin nose. “You look like a military man to me.”

“And I suppose you believe you can tell, do you?”

He nodded slowly. “That’s right. I was a captain in the First Infantry in Vietnam. Gia Dinh Province. Battalion Intelligence. I did two tours. So, yes, I believe I know a soldier when I see one. Soldier. ” And he leaned forward until his nose nearly touched mine.

I realized at this point that it was not in my best interest to pursue this matter with the hardware store clerk. While he had no right to make assumptions about me based upon his “instincts,” I nevertheless had no wish to denigrate the man’s military service. Nor would it have been prudent of me to alienate the employees of a store that I would doubtless continue to depend upon for the supplies I needed. And, of course, the longer I stood here arguing with the man, the less time I had to accomplish the task at hand, ie., the renovation of my house. So I pulled back, cleared my throat, and disengaged from the encounter.