Remodeling 9/09/04

Outside the bedroom door, she rattles around in the hallway, opening cupboards, washing dishes in the bathroom sink, making coffee, getting ready for Regis and Kelly at 9:00. She turns off the faucet. It’s quiet. She turns it on again. The sound of water running through the pipes rushes through the house.

It’s going to be hot again today. I go to Windmill Market and come back with Calistoga’s for myself and beer and ice for Ray and Sam. It’s almost eleven, Miller time. I put the beer in the small Styrofoam cooler they keep outside in the shade behind the addition. I cover the bottles with ice. Last night, I drank their last beer, so I feel obligated to fill the chest.

I take the two quart bottles of Calistoga water into the house and carry them out into the garage where the refrigerator is located.

She’s there, standing beside the water heater and the furnace in front of the refrigerator with the door open; thin, frail, and always underfoot. I put the two bottles on the kitchen table in the middle of the garage and wait as she timidly organizes jars and containers in the refrigerator. She places a finger on her chin and steps back to admire her work.

Can I put these in there?

I slide past her and place the two quart bottles on the top shelf.

Her trembling, withered hand follows a short distance behind the bottles as if to guide them to the correct location.

I place them on an empty shelf and step aside.

She reaches in and touches each bottle feebly, moves each one an imperceptible distance to the right or to the left then once again takes a step back and inspects her work.

“There now,” she says and closes the refrigerator door.