Into the Fire

From . . . in a love song  

Four

Saturday morning at the supermarket buzzed with women and kids. He had to put a couple of things back when he figured there’d be too much to carry. He’d bring the Jeep after work on Monday. 

     Headed back to Eva’s, he spotted Pet approaching The Tavern from the opposite side of the street. She carried a large purse over her shoulder, walked briskly with her arms folded across her chest, and seemed more petite than she did behind the bar last night. Blue jeans and a short-sleeved white blouse tucked in with a black belt hugged what he could see of her. Dark brown hair curled around her face instead of being pulled back in a ponytail like it was last night. He picked up his pace, but there was no way he could catch up to her the way she was walking.

     She stopped at the entrance and brought her purse down off her shoulder to grab keys. Just as she was about to push open the door, she glanced his way and hesitated. He kept his gaze steady, and she looked like she might wait for a moment but instead gave him a quick look of recognition and disappeared behind that bulky wooden door.

     The connection made, he slowed his pace and felt the air warming. He hoped for early heat and a long summer. The scents of sagebrush and early-crop alfalfa reminded him of why he loved the country wherever it took him.

     As he contemplated juggling the bags to grasp the door knob, Mrs. Johnson opened it wide for him and closed it behind him.

     “Mr. Rivers, I was wonderin’ if you might do me a favor in your spare time.”

     The woman didn’t mince words, and he decided he liked that about her. “Sure thing. If I can.”

     “Why don’t you put your groceries away and I’ll be here when you get done. Alright?”

     “I’ll be back down in a minute, Mrs. Johnson.”

     “Eva, if you please, Mr. Rivers.”

     Her shy smile at the request for informality surprised him. He smiled back at her and quickly took off up the stairs. Two sacks crammed full didn’t take up much room, and he was back down the stairs to the lobby in less than ten minutes.

     Mrs. Johnson wasted no time. “Mr. Rivers, I had an old friend of mine rebuild me two new screen doors for my front and back doors, and I was hopin’ you might be able to put them up for me. One of my tenants took them down for me and loaded them in my pickup, but he’s moved on. They’re sittin’ out there in the truck whenever you might have time. I’ve got all the mountings in the basement sitting on the work bench. Since you’re in the construction business, you’ll appreciate Mr. Johnson’s tools, I’m sure.”

     She sounded all business until she said her husband’s name and her voice wavered. He knew the man had passed away not too long ago and that he’d bought this big old home for his wife when he retired because she’d always wanted to make it into a rooming house. His new coworkers filled him in on all kinds of stuff about the town and people, but it briefly occurred to him that none of them had mentioned Pet.

     “It’s Dale, ma’am, and I can do it right now if that’s alright with you.”

     Her face lit up at his response, and she headed off, “Follow me then.”

     The concrete basement with its winding path leading off to alcoves gave the necessary fortress-like appearance of a solid foundation for the huge house set upon it. Straight ahead a twelve foot long wooden work bench stood just as firm with every tool he’d ever seen mounted above it. Drawers underneath it were filled with screws and nails and drill bits.

     “Was your husband a builder?”

     “Not so much. A woodworker, though.”

     That explained some of the fancy molding and extra features like his tiny closet and attractive cabinetry in his room upstairs. He could hear the hitch in her voice and moved the conversation forward. “Okay, then. Why don’t you show me those new screen doors, and then I’ll come back down here and get what I need.”

     She led the way to the back parking lot where the doors were protected in packing material in the back of her red ’80 Ford 4 X 4.

     “One of my favorite years for Ford pickups,” he remarked as he dropped the tailgate, easing the doors down flat.

     She laughed briefly. “You and my husband seem to like the older models. Donald always said they had more muscle and durability.”

     “Nothin’ like the old V-8s.” He gripped one door and eased it out of the bed, leaning it upright against the side of the truck. Across the brown packing paper, black permanent marker said “Front”.

     He glanced at Mrs. Johnson once he had them out of the truck bed. “This shouldn’t take long, Mrs. Johnson.”

     “Eva, Mr. Rivers.”

     “Dale, ma’am.”

     He picked up the proper one and carried it to the back porch, cutting the twine with his pocket knife and unwrapping the packaging.

     “If there’s anything else you need, Mr. Rivers, I’ll be in the lobby. Thank you for this. I’ll make it right with you.”

     “I’m glad to help out, Mrs. Johnson. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

     “Eva,” she said quietly as she walked in the back door and closed it behind her.

     “Dale,” he said with a smile when she was gone.

Father, thank you for every character, story, the words. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.