If You Were Here (21 page)

Read If You Were Here Online

Authors: Jen Lancaster

Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings

BOOK: If You Were Here
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Mac is beaming. “This room is tangible proof that we
can
do it ourselves.”
I throw myself around him and kiss him with all my might before flitting off to inspect each corner of the room. “I should have never doubted you. I’m so sorry I’ve been a pill. I should have listened to you and trusted your instincts. Forgive me?”
“Maybe, if you come back over here.” Mac’s sitting on the bed and motioning toward me, and I quickly comply.
“I’m all over it, Mr. MacNamara.” We both lie back in each other’s arms and I start to kiss his neck.
“Aw, shit, there’s one small flaw,” Mac says, gazing up at a small paint imperfection in the ceiling.
“It can wait,” I insist.
“No, it’ll make me crazy. Lemme just get this right here. . . .” Mac stands on the bed and pokes at the small outcropping, which is like a bubble or a balloon.
Years from now when we retell this story—and we will be retelling this story—I’m sure our recollection will go the way of any fish tale. The amount of water dispersed will likely swell from buckets to barrels, and the velocity at which it gushes down on me is prone to be exaggerated, sped up from a languid pour to a rushing river. And the ants that are washed down within that stagnant, brackish liquid will magically morph from carpenter size to Australian bulldog variety, maybe even with pincers and large enough to cast a shadow.
But right here, right now, and before my hands can inevitably grow farther and farther apart as I demonstrate that legendary fish’s length, I can tell you one thing: I hop out of every ant-covered, sopping-wet piece of clothing faster than ORNESTEGA could imagine.

 

“Hi, this is Mia MacNamara, and I got your number off of Angie’s List . . . . I understand you have twenty-four-hour service? . . . Super . . . Yeah, we need you right now . . . . Uh-huh . . . Bring a lot of poison. Buckets. Barrels. Whatever you’ve got. The address is 1407 . . .”

 

“Hey, it’s Mia. Guess what, smarty-pants? You were wrong. We
don’t
have Formosan subterranean termites. We have
Eastern
subterranean termites. Drywood, too. Oh, and at least three million carpenter ants. We have to fumigate. Call me back on my cell. And if you could keep the gloating to a minimum, I’d appreciate it.”

 

“Hi, I’m hoping to book a couple of reservations. The first one is a standard room, right now for two people. You’re dog-friendly, yes? . . . Cats, too? . . . Great . . . Uh-huh, two nights under ‘Mia MacNamara’ . . . Right, thanks . . . The second one is for June fourth through June seventh . . . . All you have left is the presidential suite? How much is that? . . . Ouch! . . . No, I was unaware that was Abington Cambs College graduation weekend . . . . Of course I realize prices reflect demand . . . . No problem . . . The name on that reservation is Josefa Grabowski . . . . Um, I’ll be using my AmEx for both. The number is 3750 . . .”

 

“Hello, sir. Lovely day out here; hope you’re enjoying it. Have a seat on the bench? Don’t mind if I do. Went with the white peonies today, because I thought you might want to mix it up a bit after getting so many shades of pink ones. Anyway, do I have a week to share with you. Remember how I said neither balloons nor bubbles were inherently threatening? Yeah? I stand corrected.”
Chapter Twelve
THE GOLABKI CLUB
“Thanks for coming, and we look forward to seeing your estimate!” I close the door behind the contractor, gingerly trying to keep the knob from falling out again.
Mac and I have spent the past few days interviewing general contractors, because the extent of the termite damage is far too much for us to take on by ourselves. Apparently those ravenous little bastards have been going at all the wood in our house so long and hard that we have to install new subflooring in some areas. We also have to replace floor joists and reinforce support beams.
FYI? I don’t actually look forward to seeing the estimates for these repairs, despite Mac’s rejoicing in his vindication when he found out weakened floors were the reason he kept dropping toilets into my office.
Yes. Because having to take out a second mortgage because of structural damage is totally cause for celebration.
The good news is, we’re really enthusiastic about everyone we’ve interviewed, and we’ve narrowed the field down to three contractors who are the most top-notch. Not only do these three all have the highest ratings from the Better Business Bureau and are Best of Angie’s List, but each one just slayed us with how they answered the interview questions.
We found an amazing resource on the Internet that advised us to lob a few “question grenades” during our fact-finding process, like whether their business was involved with any charity work. I was so impressed to learn how all of Bob’s Builders employees get two paid weeks off each year to work for Habitat for Humanity. When I checked professional references for Larry Lambert Homes, I had to laugh when one of his suppliers was all, “Wait. Lambert’s got an opening in his schedule? Tell him I need a sunroom!” And I loved how organized Miranda—owner of Do It Herself, Inc.—was, especially when I snuck out to take a peek in her truck.
113
Plus, she doesn’t use any subcontractors and she’s a huge proponent of going green. When she expressed her passion for sustainable building materials, I could suddenly envision a kitchen filled with bamboo flooring and agrifiber-based cabinets.
I tell Mac, “We’ll have a tough decision on our hands. All of them seem completely competent, they each have impeccable references, and when I think of people I wouldn’t mind having in my house for the next month, I’d be hard-pressed to find fault with any of them.” Bob was just salt of the earth, Larry was hilarious, and Miranda was a globe-trotting Peace Corps volunteer before she started her company and she seems like she’s got tales to tell.
Mac agrees. “Our decision will ultimately come down to price. All things being equal, we’re going to go with the lowest-cost provider.”
114
I collect our dirty Starbucks cups and napkins, tossing all the refuse in the trash before I catch myself. Oh, shit, if Miranda works here, I’ll have to be a lot better about remembering to recycle.
I wipe off the perpetually gritty table and tell Mac, “Honey, we’ve got about twenty minutes to get ready to go to the airport, so if you’ve got to use the bathroom, I suggest you go now.”
“Hey,” Mac says from the doorway of the kitchen. “In a completely unrelated question—do we happen to have any straightrazor blades? Also, how long would you estimate it takes a person to”—he makes air quotes—“ ‘bleed out’? Can this be accomplished in twenty minutes or less? I ask for no particular reason.”

 

“I don’t like car,” Babcia says with a sneer when she sees Mac’s Mercedes at the arrivals curb.
“Because it’s German?” Babcia’s not a huge fan of the Germans, having developed those feelings when she lived in Warsaw during WWII. Her opinion of all things Axis-power related explains why she also despises the Japanese, Italians, Hungarians, and Romanians. Of course, I’m hard-pressed to explain what she has against anyone who’s from England, Canada, Mexico, China and Hong Kong, France, Vietnam, North and South Korea, or Switzerland. She has a particular affinity for the Swedes, though. I suspect that has more to do with the $2.99 meatball platter at IKEA and less with any sociopolitical aspect.
Babcia continues to scowl as she inspects the car from hood to trunk. “Is too fast-making.”
As I settle her in the backseat, I say, “I promise Mac will drive home slowly.”
I can see Mac blanch. I suspect he was planning to pilot this thing like the Batmobile on the way back, just to lessen their time together in such an enclosed space.
“How was your flight?” Mac gamely ventures.
“No talk while drive,” she replies icily.
He gives me a desperate look while I offer a small shrug in return. “Babcia, does that mean no one talks or just Mac can’t talk?”
“Warehouse.”
“Warehouse? I’m not sure I follow you, Babcia.” A little Babcia 101 for you? The question you ask often has little to no bearing on the question she’ll answer.
“Warehouse.”
“Do you want to go to Costco?” I probably don’t even need to mention how Babcia feels about their liberal free-sample policies.
Or how she’s since been banned from all Miami-Dade County locations after the whole Foreman Grill unpleasantness.
“WAREHOUSE.”
“I think she’s asking where the house is. We’re about half an hour from here, depending on traffic, Babcia,” Mac interjects helpfully, only to be met with a steely glare and a bony finger pointed in his direction. Realizing the error of his attempt to interpret, he slinks down so low in his seat I wonder if he can even see over the dashboard.
Then Babcia reaches around the seat in front of her and takes her bony finger and pokes me in the stomach so hard I think she hits my spine. “Why fat,
moja zabko
? Is baby?”
You know, it’s possible this visit wasn’t my best idea.

 

“I need you now!”
His desperation is palpable.
“Mac, let me finish getting the coffee together. You can spend thirty seconds alone with her.” I roll my eyes and leisurely pour the carton of half-and-half into a white ceramic cow-shaped creamer. “Last I saw, she and Daisy were hanging out together on the couch in the living room, thick as thieves. How could that possibly be problematic?”
“Oh? Oh, really?” he questions me, his arms wrapped around himself in a very protective, albeit somewhat feminine position. “Then you’re not at all concerned about her squeezing Daisy’s hindquarters and muttering things like ‘tender’ and ‘make delicious.’ ”
“Not even a little bit,” I reply. That I put pep in my step filling the coffee cups and getting back to the living room is entirely coincidental.
I run a white dish towel over the coffee table before I set down the tray. With a couple of swipes, it turns completely gray. Even though we’re not actively tearing anything down right now, the grit and dust remain. I look forward to this eventually not being the case. Today I started coughing, and from what I hacked up, you’d assume I was a coal miner.
While Mac attempts to make himself invisible on the opposite side of the couch, Babcia eyes me as I sit down. “You make movie.”
I serve Babcia her coffee and hand her the cream, having presweetened her coffee.
115
“I don’t have a definitive answer yet. Maybe? A couple of places are interested in buying my stories, but my level of involvement may vary with each. If HBO—Wait. Do you know what HBO is?”
She nods with great conviction. “Tony Soprano.”
“Right. If HBO wants it, then basically I’ve sold them the idea and they take my book and they hire someone else to write a pilot—first episode—based on it. If Persiflage—it’s a film studio—wants it, then they’ll have me re-work the script I already wrote.”
“What problem? You already write.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t quite work like you’d think it would. I’ll know a little more today, because I’ve got a conference call with Persiflage.” What I don’t tell her is that this potential sale would more than pay for the repairs and renovations. We got our estimates back and they’re all a little terrifying. As of now, our home-equity line of credit will just barely cover everything we need to do.
Babcia straightens in her seat and gets very serious. “You tell no turtle.”
“Got it. No Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in my movie.” When I first started writing, I explained to Babcia that I wrote stories for kids and that she wouldn’t like them. As of now, she’s not read any of my books. I hope to keep it that way, as I don’t relish the thought of having to explain, “Why no zipper?” “Why no car?” “Why eat peoples?”
“Mac, will you be around today at three o’clock? I’d like for someone to keep Babcia company while I’m on the phone,” I request.
“Wow, you know I’d love to, but I can’t. Meeting with the attorney this afternoon, remember?”
Mac’s managed to schedule everything he’s been procrastinating doing since we moved up here. In the past twenty-four hours, he’s had breakfast with our accountant, he’s gotten a cavity filled, he met with the guy from the security company about upgrading our alarm system, and after he sees the attorney this afternoon, he’s playing a late round of golf
116
with our insurance agent in order to get a better idea about the differences between term and whole-life coverage.

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