Whitechurch by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

I’ll be pushing them really hard … you can be in here and you’ll do the first floor and I’ll take the second floor …”
    If it were a matter of spirit. If you could make things happen by want, then Pauly’s vision would come true. But if things were simply that, then much would come true for Paul. But, not much does.
    “Pauly,” I say. “Pauly, that can’t happen. That is not humanly possible … Nobody could expect that of you, and I think you’d probably die in the attempt. And maybe I’m being a little selfish, but I’d rather let your dream die and keep you.”
    His smile is warm and benevolent and I have this fleeting moment when I think I see on his face that he appreciates, realizes … But I’m just wishing it.
    “And as much as I love you, Oakley, that , I gotta tell you, is why you’re never gonna get anywhere. Thinkin’ like that.”
    He hangs up the flip on the phone, lets go of me, and works harder on the dry uncooperative lock.
    Pauly rattles the door and shakes it, wiggles the knob, and finally kicks the green tarnished brass plate at the foot. Kicks it again, pissed, works the key until I am sure it will break, or that Pauly will, then finally we are in the foyer.
    “Nice fuckin’ foyer,” he says. “Welcome home. Doesn’t it say welcome the hell home, Oak? It sure does, and it’s beautiful.”
    And it is. Red and blue and green threadbare but stylish oriental rug. Dark wood paneling and a brass gas lamp-style light sticking out of one wall. It’s a warm-feeling place, like a rich person’s library.
    Pauly’s hit the redial already.
    “Why won’t she answer? Where is she? She doesn’t have anything doing today. I asked her and she said she doesn’t have anything doing today.”
    “So? So she got something doing, what’s the big deal, Paul?” But at the same time, I want him to keep dialing till he gets her.
    “In my truck. In my truck, she got something doing? She better not be up to the old tricks. Not in my truck anyway.”
    Pauly snaps the phone closed again.
    “She never had any old tricks, for one thing. And it’s not even your truck for another.” It’s more of a long-term loaner, since Pauly’s father skipped out and just sort of forgot to take his wheels with him.
    “Ya … well … just the same. She starts that stuff, I swear I’ll just … When I see her this time, I’ll just …”
    He can’t even finish it. Not as a threat, not as a bluff, not as a joke. I know it, he knows it, and the creaky steps we climb in the beautiful old house know it. So I help him out.
    “You’ll just … fall on your knees and rub her feet? Or, you’ll just … buy her a box of chocolates and take her to a movie?”
    Pause. He’d like to do better than that. If there were any other witnesses he might.
    “Ya, something like that,” he says, then laughs. “But that would sure teach her a lesson wouldn’t it, Oak? She’d never mess with ol’ Pauly again, would she?”
    “No,” I say, following him to the top of the stairs and into the first bedroom. “No, Pauly, I don’t suppose she would.”
    He plunks himself down on an old bed so springy it bounces another six times before settling down. Like a car with bad shocks. He’s dialed again. Outside the window we can hear the rattling, scraping, clamoring of the crew attacking the house. They appear to be responding well to Pauly’s style of leadership.
    As he waits for the phone, he points out the window. “See?” he says, and winks.
    “Just … we might fall a little short of your goal, Pauly, so don’t get … too rigid about it. We’ll do our best….” I do not want to point out that, on top of all the other difficulties in getting a three-week job done in an hour and a half, he and I aren’t actually doing anything still. Somewhere in there, he sees different.
    He hangs up the phone. Sighs hard like a little boy denied a trip to the candy store. Stomps past me wordlessly, bumping me deliberately on his