The Choice and a challenge

I was a short story writer long before I was a novelist. Sometimes I still write them. I start with a scene and see where it leads me and what it wants to be. Sometimes the scenes become chapters in my novels, and sometimes they don’t become anything at all. I wrote this one several years ago. It’s been hanging out in a box with some others that for whatever reason I never went any farther with. Writer friends, do you have a box like that? I know you do and I’d love to see what’s in it Consider yourself challenged!

The Choice

It was nearly 5:00 when I arrived at my last job of the day. I was more than an hour late, which probably meant I wouldn’t get a tip. Which wasn’t good. My gas gauge was on empty, and I’d hoped to stop off for a beer after work. Tess and I had gotten into another screaming match that morning and I was in no hurry to go home. My glance moved over the tidy, white house with its green shutters and rose bushes. Not the fanciest place, but cozy looking. The kind of house Tess dreamed of owning.

Tess was a teacher’s aide. Between that and my job at Home Remodelers, we managed to pay the rent and keep the lights on. But we could never seem to save any money, and that was the main reason for the fights. Sighing, I collected my ladder and my supplies and headed toward the house.

My knock was answered by an old lady wearing a lavender pantsuit and pink lipstick.

“Good afternoon.” She was soft spoken, slightly southern. “You must be from the remodeling center.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful. I’ve been expectin’ you.” Inside, I saw that she’d filled vases with roses from her garden. They gave the simple room a subtle elegance. “The guest room is this way.”

The room was small and square. I calculated the job would take a half hour at the most.

“It’s really a walk-in closet,” she said. “But I’m trying to make it as comfortable as I can. My granddaughter is coming to stay for a few weeks. Do you think this will work for the space?”

She unrolled a wallpaper border, an old-fashioned pattern with butterflies and wildflowers. The vivid purples, blues and golds were a striking contrast to the cream colored walls, and I told her as much. She smiled. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

I set up my work space, then measured the wall, cut my strips, and mitered the corners. I’d just climbed up the ladder when a voice boomed from behind me, almost causing me to fall.

“Hello there, young fella!”

An old man stood in the doorway, his brown pants pulled up to his chest, tufts of white hair springing wildly from his head. “Afternoon,” I mumbled, hoping he’d go away.

“I used to be a handyman myself,” he said.

“Really? What sort of work did you do?”

He stared at me with a blank expression. “We’re getting the room all fixed up. Someone’s coming to stay. Can’t think who.”

“Your granddaughter.”

He continued to gaze at me with his watery eyes. The woman appeared in the doorway. “Let’s let the young man work, Harold. Come on, your soup’s ready.” She took his hand, and he reluctantly followed her from the room.

I hung my first strip and smoothed the wrinkles. The woman returned. “You’ll have to excuse my husband,” she said softly. “Harold is a wonderful man. He just gets confused sometimes.”

“Oh, no problem.” I immediately thought what an idiotic thing it was to say.  Of course it wasn’t a problem. Not for me. I’d be out of here in twenty minutes. I was finishing up my last strip when from the corner of my eye I saw him return. He hovered in the doorway like a small, sad shadow, clearly wanting some guy talk.

“Used to be a bit of a handyman myself,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I smoothed out the strip and wiped away the paste. “What sort of work did you do?”

He was quiet for a long time, and I didn’t think he’d answer.

“I did outdoor work,” he finally said. “I built decks and fences. Yessiree. If there’s anything I don’t miss, it’s trying to please people. People can be a real pain in the tushee sometimes.”

I grinned. “Ya think?”

He grinned back. “Darn tootin’.”

I was packing up my supplies when the woman returned. “Oh, what a difference. Isn’t it lovely, Harold?”

“Lovely.” He echoed. “Someone is coming to stay. I can’t think who.”

While the woman went to get her checkbook, I waited in the living room with the old man. I noticed a table filled with pictures, representing some fifty odd years of living. Weddings. Holidays. Old black and white photos of family vacations. One photo showed the couple as a much younger version. The old man sat behind the wheel of a convertible. The woman sat in the passenger seat, a red scarf tying back her hair. They were just beginning their journey then. If she’d known where the road would take them, would she still have gone along for the ride? Somehow, I felt like she would. The picture made me sad. Would Tess and I be together long enough to fill a table with photographs? Not likely, I thought. Married just two years and already we were in trouble.

I was a mess when I met her. She was pretty and sweet, and I couldn’t believe she wanted to go out with me. I was already an alcoholic by then. Tess was a Christian and her mission in life became to straighten mine out. Lost and afraid, I gladly turned over the reins. And things got better. I found God. I found my footing. I got a job and we got married. Three years into our relationship, though, Tess can’t stop trying to fix me. Like an overprotective mother, she can’t let me make my own choices. And like a spoiled child, I can’t ever seem to say I’m sorry. But there’s one thing I know. My life would be empty without her in it.

The old woman appeared with a check made out to the store for the amount of the job and a twenty-dollar bill for me. “You did a lovely job. God bless you.”

Back at the store, I turned in the paperwork and the check. Then I got in my car and headed across town. Three blocks from my favorite tavern, I pulled into a mini mart. I put ten dollars in my gas tank. With ten left, I could afford to stay out until Tess gave up on me and went to bed.  Beside the counter there was a rack of fresh flowers. A sign read: Ten dollars, your choice.

At the register, I put my twenty on the counter.

“Ten in gas?” the cashier asked.

“Yep.”

“That all for ya?”

I thought of the old couple, the woman doing her best to honor her vows. For better or for worse. I thought of the cold beer that would be on tap at the tavern and weighed it against the lifetime of regret I would carry if I let my marriage slip through my hands. And I knew if I wanted that table full of pictures I would have to meet Tess halfway. Ten dollars. My choice.

“Hang on.” I grabbed a bouquet of pink roses from the rack. “I’ll take these too.”

I knew that one thoughtful act wasn’t going to fix me and Tess. It would be a long, rough road ahead. But more than anything, I wanted to take that ride. So, I prayed.

God, help me be a better husband. From now on, help me make each day, each moment count.

Because at the end of the day, it’s the small, shared moments that add up to a lifetime together. Holding onto that thought, I laid the bouquet on the seat beside me and headed home.