by Catherine Chiarella Domonkos
Chuck’s enthralled by our conversant handyman Dave, listening to him lecture about amperage and bearing capacities while I research authentic railings and period fixtures. When they’re together, Chuck becomes a beefier version of himself, even his posture improves, as if he’s an adolescent finally tuning into his maturing body. He’s my 34-year-old husband. I’m happy for him. He’s always been timorous, a loner, maybe because of his volcanic homelife as a child, maybe because of his stutter. His introversion charms me, sexy in a deep and unreachable way, but I understand that there are things he’s got to work out. We bought this fixer-upper knowing that the inherent risk of taking on something damaged would require tolerance and learning. When we first laid eyes on it, we were all in.
Chuck’s an innocent when it comes to building things beyond Lego, but Dave seems to relish taking him under his wing. “See, when we consider wood, we first have to think engineered or solid.” Dave sets a board in each of Chuck’s guileless hands. “Feel the difference. One’s substantial and knows what it is, what it wants. The other could get swept away.” He makes a flicking gesture with a thumb and forefinger. “Close your eyes. Tell me which you prefer.” Chuck lifts the solid core and grins, knowing he’s impressed his mentor. “Good man.”
“Now for flooring, there’s also also luxury vinyl tile or straight-up laminate for a little pizzazz, a little glam, anywhere you lay it.”
“Glam?” I ask. “You can’t be serious.”
I’m sloughed off and Dave continues, “Bamboo. Concrete. Polished or stained. Poured slab or tile. There’s a whole world out there, man. You need to experience it.” He’s looking at Chuck who’s beaming like a Little Leaguer who at last makes it off the bench. Dave curls a hand behind an ear. “Did someone say, ‘Road trip to Home Depot?’” Chuck pumps a fist in the air.
“C’mon, guys, we agreed on oak flooring throughout the place,” I interrupt. Dave smirks and Chuck eyerolls, something I’ve never seen him do. Is he exasperated by the idea that something honest and enduring is unworthy of committing to after all? I let Chuck savor the boy talk, unused as he is to fratty friends.
Lately, they’ve started whispering whenever they talk about flooring. Today they are in the rotting Adirondack chairs out back, a six of Coors on the ground between them, as if taking a break from laboring all day long, when what they’ve really been up to is ogling samples. I look up from the drawings unraveled on the sawhorse table, trying to determine the best place for the new water heater. Through the kitchen window I see that Dave has fanned a bevy of exotics on an armrest, while Chuck strokes them, rapt. As I approach to ask when they’re going to start framing the sunroom, I hear Dave pimping the boards: “Brazilian cherry’s warm, a little expensive to maintain and worth every penny; you’ll thank me, man. Acacia’s, smooth and long-limbed; gimme five, buddy. Tigerwood is as hot and untamed as the name suggests.” I snatch the swatches from Dave and slap them onto Chuck’s lap. I stalk back to the sawhorse. He doesn’t follow me.
Nighttime, I roll over in bed, ready to confront Chuck about the flooring while he’s too drowsy to protest, but he’s gone. The bedroom closet door warps on its hinges, so it’s easy for me to hear the murmuring inside. Through a gap I watch Chuck fondling a Peruvian chontaquiro, “Chonta,” he says, “You’re like nothing I’ve ever known.”
I slipper past to the bathroom, fold face down onto the ceramic squares. Coolheaded, they support me, even though they wobble a little, still waiting to be mortared and grouted in place. Chuck and I thought we could install these tiles ourselves, only to realize it’s a task beyond us.
He’s dumfounded when I tell him Dave’s got to go, that this flooring nonsense is wearing me out. We’ve got a house to restore. The two of us.
When Chuck finally leaves for Dave’s, only a slim stack of timber slung over his shoulder, he’s a comic strip of a boy running away from home with a bandana full of snacks tied to a stick only to return in time for dinner. He calls me “hardwooded.” Nothing but a hardwooded woman. That doesn’t hurt me as much as he thinks.
Catherine Chiarella Domonkos’ recent words appear in Centaur Lit, The Disappointed Housewife, Does It Have Pockets, and Bending Genres among other literary places. Her stories have been selected for Best Small Fictions, nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. For the complete collection, check out: www.catherinechiarelladomonkos.com.
Emerge Literary Journal 