Pen Pal

4

“After I started seeing a therapist, the headaches went away. Poof, man. Just gone. Turns out, I had lots of emotions bottled up.”

I open my eyes to find him crouched under my desk with a small power meter in his hand. He sticks it into the electrical outlet, waits a moment as he reads whatever it’s telling him, then stands and moves to the next outlet where he repeats the process.

“Psychosomatic illness, they call it. Your brain literally makes you sick. Stress is that toxic. Far out, isn’t it?”

“Far out,” I agree, wondering if he lives in a commune or co-op. They’re all over Washington and the Seattle area, communal-living groups started in the free-love sixties where people share housing and resources and eschew modern things like cell phones and GMO foods.

I’m much too private to live in such close quarters with people I’m not having s*x with, but I don’t judge anybody’s life choices.

Standing, he turns to look at me. “I can give you my doc’s name if you want. Unless you don’t think stress could be a problem for you.”

“Does losing my husband count as stress?”

I don’t know why I said that. Or why I said it in the biting way I did. I don’t normally wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’m not sarcastic like Michael was. He dealt with depressing or morbid things with black humor that sometimes came off as insensitivity, but I knew was just a coping mechanism. The man was a marshmallow.

Confused, Eddie stares at me. “You lost him?”

No one can possibly be this dumb. “He died.”

Now he looks stricken. “Oh, dude. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Was it recent?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“Holy s**t! That’s only a couple weeks ago!”

I should stop talking now. Every word out of my mouth makes poor Eddie more and more upset.

I’ve always had a problem over-empathizing with other people, which is one of the reasons I tend to keep to myself. Everyone else’s emotions piled on top of my own can get suffocating sometimes.

“Yes. Anyway.” I manage to stand this time, then avoid Eddie’s eyes as I say, “So what’s the verdict?”

In his pause, I feel him looking me over. Reading the stiffness in my body and the artificially bright tone of my voice. Maybe he’s empathetic too, because he takes pity on me and changes the subject.

“Well, that leak in the roof is a bummer. It’s coming from the roof deck by the turret, which means you’re gonna have to remove the shingles and cut away the wood to repair the leak. Between the gables, the turret, and the steep pitch of the roof itself, it’s gonna be a major job, I’m sorry to say. You’re definitely gonna have to bring in a specialist.”

My heart sinks. Anytime a specialist gets involved, the price goes up. “I tried calling three different roofers before I found you, but couldn’t get hold of anybody.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, don’t know why, but roofer guys are notoriously flaky. I’d give you a recommendation, but I don’t know anybody I trust with a job like this.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway. I’ll just keep trying. I was hoping to avoid calling a firm from Seattle because they’re so pricey, but I guess I have to.”

After a beat, he says gently, “If you want, I can look at the quote you get. You know, so you don’t get ripped off.”

Because I’m alone, he means. Because I won’t have a man around to negotiate for me.

Because someone in my position—grieving, disoriented, desperate—is a target for scams.

When he smiles, I know he’s not trying to flirt with me. He’s just a genuinely nice guy trying to help someone out who he can tell is in distress.

If only the whole world were made up of such kind people.

“That’s very sweet of you, Eddie. But I can handle it. I come from a long line of ball-busting

Jersey girls.”

His smile turns into a laugh. He has a crooked front tooth, which is oddly endearing. “I knew one of those once. She was only four-foot-ten, but she scared the living s**t outta me.” I smile at him. “Even small dragons can still breathe fire.”

“True that.”

“So how about the electrical? It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He shrugs. “No. Everything checked out.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it checked out?”

“I mean there aren’t any problems. The current’s strong, breakers aren’t tripping, can’t find any frays in the wiring, there’s no arc faults, hot spots, dead outlets, or loose connections…” He shrugs again. “Everything looks groovy.”

“That can’t be right. What about the flickering lights?”

“Could be a problem with the local power grid. You might want to ask a neighbor if they’ve got the same thing happening. Parts of the network around here are over a century old. Whatever the cause, it’s not coming from inside the house.”

“And the exploding light bulbs? That’s definitely not normal.”

“It’s more common than you think. Either the manufacturer didn’t put enough insulation in the base

so the filament overheated, or there was a loose connection between the bulb and the socket that made the current jump. Just make sure you don’t buy cheap bulbs from now on, and also make sure they’re screwed in real tight.”

I’m getting a little exasperated. Did he even check the wiring or was he up in the attic smoking pot this whole time?

“Okay, but the doorbell rings when nobody’s there. And what about the burning smell when I run the dryer? How do you explain that?”