Page 31 of Big Britches
“Yes,” Pedro said. “Like in West Side Story.”
“I’ve seen that. It’s very romantic.”
“It’s very sad.”
“Let’s not let it happen then.” Titus’s smile returned, energized. “Meet me here tonight. The passcode for the gate is BT23.”
Pedro repeated the code.
“Yeah. Big T twenty-three. Twenty-three was my jersey number.”
“I see.”
“So, you’ll come? Say seven-thirty?”
Titus waited for an answer, hopeful.
“Yes,” Pedro said finally. “I’ll be here. I will swim with you, o secretive one… safe behind your locked gates.”
Titus lifted Pedro’s hands to his lips and kissed them gently, like a child with a flower.
“Thank you,” he said.
Eight
The Hawthorne House was a landmark in Spoon—Greek Revival in architectural style, majestic in size and grandeur. Atticus Hawthorne built it in 1820. He was the great-great-grandfather of Lila Hawthorne, who inherited the historical home in the early 20th century. When Lila died, she bequeathed the now enormous financial burden of the house’s maintenance to her sole heir, Barbara Hawthorne in 1990. The home’s current interior design was from a remodel Lila had commissioned twenty-four years prior, in 1971, which had filled the house with a color scheme of bright oranges, yellows, browns, greens, and generous helping of ugly wallpaper and shag carpet.
There was no question the house needed updating, and Barb’s vision for the place was comparable in size. Unfortunately, her purse was much smaller. One day, she hoped to completely overhaul the interior design and bring things up to her standard of a modern bed-and-breakfast. For now, though, she carried out much of the maintenance and grunt work herself.
When Pedro entered, he heard clanging from the rear of the house in the kitchen, along with a muffled curse from his landlord.
“Dammit!”
“Barb? Are you OK back there?”
“Is that you, Pedro?” He heard scuffling, then the familiar creaking of floorboards.
“Yeah. I got off work a little early today.”
Barb emerged from the kitchen wearing jeans and a smudged t-shirt. She was holding a monkey wrench and her hair was pulled back with a navy bandanna. “I don’t suppose you know anything about plumbing, do you?”
“A little. What’s going on?”
She gestured, and he followed her into the kitchen. “There’s a slow leak under the sink. I’ve been catching it with a bucket, while waiting for the plumbing book I ordered—which came in the mail today. I bought the parts needed, and a new gasket and silicone. But something’s not right. I’ve got the damned thing apart and I can’t get it back together.”
“Let me take a look.” Pedro set his shopping bag on the kitchen table, got down on his knees, and stuck his head in the cabinet beneath the sink. Barb had dismantled the p-trap there and, as Pedro had expected, she was meticulously organized. All the necessary tools, parts, and a flashlight were within reach. He switched the light on, rotated to his back, and shimmied deeper into the cabinet.
“If you can make some magic happen,” she said, “I’ll knock ten percent off your rent this month.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You need to make money too, Barb. It’s the least I can do to help a friend. Hand me that wrench, please.”
She did, and Pedro rapped lightly on the pipe to help crack, crumble, and remove any ancient sealant that had solidified into the grooves of the joint.
“I’m impressed,” Barb said. “You’re banging down there sounds much more focused than my own.”
“I don’t want to risk damaging the threads, though. Have you got a stiff wire brush, like for a grill, or maybe some steel wool?”
“Both. Be right back.”