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Chapter Eight
In his attempt tofix the plaster in the master bedroom, the entire ceiling had fallen on his head. Okay, it was only all the plaster from the ceiling, but it was now all on the floor. Chris wasn’t hurt, just extremely dusty.
It had been a full week in the house, and so far, nothing had gone right. Nothing that was on his list was done or even started. He had no water in the kitchen, and the floors hadn’t survived their Monday bath and were now buckling. The upstairs bathroom was also unusable due to a toilet that wouldn’t stop running. He’d started to work with it, and now it wouldn’t run at all. He had no idea how you even killed a toilet, but he had, which made him scared to do anything with the other bathroom. Now the ceiling of his bedroom was on the floor, and the sudden crash had made the ceiling in the dining room do the same thing.
Shaking his head, he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it into the destroyed dining room. Heading out the door, he turned on the hose and rinsed the dust from his hair and face. Chris tossed the hose down, turned off the water, and saw her sitting on her front step, watching him.
When he looked at her, she didn’t even avert her eyes, just stared. Agatha. He still couldn’t believe that was her name. So far, he had seen her every day since they had met. Mostly because he realized on Tuesday that she went and waited for the little girl to come to her house. Sometimes a bigger girl would come too, and Agatha always waited outside for them.
Since she was sitting there, it must be after 3:00 p.m. but before 3:20; she was only there a narrow window of time. So far, he hadn’t noticed a man hanging out near the house. A pregnant blonde would come and walk the girl away after 5:00 p.m., heading in the same direction as Agatha had gone the first day they had met. It seemed that Agatha was only the babysitter.
Since she was still staring, he waved. She waved back and then smiled, but not to him. She had turned to the little girl walking up the street alone today. He couldn’t hear what they said, but they chatted about something, then the little girl sat down next to Agatha and waved at him.
Waving again, he headed across the street. Neither moved, though to be honest, he was watching Agatha more than the little girl. Today, Agatha’s gray shirt said “Cancan” across her breasts, very nice breasts.
“Hi, Violet.” He ignored the black-haired woman and ran his fingers through his still-wet hair, realizing that he had gotten his jeans a little wet also. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Hi! Are you fixing the house over there? My mom and dad bought a house but had to do so much to it. But now it’s done, and Dad can relax. Or so he says. Mom says he’ll get bored.” The girl seemed to give way more information than was needed.
“Do you think he’ll get bored?” Chris asked, leaning against the railing of the bottom step, something he would never do at his place because his porch was falling apart. Or it was now that he had tried to fix some of the railings earlier in the day.
Violet shrugged. “No, he didn’t really like to fix the house. He just did it for Mom.”
“I bet your mom is worth it,” he said. All moms are great when you’re young.
“She’s okay. You’re not wearing a shirt. The rule at my house is you have to wear a shirt, even Mom and Dad.” The kid looked him up and down with slight disappointment that he would break a rule.
“I just got dust all over mine, and the rest need to be washed.” He shrugged. His weekend plans included a visit to the laundromat. If Agatha wasn’t going to talk to him, he could talk to the girl; she wanted to talk.
“What size are you?” Violet asked.
“Extra large.” He looked at her blue eyes, different from her babysitter’s brown ones. Also different because Agatha’s were full of judgment. He would not be winning any cases in front of her.
Violet leaned toward him. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.” He grinned at her random questions.
“Okay.” She jumped up and ran into the house, leaving him alone with a silent Agatha.
“What is Cancan?” he asked, looking at her shirt, or breasts, or both.
“The cancan is a dance. It’s a misspelling of Cancun. My sister made it a few years ago. She has dyslexia,” she explained, looking down at her shirt and pulling it out a little so she could see the letters.
“Why do you wear it if it’s spelled wrong?” He liked that she was finally giving him the time of day He was liking the quirky personality he was discovering. He was liking her.
She shrugged. “Because it’s more fun this way, and they’re free.”
The kid ran out of the house holding a blue shirt that she handed to him with a smile. Pulling it on, it he looked down to see it said “Basten.”
“What should it say?”
“Boston, I think. Lucy might know, but I’ve never picked up on her spellings,” Agatha said, standing up with her mail in her hand. “Time for a snack, Violet.”
“Bye! You can keep the shirt; we have more,” Violet said and followed Agatha into the house, blocking Chris’s view of her backside.
Once the door shut, he headed back to his place and wondered what to do now. The house was falling apart a little more every day. He was failing for the first time in his life, and it made him uneasy, but something was making him stick to it.
