Lifelines: Kate's Story (12 page)

“You’re
busy.” She realized she’d doodled a series of interlocked triangles on Rachel
Hardesty’s chart, and dropped the pen. “I’d appreciate any advice you can give
me. I need to protect my mom.”

“If
she won’t lay a complaint, our hands are tied. She’s got the legal right to do
whatever she wants with her money, unless she’s been declared incompetent. What
you need to do is get her to sign a power of attorney, then you can lay the
complaint. Monitor her accounts, get the bank to put a hold on any check over a
certain amount. That’s the best way to protect her.”

A
year ago, when Evelyn was hospitalized with pneumonia, Kate had suggested a
power of attorney, but her mother flew into such a rage the nursing staff asked
Kate to leave.

“Thanks,
Jerry. I appreciate your help.”

Now
what?

Would
it help if Kate warned Noel Wilson? Maybe she could persuade Evelyn to
introduce them.

Maybe
pigs could fly.

Kate
arrived home to find a message on her machine.

“Ms.
Taylor? This is Robert Denmark in Seattle. There’s no record of a Han
Stewardson having a driver’s license in the continental US, Alaska or Hawaii.
We searched death records—if he died, he didn’t do it in the US. He’s not on
any voter’s list. I’m sending you a written report. If you want to extend the
search to other countries, it’ll be more expensive. Let me know what you want
to do.”

“Thanks
a lot,” she muttered. “You’re the bloody detective. Shouldn’t you make
suggestions to me about what to do?”

The
machine gave a beep in response, and the tape began to rewind. Kate picked up
the receiver and dialed her mother.

No
answer.

“Screw
it,” she muttered to Socrates. “Let’s take a walk and go to bed.” Her language
was going to the dogs—literally. She’d been swearing more and more since she
started talking to Socrates.

She
tried Evelyn again when she woke Saturday morning, sitting in bed with the
remote phone in her hand. Socrates watched from the bedroom doorway, squinting
against the sun that blazed in through the window.

Evelyn
answered the phone and said immediately, “I’m much too busy to talk.”

“Mom,
I’d like to come over.”

“Today
isn’t convenient.”

“Tomorrow,
then. It’s important.”

“I’m
much too busy. This week isn’t good at all.”

The
line went dead. 

Socrates
farted.

“Very
eloquent, Socrates. I’m beginning to suspect you’re the only person I know with
any sense.”

His
toenails clicked on the hardwood floor as he left the room. She got out of bed
and followed, found him standing at the front door.

“You’re
right. Hold on, though. I need to brush my teeth and make coffee, then we’ll
check out the construction site. Maybe we can volunteer our labor. More fun
than a visit to my mother.”

Socrates
plainly agreed.

Just
in case she got a chance to do some therapeutic hammer bashing, Kate dressed in
old jeans, a denim shirt, and sturdy runners. Outside, the winter sun had
warmed the air enough to make a jacket unnecessary.

She
remembered her first summer in this house with David: Jennifer a baby, Kate’s
pain from Michael softened by years working on her masters, and David’s gentle
happiness in Jennifer’s infant adventures.

David
... Jennifer a trusting baby ... spring.

No.
This was January, the warmth of the winter sun an illusion.

Socrates
pulled on the leash.

“I’ve
changed my mind. Let’s go back to the house.”

Socrates
leaned his considerable weight towards the road.

What
do you plan to do, Kate? Go home and wallow in your grief?

Yes
... exactly that.

Socrates
watches every move you make. You can’t hide.

Stick
to the stated goals, you fool: make pottery, counsel Rachel, find your dad.

When
she began to move, Socrates’ pressure on the leash eased.

“I’m
almost on track,” Kate said, defending herself to the dog. “The truck’s coming
for the recycling stuff this afternoon. I did my bit about Rachel—it’s not my
fault she didn’t turn up. As for my father, the detective was useless. I’m
going to tell him to take a hike.”

Socrates’
head swung.

“You
and I can probably come up with better ideas for locating my father. If not,
we’ll find a better detective.”

Socrates
sagging jowls reminded her that her father might be dead.

“We’ll
cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s see if we can’t find out something
from Mac. Maybe there’s some kind of international construction worker’s
directory.”

Socrates
was too well-mannered to laugh.

Kate
found the construction site transformed, a skeleton of walls mounted on last
week’s concrete, new sub floor providing a walking surface inside the house,
Mac on the far side of the building yanking a plastic cover from a pile of
plywood. She couldn’t see anyone else—evidently Mac’s crew didn’t normally work
Saturdays. Last week might have been an exception, because of the cement trucks.

Kate
and Socrates watched Mac bundle the big sheet of plastic into a ball, then drop
it to the ground and anchor it with a plank of wood. His body moved with sharp
motions; he didn’t look like a man who wanted company.

When
he turned to reach for the top sheet of plywood, he spotted Kate.

“Hello?”

Disconcerted
by the question in his voice, she shoved her hands into her pockets.

“Hi.”
She expected a smile, but he didn’t look any happier to have company than her
mother had sounded. “You’ve got walls framed; last week it was only a
foundation.” Her voice sounded phony, like her mother when a man appeared and
Evelyn gushed instead of just talking.

“Framing
goes quickly.”

“Well
... we were out for a morning walk.” What the hell was she doing, crashing in on
his work site, expecting him to distract her from her life?

Socrates
waddled across the distance between them, pressing into Mac’s knees just as Mac
reached for the top sheet of plywood. His hand grasped the dog instead of the
plywood, and he rubbed the crinkled skin around Socrates’ ears.

“How
you doing, old boy?”

Socrates
groaned. He had no pride, she thought sourly. He just leaned into Mac and
assumed he’d be welcome.

Mac’s
head lifted and he stared at Kate as if she’d spoken aloud.

Kate
asked, “Are you going to sheet the exterior with that plywood?” Brilliant. Of
course he’s using the damned plywood to sheet in the house. What the fuck else?

More
swearing.

“It’s
OSB, not plywood.”

“OSB,
then.” The familiar term brought a memory of sheets nailed onto the outside of
the Alaskan vet clinic. “What does OSB stand for?”

“Oriented
strand board.” He gave Socrates a man-dog slap on the rump. “How’s your garage
clean-up?”

“The
recycling truck comes this afternoon.”

He
lifted a sheet of OSB with smooth grace that testified to muscles and
familiarity. Socrates’ glare reminded her there’d been an objective to this
visit.

“I
hoped you’d let me swing a hammer. It’s been a rough week, and hammer-swinging
is therapeutic.”

He
paused with the plywood balanced along one shoulder. He hadn’t said no, so she
persisted. “I told you I’m a construction brat, didn’t I? I worked for my dad
on a vet clinic up in Alaska. I nailed sheeting, flooring, shingles. I can’t
carry a sheet of plywood by myself, but I swing a mean hammer.”

“We
mostly use a nail gun, but if you want a hammer, there’s one on the tool belt
in the pickup.”

Socrates
didn’t accompany her to the truck, or she would have asked him if he thought
“there’s one on the tool belt” constituted invitation or resignation.

You’re
neurotic, Kate Taylor. Socrates is an animal, not a source of wisdom.

The
leather tool belt’s soft pouches held a few dozen two-inch nails. A long hammer
with a green rubber-coated handle hung from one side, while a big green tape
measure was clipped to the other. Kate strapped the belt on and felt as if
she’d stepped through a warp in time.

The
first time her father let her strap on a tool belt, she’d been nine, and he’d
punched an extra hole to stop the belt from slipping over her hips. He laughed
when she picked up his big hammer, and gave her a small one instead. A tack
hammer, she realized years later, and she’d kept it until he sent her away with
her mother and two suitcases—neither of which contained the hammer.

Mac’s
green hammer felt heavier than she remembered a grown-up’s hammer being. As for
his belt—she had a woman’s hips now, and she loosened it a notch.

Mac
had already driven a row of nails down the middle of the first sheet of OSB
with the nail gun. He threw her a glance, then seated the bottom nail.

“I’ll
get the next sheet,” he said. “You can finish this one.”

She
wasn’t as fast as the nail gun, or as smooth, but over the next half-hour they
developed a rhythm. He locked each new sheet of OSB in place with four
well-placed nails, then walked away and left it for her to finish. She hadn’t
his unerring eye for the hidden location of the studs, but she could locate the
spot with the tape measure.

After
half an hour, her hammer arm tingled from swinging a one-pound hunk of metal,
and she’d fallen two sheets behind him. Then Mac reached the doorway and she
heard the whine of a saw. By the time he’d fitted OSB around the door, she’d
caught up.

“Want
to try the nail gun?” he asked.

“I
think I’ll stick with the tool I know.”

After
the doorway came two windows; more cutting and measuring for Mac, fewer nails
for Kate. She kept up across the front of the house.

The
feel of hammer and tool belt, the whine of the saw, the magical transformation
of the skeleton of studs into walls, Mac’s silent company. They brought back
the magic of working with her father.

“Save
your breath for the work,” Han often said when she chattered, and certainly Mac
wasn’t talkative. Working on Mac’s house, she felt closer to her silent father,
as if she were preparing to bring him back into her life.

She
saw Socrates frown and knew he was reminding her that she couldn’t assume Han
would still be alive. Or he might be alive, but refuse to see her. Whatever the
truth of her sixteenth year, there was no denying Han sent both Kate and Evelyn
away.

She
smashed a nail home with a powerful strike and heard the solid echo of
well-fastened wood. She’d accepted her mother’s prohibition on the subject of
Han for too many years. Time for the truth, even if it did hurt.

Mac
reached the far corner of the house. “Time for a break,” he announced, his
first words since he offered her the nail gun.

She
drove another nail home. “I should have brought coffee.”

“I’ve
got a thermos.”

She
smashed another nail below the last and felt the impact right through her body.
“I’ll just finish up this sheet.”

Evelyn
and Jennifer might both be avoiding Kate’s calls, but she could hammer a mean
nail into a helpless sheet of OSB. She drove the last nail into the corner,
unfastened her tool belt and hung it on the sawhorse next to Mac’s, then walked
over to join him.

He
filled two mugs and handed her one, then sat on a big rock facing the house.
She sat at the other end of the rock and felt her arm tingle when she lifted
her coffee. They studied the newly-covered walls in silence. Admiring their
work, she thought, and almost laughed.

Somewhere
close by, a woodpecker hammered on a tree, the sound oddly comforting. “This
feels good,” she said.

“It’s
hard to lose someone you love.”

“Yes.”
She turned away to stare at the line of trees. She’d told him she was a widow
last weekend, but she wished he hadn’t remembered. “How long have you lived in
Madrona Bay, Mac?” 

“I
came up from Peru a few years ago.”

“I’ve
tried to place your accent; I didn’t think Spanish.” Her voice sounded false.
She took a sip of her coffee too abruptly, rubbed at the trickle on her chin.
After six months, it was time she learned to handle references to David. “Do
you have relatives in Peru?”

“Just
work.”

“Where
are you from?”

“I
was born in Scotland, left when I was five.”

She
forced a smile. “That’s why I didn’t recognize the accent. If you left at five,
it’s been watered-down.”

“My
father worked construction jobs. Venezuela, Taiwan, Brazil. We got around.”

“You
were a construction kid, too?” She couldn’t believe she’d felt so panicked by
his comment about loss, and now she wanted to cry. Neither emotion made sense.
“How did you end up here?”

“My
dad was here. He wasn’t doing too well. He died three years ago.”

“I’m
sorry.”  She saw emotion in his eyes and wondered how much he resembled his
father. She guessed Mac’s age at about forty, not much older than her own
father had been when she left Anchorage.

“When
Jake died, I figured I’d go back to Peru.”

Jake,
his father. Back to Peru, pretend it never happened. She’d tried to pretend,
too, working on David’s book.

“You
didn’t go back?”

“I
got married.” He swept his mug sideways, flung the dregs of his coffee over the
damp ground.

She’d
been so focused on herself, she hadn’t thought of anything but her own grief.
She saw him now, clearly, with the perception she used for clients in her
office. He wore a wide gold band on his left hand. He was the sort of man who
came to counseling only as a last resort. He hadn’t mentioned his wife before,
and he worked Saturdays when the job wasn’t urgent enough to justify it. When
she told him hammering would be therapeutic, he knew what she meant.