C Hribal - The Company Car

On weekends our parents drove out to the home site and Walter guided a very pregnant Susan Marie around the stacks of lumber and brick. Inside they walked from one unfinished room to the next, stepping around coiled wire and cut pieces of flashing and ductwork. Upstairs they checked on the skeletons of the bedroom and sewing room, the bones of the bath. They pulled down the stair that led to the attic, and our father poked his head up inside, announcing to our mother, who was waiting below, that they’d done a very good job indeed with the insulation.

Just before one of their site visits, our mother discovered a problem. She had been going over the blueprints for the umpteenth time with Nomi and Artu. “See, here’s the back bedroom for the children—it’ll be huge—and the front bedroom, which I can use as a sewing room, and between is the upstairs bath and this large storage area.” She started with the second floor because it contained the sewing room, which simply meant it was a room where she could be alone from time to time—something that seemed more precious now that seven and a half people were living in a two-bedroom apartment. “And here’s the front entrance—we’ll line that with shrubs and flowers out to the walk—and the living room, like so.” Which was when she realized something was wrong. “Wally-Bear, isn’t the front entrance supposed to be in front?” Her finger tapped the blueprint. Wally-Bear came over. “Yes, yes it is,” said Wally-Bear.

“But when we were at the house last time, weren’t the doors cut for side entrances?”

Our father closed his eyes. He was trying to picture it. Nomi and Artu exchanged glances. “Yes, I think you’re right, they are,” our father said, his eyes still closed. Then he opened them. “It’s amazing you noticed a little thing like that.”

Our mother exploded. “A little thing, Wally? A little thing? They’re building the house sideways, those drunken little shits!” Our mother burst into tears. She was never very good at swearing. She always either hesitated before she said a swearword or clipped it short, swallowing whatever effect she’d intended. Sometimes when she was really angry it came out sounding like she was amused instead. How could you take a woman seriously who sounded like she didn’t know how to swear? “Maybe we’re misremembering,” our father said. “Maybe we’re the ones who have it sideways. Tomorrow we’ll check and see.”

The next day confirmed it. They arranged to meet Ernie and Charlie at the site. Our mother took one look at the doorless brick facing, with two windows that looked like wide-set eyes—this was clearly the side of the house, yet it was facing the street—and shrieked. She tumbled out of the car, stumbled over the packed dirt, our father ineffectively trying to guide and comfort her as she circled the house once, twice, thrice. Ernie pulled up in his Buick Skylark, and Charlie showed up in a Ford Fairlane soon after. Charlie took in the sight of our mother weeping and said, “Holy shit, I had it sideways.” Then he shook out a Lucky Strike and said philosophically, “Well, it’s six of one, half a dozen of another.”

Ernie, in his best the-customer-is-always-right voice said, “No, Charlie. It’s not.”

Our father held our mother to his chest and patted her hair and said, “Hey, hey. Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, really.” But even he seemed to know that now was not the time to echo Charlie Podgazem’s “It’s six of one, half a dozen of another.”

Our mother was with Ernie Klapatek on this one. “No, it’s not,” she wailed. “It’s not, it’s not. My house, my beautiful house! It’s ruined!”

“I musta read the blueprints wrong,” said Charlie Podgazem. “That happens sometimes.”

“It only happens when you’re drunk,” said our mother.

“Hey, that’s no way to be, Susan. I make mistakes, sure, but it’s not like I’m doin’ it on purpose.”

“You’re drunk right now,” said our mother.

Charlie pulled himself very erect and tugged at the belt around his waist. “Only a little.”

Ernie pulled our father aside. Time to salvage what he could. Wiping his glasses, he said, “Wally, no question we got a problem. The question, though, is what are we gonna do about it?”

Our mother heard that. “What are we going to do about it? We are going to fix it, that’s what we are going to do about it.”

“It’s not that simple, Susan.” Ernie tipped his head, meaning our father should follow him. This was man talk. They went around back. Our mother stood looking at what should have been the back and was instead the side entrance. She was inconsolable.

Around in back, Ernie lit a Chesterfield and dragged his toe in the dirt. “Much as I’d like to help the little lady, there’s not a whole lot I can do. Fact is, it’s more complicated than simply taking down some bricks and cutting a new doorway. Fact is, Charlie turned the whole damn design sideways. Fact is, I can’t just pick the thing up off the foundation and spin it ninety degrees to set it right now, can I? Charlie messed up, but it’s not easy to fix, you understand?”

“Why don’t you just say that to Susan?”

“I’m going to, Wally, but I just wanted us to be in agreement first, you see? The men wear the pants in your family, right? What I say to Susan—hey, that’s only mollification. You’re the guy I’ve got to win over here, right, big guy?”

Ernie was preaching to the converted. Fact is, even without Ernie’s speech our father would have been content to let the whole thing drop. “Six of one, half a dozen of another,” our father believed, as though that kind of stoicism solved everything.

“So what are you going to say to Susan?”

“Same thing I said to you, only more so. I’ll explain the positives of this kind of arrangement—and hey, there are a lot of them, as you already understand.” He put his hand on our father’s shoulder. “And you, Wally, are one guy I knew would understand.”

“You don’t know Susan. She’s going to want something to sweeten the deal.”

“Sweeten the deal?”

“You know, to make up for turning our house sideways.”

Ernie Klapatek got a hard look on his face, as though he were about to say something terrible, but then his eyes softened and he grinned. Our father relaxed a little. Whatever the terrible thing was that Ernie was contemplating, it had passed. But Ernie’s grin still had an edge to it. “Hey, hey, Wally, let’s make nice here. There’s no reason, no reason in the world that we can’t work this out to everybody’s satisfaction. You got a sideways house you don’t like. Fine, don’t buy it. You think you’re the only one wants to buy a house? I got people stacked three deep here waiting on these houses.” He dropped his voice again. “Why you think I hired a Joe Schlepperman like Podgazem in the first place, eh? I got house orders to fill, I need people. It was either him or hire a colored, okay? Besides, I did this as a favor to you. And it’s not the first time. The guy could barely keep his sticks straight when we were in the band together, right? But he was from your neighborhood so I said, fine, he’s Wally’s friend, he’s in the band even if he can’t tell his drumsticks from his wipehole. And now he’s done a number on your house. Okay, I’m sorry. My mistake, I hired him. But it was as a favor to you, okay?”

Our father was dumbfounded. Ernie Klapatek—friend, bandmate, member of his wedding party—was threatening to sell his house out from under him! And acting like it was his own fault it was happening.

Ernie was still grinning. “Hey, hey, Wally. I see by the look on your face you’re taking this personal. We can work this out, really. I want to see you in that house, I do. And I understand about Susan. She needs to feel like we’re making restitution. It can’t be changed, but she wants something to make up for that. I understand. It’s a human enough desire. But, hey, Wally, it’s not like you’re gonna go to court on me because one of your friends messed up, right? Even though your friend messed up, I stand behind every one of my houses. And you are a friend. I take that serious. So here’s what we’re gonna do…”