Handyman, 35, looking for odd jobs around the house. Plumbing, carpentry, electrical skills.
From that basic classified entry, I wrote this story, giving Joe, the handyman, a background and a job with Marge. As I recently revisited this story for revision, I added a lot more, using the swing as a symbol of Marge's past, which reminded me of my grandparents' swing and all the time they spent on it, visiting and enjoying each other. I even threw in a reference to feeding a squirrel, which refers to my grandma, who had a squirrel for years who would take cookies from her hand.
Enjoy...and keep the comments coming! :) I am also looking for a diffeent title...not sure that this one is a keeper yet.
“Handyman
Classified”
“Almost finished hanging the birdhouse in the back yard,
ma’am. Was there anything else you needed
me to work on for you?’ The handyman
wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his brow with his handkerchief. It was already 95 degrees out today, and it
was barely 9AM. It would be yet another
scorcher. It was only June 2 and was fixing
to be a hot summer.
"Well, Joe, if you don’t have too much on your plate
today, I do have some more little jobs around the house for you,” the old woman
replied. She enjoyed the company of
having the handyman around. She was quite
lonely since her husband had passed. She
and her husband had no living children, so having him here, a young man about the
age her son would have been, was a small comfort to her. Plus, it allowed her the opportunity to get a
few things accomplished that she didn’t have the energy or ability to do
herself.
“Follow me into the garage. I have some paint and brushes. I would really like to get started on painting
the porch swing if you could work on that for me.”
Joe followed the elderly woman into the garage, ready for
the job. He, too, enjoyed her company
and the chance to keep himself busy. Since
he had lost his job at the plant, he had been doing everything possible to
scrape by. Luckily he was quite good
with his hands. He found that he could
do pretty much anything around the house—carpentry, electrical-you name it; he
could handle it. Too bad he lacked
education, he always thought. He could have
maybe been a contractor. Had his own
business. Just a pipe dream, now,
though.
“Ma’am…” Joe started as they came into the garage.
She cut him off. “Now
Joe, please call me Marge. Enough with the
formalities. I would like us to be friends. You get started on the porch while I go and
get started on the lemonade. It is quite
humid, even in the shade.” She pointed
him in the direction of the gallons of paint and brushes in the corner of the
dark garage.
“Yes, ma’am, um, Marge.
I will get right to work. I have
always enjoyed a fresh coat of paint on things.
Makes ‘em, seem like new.”
He turned back to Marge as she stood in the frame of the
man-door of the garage, ready to begin her slow pace back to the house.
“Yes, I know just what you mean. My husband made that swing for me many years
ago for our 25th anniversary, I believe. It will be nice for it to look new
again. We always enjoyed watching the
birds in the early evenings. We even had
a squirrel we had trained to come take a cookie from our hands for a few
years. Such good memories. Thanks, son.”
Marge turned towards the house, pulling her shawl around her thin
shoulders. Joe wondered how she could
bear wearing that woolen garment wrapped around her in this heat, but she was
never without it.
Joe set to work, carrying a gallon of pale yellow paint
onto the front porch. He looked out onto
the day and again took the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat away
as he brought the gallon to the ground.
The corn from the neighboring fields stretched for miles
in every direction, and a slight wind whistled through it. Joe took just a moment’s break to enjoy a
sway on the treasured swing. He leaned his
head back to rest, taking in the landscape.
A butterfly of royal blue and black soared through Marge’s geraniums,
and the small brook beside the house ran ever so slowly on this humid morning. He imagined all of the nights Marge and her
husband had sat out here for hours on end.
How peaceful that must have been for them!
Joe’s thoughts drifted back to the task at hand. “Well, I suppose,” he muttered, as he
reluctantly pulled himself up from the swing and opened the paint gallon to
apply the first coat of yellow to the rails.
He knew it would take several coats to restore the splendor the swing
had once had.
As he worked, he whistled a soft tune, “Brown-Eyed Girl”,
that reminded him of his wife, Meg. He knew
that right now she was at her own job at the preschool tending to the little
ones. Meg was his high school sweetheart. How he loved her and wanted so much to make
her proud. He wanted to provide the best
life for her and little Max and now their new little girl on the way. But he couldn’t help to now feel like such a
huge disappointment to their family since the loss of his job. He hadn’t done the best he could. He hadn’t gotten the education he
needed. He hadn’t built the perfect
house with the white picket fence for Meg.
Maybe someday. He had faith that
things would work themselves out and improve for them. He just needed to be patient and get over
this hurdle.
About 30 minutes had passed as Joe put the finishing
touches on the swing. The hot sun blazed down on Joe, so he decided
it was definitely time for a break. His
stomach growled as lunchtime was near, and his throat ached for a drink. Marge had never appeared with the
lemonade.
Wondering about Marge, who probably had just gotten
caught up in some household chore, Joe decided to head into the house to cool
off and take a quick break. Leaving the
heat of the porch, Joe made his way to the front door and tapped lightly on the
screen. He could hear echoes of The Price is Right playing from the kitchen.
Joe
called through the screen, “Marge?” There
was no answer.
“Hmmm. Maybe she can’t hear me,” he thought.
Calling
a bit louder this time, he said her name again.
“Marge?” Still nothing.
Joe
found this quite odd. Marge always
brought him a drink after minutes of working.
And usually she has lunch waiting for him and was right at the door. Joe was now worried, especially considering
she wasn’t responding to his call.
He
opened the door, continuing to call her. “Marge!” Nothing.
He moved through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen. There he noticed she had made the
lemonade. It sat on the counter,
condensation gathered under each glass.
Clearly it had been on the counter for some time. Where
is she?
Joe
proceeded to search the rear of the house.
He paused outside of her bedroom.
The door was ajar, so he pushed it open and did a quick scan. The windows were open, handmade curtains
blowing in the breeze. Marge’s cat,
Prissy, sat on the bed, staring at Joe, who had clearly interrupted her sleep.
No Marge, though.
“Where
is she?” he finally said aloud. His
heart pounding, he raced to the bathroom, the last room to search. He knocked on the closed door.
“Marge?” Silence was his only answer. He knocked again, but now he expected no
answer, his hand on the knob.
He
turned it and slowly pulled it to him, dread filling him, knowing what he would
find.
“Oh,
Marge.”
He
found Marge spread on the cold titled floor.
Her glasses had fallen from her face and lay beside the toilet. He rushed to her, but it was too late. He checked her pulse, her breathing, but she
was gone.
There
was only one thing to do. John reached
for his phone and dialed 911.
“Yes,
I am at the home of Marge Fuller. She
has died. Could you please send
someone? I am her handyman, Joe
Timmons.” He listened for a moment, a
tear threatening to fall from the corner of his eyes as he gazed at Marge. “Yes, ma’am, I found her in her
bathroom. The address is 1910 Seacrest
Lane. I will see you shortly. Thank you.”
He
turned to Marge, taking her wrinkled hand in his. “Don’t worry Marge. I will stay until they arrive.” Joe placed a towel under her head and did
what he knew he must.
With
brush in hand, Joe retuned to the swing, putting on that final coat of pale yellow,
the color of daisies, Marge’s favorite flower.
Several
weeks later, Joe returned home from a rather uneventful day. He didn’t have many jobs lined up and felt
very worried about how to pay this month’s mortgage.
As
he made his way down the dusty driveway to the mailbox, he prayed there wouldn’t
be yet another bill. They seemed to be
never-ending these days
Joe
pulled all of the envelopes from the mailbox.
Flyers. The water bill,
electric. The usual suspects. Another envelope, though, caught his
eyes. It was from the Law Offices of
Reinholt and Wilson.
“What
in the world is this?” Joe
wondered.
Panicked
and anticipating the worst, Joe ripped the envelope open,
scanned the letter, shocked at what he read:
Dear
Mr. Timmons:
We are pleased to inform you that the
estate of Marge Fuller has been settled at this time.
You have been granted the sum of
$500,000 as well as property in the amount of 65 acres located at 1910 Seacrest
Lane.
Please contact our offices immediately
so we may proceed and settle this matter.
Most sincerely,
William Reinholt, esq.
Reinholt, Wilson and Associates
Joe stood rooted to the ground, speechless. What had he done to ever deserve this from Marge? Helped her a few times around her house? Her kindness to him was simply amazing. At this moment he promised himself that he wouldn’t
take her generosity for granted.
Joe
knew just what he would do. He would use
this gracious act of Marge’s to make a difference, helping his family and
bettering himself through his education.
With wonder, he realized that we never really know the impact we have on
others. Maybe we do really make a difference. With joy in his heart, he folded the letter
carefully and strode back to his house to tell Meg the fortunate news, a wide
smile across his face for the first time in months.
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