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She wondered what they talked about. But most of all, she wondered what Jamie thought about it, and wondered why she was so concerned about a bartender she barely knew.
Twenty
True—he had no reason to be doing any of this. There was a strong sense in his chest that he owed the Pearsons, for everything that had happened. And it was true that Jamie was tied up with Marie, now. It was a better plan to have the boy stay with Marie than it was to have the kid staying with him, surrounded by Sarah and her girls.
The sun beat down on him as he checked the tar again, to make certain it was thoroughly coated. It was drying quickly. That was good for the pace of the job, since it meant that he could move on to nailing down the roofing and getting all of it finished sooner.
It was bad, though, because it meant that he didn't have a long time t
o think about what he was doing, and he was well past the point where he was comfortable tarring roofs. He hadn't done the job in fifteen years and though the entire process was familiar enough that he didn't worry about forgetting the entire thing, he couldn't say the same for his level of comfort with it.
The little things kept jumping up and hitting him in the face, little mistakes that he'd never have made when he was apprenticed. What was he even doing? He wasn't cut out for this work. But something kept him coming back, day after day.
Chris let out a breath and put the thoughts out of his mind, leaned over and painted on a thick swatch of tar where he thought it looked a bit thin. Then he wiped away the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead and dropped the brush out of the way.
Reaching into his belt, he pulled a small handful of nails free and stuck them into his mouth, grabbed a short stack of roofing tiles, and got to hammering. The work went quickly and easily. Place it, check the placement, and rap the slat into place with a few easy strikes of the hammer.
The quickness of the work belied its complexity. That, at least, hadn't changed since he was young. The amount of tar that ended up on his face was something he'd forgotten until it started to happen, and then all of a sudden, in a scalding flash of memory, he realized that he'd had the exact same experience as a young man.
He didn't like to think about that time, any more than he liked to think about anything that had happened before he came here. But it was a skill that had proven useful. The thought had occurred to him more than once, sitting up on that roof, that he might be able to pick it all up again, if he so desired. All it would take would be a little bit of effort and some practice.
The notion of a real trade, rather than sitting in a smoky room pouring drinks all day, held an odd but undeniable appeal. It was the antithesis of everything he'd believed for such a long time, and yet now here he was seriously entertaining the notion.
Wouldn't it be nice, he seemed to think, to be able to come home with his hands covered in blisters for a wage that might only be ten cents more a day, rather than sitting around and talking with women who most men paid for their time.
The entire idea was laughable, and yet, it kept coming up, over and over. The sound of steps on the boardwalk below gave him a convenient excuse to stop work for a moment. The hammer was set aside, the sharp nails pushed out of his mouth and into the palm of a waiting hand.
There was a man below, rail-thin with a hat. Beside him was a woman who looked as if she could have fit two of him inside her. Her clothes were modest, but even still, the way that she moved drew attention to breasts that would have been extravagant on any other woman, but seemed proportional on her heavy-set and poorly stayed frame.
Where the man's expression was tired, hers was aggravated. And when Chris moved on the roof, she immediately looked up, like she'd been expecting him. One meaty hand rose to shield her eyes.
"Can I help you folks?"
She didn't respond with anything but a sneer. It wasn't unheard of, not with Chris, but it was unusual that someone would act that way so openly. Her other arm moved to poke the man beside her with one fleshy elbow.
"'Scuse me," the man said. "But I'd like it if you'd come down here, a minute."
Chris did so. The climb down the ladder wasn't much trouble, and the break would be worthwhile. So long as things didn't get too unpleasant, anyways.
"Is there a problem?"
The woman spoke, then. "Of course there's a problem. Harold—"
She cut herself off, then, and stared at the man beside her, as if he ought to have said something sooner. He pulled his face into a grimace before he spoke.
"My wife, well, my wife and I, we heard, I don't want to start any gossip, but—"
His wife evidently didn't like the way that he tip-toed around whatever problem she had, and elbowed him again in the ribs. Her prodigious bust swayed as she did it, and Chris had to turn his head to avert his eyes from it.
"I don't see what you're getting at, sir."
"Well, we came by to talk to the teacher, but I thought we ought to see you first, on account of the talk."
"What talk would that be?"
"It's all over town, the way you and her been gallivanting around," the woman cut in.
"We don't put no stock in rumors, sir, so I thought we'd come and put it to rest."
