ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching
Book Two, Chapter 79: The Feel of Home
I’m on a ladder in the dining room of the Charles Street house priming its walls.
Below me, Joshua’s on his knees hand-sanding areas of the floor stained with piss from dogs of yore. Then he feathers on an oak stain. Then he studies his work. “The piss marks still show.”
I look down from my lofty perch. “It doesn’t matter that they show. They’re part of the history of this house.”
Jerry, our ace carpenter, is adding an electric line for the new cook top, installed two days ago. He finishes, and Joshua and I stop our work to head into the kitchen, watching as Jerry turns a cook-top knob to the left. Click. Click. Click. A blue flame hops into reality. He lowers the flame, then turns on the other three burners.
I clap my hands. “Wonderful! Now we can have a cup of tea.” I fill a red enamel pot with water. “Who wants tea?”
“I’m not a tea-drinker,” Jerry says. His untamed mustache and long gray beard muffle his words. “I have a cup of coffee in the morning. That’s all.” Then he sets the oven’s clock. It’s almost five, the end of our workday.
Joshua turns off three of the burners, leaving a front one on for me. We help Jerry carry tools and supplies to his truck, then I return to the kitchen for my tea. Joshua stays truck-side talking to Jerry. Joshua and Jerry get along. Joshua gets along with almost everyone — except Christy, who has trouble getting along with anyone.
I’ll miss Joshua when he returns to L. A. With this Charles Street house, he’s given me a project, a purpose. He’s pushed me to eat, to exercise, to sleep at night and not during the day. He’s encouraged me to attend Twelve-Step meetings. He re-phrases my negative statements.
“You’re helping me with this house,” he tells me after he and Jerry finally take leave of each other. “You’re a big help. I love my little mama.”
His eyes rove as he opens his arms to hug me. I take his chin in my hands. “Look at me, Joshua. I want to see you looking at me when we hug.”
I take my cup of hot tea to the front window, watch Jerry drive off, then lower the blinds, almost spilling tea on Joshua’s newly stained floor. I’m such a fuckup, I say to myself. It’s a wonder I don’t fall off the ladder while I’m painting.
Joshua performs his evening ritual: turning down the thermostat, lowering the rest of the blinds, turning off lights, locking the back door.
“I’ll drop you off,” he says as he locks the front door behind us, double-checking it.
“I’d rather walk,” I say. “I need the exercise.”
The truth is, I want to delay returning to my messy place. In a way, the Charles Street house feels more like home to me than my own place. That’s what Joshua and I are doing, isn’t it? Turning a house, long in disrepair, into a home someone will want to live in.
Maybe that’s what I’m doing for myself, too.
