Chapter 5: The Wall Again

Caleb was on the front porch at seven on Monday morning.

He had a toolbox in one hand and a roll of pink insulation under the other arm.

I opened the door in my sleep shirt with my hair a mess.

"Wall," he said.

That was all.

He'd said barely a dozen words to me per visit for five years, and I'd never once minded.

"Warren's at the site," I said.

"I told him I was sick."

"Are you?"

"No."

He looked past me into the hall, and then back at me.

His eyes were steady and very blue, with sun lines at the corners.

"You picked Graham on Saturday, and Owen yesterday," he said. "I sat in the truck all night to see if you'd pick me."

"I saw the truck."

"I know."

"You could have knocked."

"You'd have said no."

"I wouldn't have."

Something moved in his face and was gone.

I stepped back to let him in.

My room was small and still smelled of my mother's lavender sachets, with the bed pushed against the wall I shared with the den.

Caleb set down his tools and put a flat palm on the plaster.

"Thin," he said. "Shouldn't be."

He took a utility knife and cut a neat square in the drywall near the baseboard, and peeled it back.

Inside the stud bay there was nothing.

No insulation, no padding, only dust and the back of the den's plaster.

I could see a strip of lamplight through a crack in it.

"There it is," I said. "Fourteen months of poker night."

"Five years." He ran a thumb along the stud. "I told Warren I'd fix it when your mother moved in. He said leave it."

"Why?"

"Didn't say."

He measured the bay, cut a length of pink batt with long careful strokes, and pressed it into the gap.

His forearms were thick and lined with old scars, and a bead of sweat ran down the side of his neck.

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