Tessgoes very still beside me.
Istraightenup, stillnot lookingat her. I round the cabin to the shed. A small woodpile waits under a tarp.Thefrozen object is awheelbarrow,not a deer.I get my hands under the tarp and pull out four cedar planks thepreviousowner cut to size and never used.
SeemsAunt Rosa was a planner.
Icarrythe cedar around to the front. Tesshasn’tmoved.She’sstanding exactly where I left her, with her hands tucked under her arms and her glasses slightly fogged from her own breath.
“You had wood,”I say.
She beams. “I had wood.”
I crouch by the step and pull the bent nail.“Sit.”
“Where?”
“Anywherethat’snot the porch. Tailgate of your truck. Steps are out of service.”
She climbs into the bed of her box truck and sits on the lip of the open back, swinging her boots.I’maware of her.I’maware of her like a man is aware of a held grenade.
The work goes fast becauseI’vedone it a hundred times in worse places with worse tools. Iprythe failed stepandcheck the stringer. The stringer is okay—one bad fastener and a cracked face I can sister. I pull the bad nail,sisterthe face, andcut the cedar to length on the deck of her truck because she has, of all things, a small handsaw rolled up in a yoga mat.
“You travel with a saw?”I ask.
“I travel,” she says solemnly, “with everything.”
The new step goes in. I drive the nails square and check the next two steps to find the second one wants reinforcement, so I do that too. I check the porch deck and decideit’saproblem for another day, butit’llhold until then.
My back tells me about itas I straighten up.
Tessis watching me from the truck,cheeks pink from the cold,glasses balancedprecariously on the tip ofher nose.She’slooking at me like I justparted the seas rather than fixed two porch steps.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t thank you?”
“Don’t make a thing of it.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “Thank you anyway.”
I make a sound men make whenthey’relosing a battle.
I gather my hammer and her bad nail, dropping the nail into my pocket like I’m preserving a small piece of evidence.
“Don’t use the third step until tomorrow,” I say. “Let the nails settle.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t go up on the roof.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t try to run a propane line.”
“Okay… wait. Was I going to?”
“You strike me as a person who reads instructions out loud, then improvises.”
