Facelift (20 page)

“The water won’t turn off—” Her voice carries around the corner just before she appears, wrapped in a bath towel. “I wasn’t sure . . .” Her eyes widen, and her voice trails off.

“Miss Marla,” Harry says in a courtly tone.

“Oh! Oh, no! Oh, my!” Marla’s shocked look quickly vanishes as if erased by a sudden Botox injection. She raises her hands as if trying to hide behind them “Mr. Klum.” Then she ducks and turns.

“I brought you these.” He gestures toward the flowers I’m holding.

She stops, straightens her spine. I hand the bunch of flowers to her.

She blinks, one eyelid slightly slower than the other, then abruptly turns toward me. “I called 9-1-1 and they were supposed to call a plumber.”

“You called the police because the water wouldn’t turn off.” I brace my hand against the door.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

Unplug the drain. Turn off the water to the house. Look up a plumber in the Yellow Pages and dial the number yourself! But my mental list of acceptable behaviors in this type of emergency are drowned out by a siren screaming up the street.

Harry steps toward me. “Maybe I could have a look.”

“Do you know anything about plumbing?”

“Mr. Klum used to be a plumber.” Disdain saturates Marla’s tone. “He’s retired now.”

Her contempt pokes at me and I grab Harry’s arm in defense. “Oh! You’re a hero then. Would you mind taking a look?”

He steps into my house. The siren grows louder as a fire truck stops in front. The red light flashes in a side window, turning the carpet pink momentarily. Marla places her hands over her ears and yells, “This way!”

I turn to face the firefighter racing for my house. “It’s okay. Everything is all right! There’s no emergency.”

Not yet anyway. Other than my mother-in-law is driving me crazy.

Chapter Thirteen

Harry wipes his black greasy fingers on the side of his pants. He seems to know his way around a drain. “Looks like whoever installed this faucet, put it in backwards.”

“Can it be fixed, Mr. Klum?” Exhaustion weights my words. After sending the fire department off and listening to Marla complain that she didn’t know what to do or who to call over and over again because I didn’t leave the plumber’s number for her, I’m ready to crawl into my sofa bed, cover my head with the pillow, and try to block out this evening.

“Call me Harry.”

“Harry,” I test out his name.

He nods in a gentlemanly fashion, which strikes me as odd while we sit in my bathroom, he on the side of the tub and me on the toilet lid, as we watch the water slowly swirl down the bathtub drain like a miniature tornado. The water had just started to overflow when Harry came to the rescue. A pile of damp towels sits at my feet.

“I can fix this. No problem.”

“I don’t want to impose. I can call a plumber.”

“You’ve already got one here. I don’t mind helping.” He looks at me with kind blue eyes, the corners crinkled with lines. “Makes me feel useful again.” He focuses on wrenching off a bolt. “Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Besides I wouldn’t want Miss Marla to forgo her bath.”

I glance toward the door that leads to my bedroom, where Marla has barricaded herself. “Why
did
you retire? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I had some things I needed to do around the house. And now, I piddle around here and there. Gives me more time for volunteer work at the church. There’s always a stopped-up toilet. And we have a ministry to single moms, so I help with that.”

“Your church sounds very ministry based.”

He nods, focusing on replacing the handles for the faucet. “Aren’t they all?”

I purse my lips. My church has prayed along with me that Cliff would return to his marriage and family. I’ve heard sermons on receiving blessings, doing good, tithing. There are mission trips to faraway places like Latvia and Africa. But there isn’t a ministry to help single mothers. Or even single fathers. There are plenty of activities for singles. And seniors. Vacation Bible School. Family bowling or swim nights. The imaginary finger I’m pointing is aimed straight at me. But I focus on Harry’s hands, with calluses and knobby knuckles as they move slowly but deliberately. “What do you do for single moms?”

“Well . . . we have a day where they drive their cars through and we check oil and tires and fix car seats. Then there’s plumbing and other handyman type of work. Even yard work. Keeps me busy enough.”

“I’d say.” He’s a plain man, but there’s nothing plain or ordinary about his heart. It sparkles like gold. He makes me question if my church is deficient in not offering such a ministry or if I’m simply being selfish because I’d like someone to check the oil in my car, mow my yard, and fix my plumbing.

Harry pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad . . . your plumbing problem. It won’t take long to fix it.” He grins. “And you’ll love my rates.”

“I can pay you.” At his dubious look, I add, “Really. Even though I’m a single mom, I can pay.”

“Just consider: what goes around, comes around.”

I tilt my head. Am I going to help with someone’s plumbing? I glance at the tubes and tools. I wouldn’t have a clue where to begin.

“You took in Miss Marla. Taxied her to the doctor. Fixed her meals. Made sure she took her medicine.”

“Oh, well . . .”

“No, really.” He taps my leg lightly with a wrench. “Sure, she could have hired someone to care for her. No problem. But what you did was generous. Generosity of the heart.”

Harry’s own generosity makes me question if I’ve been focused on what’s right and wrong. Especially in my marriage. Of course Cliff was wrong. To prove it, he should come back. But has my focus been too self-serving? My heart feels skewered. “Have you ever done something really stupid, Harry?”

“Yeah.” He begins placing his tools back in his neat and tidy toolbox. “But it usually has to do with love. Not drains.”

I laugh. His answer surprises me, but then all the flowers he’s brought to Marla come to mind. Does he feel foolish for courting her?

He twists the wrench around in his hands then lays it in his tool box. “When Marla was in the hospital, I took her some flowers.”

The only flowers in her hospital room was the bunch of daisies, which I bought at the grocery store one morning on the way to see her. “You did?”

“Well, I would have, but I saw she had company.” He glances away. “I panicked.”

I snap my fingers. “I remember you now. You should have come in. It would have been okay.”

“Not with Marla,” he shrugs. “Chalk the whole thing up to my stupidity.”

I chuckle along with him and pat him on the shoulder. “I guess we all do silly things. I certainly have lately. What kind of dumb things have you done for love, Harry?”

“Doesn’t bear repeating.” He frowns and reaches again for the wrench, using it again to tighten the faucet once more. “Love makes a person do strange, goofy things sometimes. And sometimes courageous things. Guess there’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness. Only in retrospect can we know the difference. Sometimes it works out, sometimes not.”

When he finishes hooking back up the faucet, the tub has almost completely drained. “You’ve got a clog.”

I watch the water slipping down the drain and feel as if I’m that little Dutch boy holding my finger in the hole of my marriage. All alone. Unable to dam up the leaks by myself. “I guess so.”

“Don’t have my rotor rooter today. I can bring it tomorrow.”

“Can’t I pour something down the drain to dissolve it?”

He looks at me like I’ve spoken heresy. “I’ll bring the right equipment tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He ducks his head then looks at me again. “How”—his tone is hushed—“is Marla really doing?”

“Better, I think.”

“Is she still seeing Andy?”

“Who?”

“Anderson Sterling.”

Oh! The tuxedoed rose man. “I don’t really know.” I don’t want to tell Harry how she dotes on his hothouse flowers and how he left her sexy items in a brown paper bag on the front porch. “She hasn’t seen anyone really since her surgery.”

“Guess it doesn’t matter. She’s obviously not interested in me. She didn’t stick around long when I came in to fix this. And well, we men usually have a hard time understanding women, but Miss Marla has made her feelings pretty clear.”

I glance at the closed bedroom door and my heart aches for this kind man. “Well, I think it has more to do with
her
rather than you.”

He gives me a questioning look.

I want to say she’s caught up in the superficial, but I refrain. “She doesn’t really know you, Harry. Plus, she’s a bit self-conscious right now.”

He nods. “Think she’d see me? Talk to me?”

“You can try. But no guarantees.”

He stands, rubs his hands on the front of his pant legs, and releases a slow breath. Walking out into the hallway, he hesitates at her door. Then he knocks.

Silence answers him. I reach for the towels at my feet, gathering them to me.

He knocks again, this time louder. I ache for him. Have I set him up for failure? Is it a lie I’ve fed him? My own hope for restoration with Cliff transferred to him? Or is there really hope?

“What is it?” Marla’s voice comes through the door, curt, irritated. “
Who
is it?”

“It’s me, Miss Marla. Harry . . . Harry Klum.”

“Thank you for your services.” Her tone is dismissive.

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He glances over his shoulder with a triumphant smile. After a couple of minutes, he taps quietly on the door again. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m not up to having visitors.”

“Yes, yes, ma’am, I know. Of course, I understand. I just wanted you to know”—he touches the door as if reaching out to touch Marla—“you’re missed back at the village.”

“Really?”

Her response surprises me and yet it shouldn’t. He appealed to her vanity, and she grabbed the lure—hook, line, and sinker.

“Yes, ma’am. Folks ask about you all the time. When are you coming back? How are you doing?”

“Anyone specific?” Her tone lifts with a hopeful note and probing edge.

He names several women. “Can I bring you anything? Books, magazines?”

“No, thank you.”

He leans forward as if to capture every word. “I hope the flowers brightened up your room.”

A long pause precedes a curt, “Thank you.”

“Well”—he rubs his hands over the back of his pants—“I better be going.” He glances back over his shoulder at me, and I offer him an encouraging smile. I’m proud of him for trying. But at the same time, I feel cruel for encouraging him.

When Marla doesn’t answer with a
good-bye
or
have a nice day,
he starts down the hall, carrying his toolbox. His shoulders slump forward. His footsteps remain heavy and slow. My heart hurts for him. At the same time, anger rises up in me like the water in the bathtub. I want to wrench open the door, drag Marla out of her sanctuary, and push her toward Harry. Doesn’t she know what a nice man he is? What is
wrong
with her?

What’s worse—am I being like Harry in trying to get Cliff back? Are my actions just as foolishly hopeless? Is that how others see me? Poor pathetic Kaye, still trying to get her husband back after all this time. Can’t she see the writing on the wall? He wants someone younger, prettier, thinner, someone other than me.

Hot tears scald my eyes.

Then Marla’s door opens. Only a smidgen, allowing for a tiny bit of hope to enter.

My heart pounds. I squeeze back the tears. Will she reconsider? Will she call out to Harry? I hold my breath.

One of her eyes zeroes in on me. “Is he gone?”

“He’s leaving right now.”

She glances down the hallway, pushes the door open wider. She’s traded her towel in for a pink negligee. “Thank you.” Her voice is faint. “Thank you for fixing the tub.”

He pauses, his shoulders straightening, and he turns back.

Marla stays mostly hidden behind the door.

“You’re welcome, Miss Marla,” he calls back. “You’re mighty welcome.” He grins at me and winks. Maybe he’s not so foolish after all.

Maybe he’s just exhibiting true patience.

I must have prayed for patience at some time, which is why, I surmise, I’m stuck sitting in a doctor’s office waiting on Marla. The magazine across my lap is full of airbrushed beauties that set my teeth on edge. I’ve seen documentaries exposing photo shoots that create a fantasy where models’ waists are whittled with the click of a computer, pimples are zapped, wrinkles erased and other body parts enlarged. Hair extensions give the illusion of glorious oversized hairdos. It’s all a façade that makes real women feel inadequate.

With the agitated flick of my wrist, the page turns and a headline grabs me: “Miss Plastic of Hungary . . . not hungry.” Apparently, now there’s some beauty pageant for those women who
admit
to having facelifts, boob jobs, and tummy tucks. Honesty! That’s a first. Maybe Marla could go overseas and compete. What’s next? Miss Let-It-All-Hang-Out America?

Pretending to read, I give a cursory glance around the waiting room. There are three other women flipping through magazines or checking their iPhones. All the women look calm and comfortable. Are they pre- or post-op? Are they here for their next Botox injection or simply a consultation?