Chapter 4: No Nails

On Monday afternoon Lena knocked on my door with a level under her arm.

It was broad daylight, and she was wearing her tool belt.

"Rule Two," she said.

"No nails in the walls."

"The owner hangs every picture."

She looked past me at the framed drawings stacked against the wall.

"Where do you want them?"

"You're really going to hang them yourself."

"I said every picture."

I pointed at the long wall under the slanted ceiling.

She walked over and ran her palm along the old plaster.

Then she looked up at the picture rail near the ceiling.

"This building was built in 1924," she said. "The rail takes brass hooks and wire. No holes."

"That's clever."

"It's carpentry."

She took the first frame, a fox in a yellow raincoat standing in a puddle.

She held it up against the rail.

Her arms were strong, and the muscles shifted under her rolled flannel sleeves.

I watched her work, and I did not pretend otherwise.

She measured, marked, and hooked each wire with calm, exact hands.

"Come here," she said. "Hold the end of this."

I stepped up beside her and took the other end of the level.

The ceiling sloped down over that wall, and she stood close behind me to reach the rail.

Her body pressed along my back, warm and solid through two layers of cloth.

"Hold it flat."

"I'm holding it."

"You're shaking."

"You're standing on me."

"I'm hanging a picture."

Her free hand came around my waist and settled flat on my stomach, just under my ribs.

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