Page 50 of Upstate

I sit back, stunned. I left Manhattan determined never to return. That hasn’t changed, but online classes mean it won’t matter where I am as long as I’m on the internet. My colleagues will be Zooming in from Saugerties and Wurtsboro, Shelter Island and Rocky Point, Montpelier in Vermont and Monhegan off the coast of Maine. Though I have no intention of applying for tenure come September, I won’t be breaking any rules by sticking around for a lame-duck fifth year. If I want to teach for another semester or two, all I have to do is start answering my emails.

I tend to think of my life’s story as tragic, but this isn’t the first time the universe has comically subverted that genre. I was elated when the college renewed my contract around the same time David’s band was rebooked for a second year. A cosmic reprieve, it seemed, though as a writer I’d have dismissed such opportune news as a deus ex machina. The universe, it seems, is toying with me once again, but there’s no elation this time. The best I can conjure is resentful relief that a side effect of the pandemic that killed my husband is me keeping my job a little longer. If I really believed there were a god in the machine, I’d throw this pathetic consolation prize back in his face.

I reply to my department chair, confirming my class schedule and signing up for training in online teaching. Now that I’m assured of getting through the year without going broke, I decide to indulge in an essential purchase I dismissed as an extravagance only this morning. Since spending those glorious moments of warmth under the solar shower, which the cyclists reclaimed upon their return from a two-day tour around Bennington’s battlefields, my cold showers have become even more of a torment. Replacing my broken hot water heater can wait no longer.

After refreshing my memory with a Popular Mechanics Do-It-Yourself Guide to Home Plumbing, I drive to the Home Depot in Glens Falls and pick out a no-frills thirty-gallon electric model, along with an assortment of hoses and parts I might need. It’s the kind of thing my father and I used to do together, though he preferred to patronize specialty suppliers and family-run businesses. Paying for the cheap imported goods makes me wish I hadn’t sold off the contents of his workshop after he died. The future I envisioned for myself back then took place at desks and in classrooms, where the tools of one’s trade were laptops and notebooks and whiteboards. Much as I hated to let them go, I couldn’t come up with an excuse for holding on to Dad’s stuff. I wish I had them now, those pliers and clamps and wrenches labeled with his initials, their handles marled with his fingerprints.

The morning of my last cold shower, I look out my bedroom window to see Eric Anderson’s Escalade parked in the drive beside Wren’s sedan. Despite hardly knowing each other in high school, Eric and Wren seem to have fallen into a bromance as middle-aged men. I bring three lattes outside to where the two of them are lounging on a pair of Adirondack chairs.

“Good morning, Audrey.” Wren sanitizes his hands before accepting a mug. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, handing Eric a mug, too. Wren’s sartorial style has been rubbing off on him. Eric’s sneakers are a new brand, his shirt linen instead of poly blend. I can’t tell if the reason its buttons aren’t pulled tight across his belly is because the shirt’s sized up or he’s slimmed down.

“You’re the best, Audrey,” Eric says. “What’s new?”

I tell them about the windfall of online teaching and my purchase of a new hot water heater. “Eric, since you’re here, maybe you’ll help me get the old one up the basement stairs?”

“Why not let the plumber do that?” Eric asks.

“Don’t make assumptions, Eric,” Wren chides. “Audrey’s capable of doing it herself.”

“Oh, sorry. Sure, I’m happy to help.”

“There’s a handcart in the workshop,” Wren says. “Why don’t you go get it?”

While Eric’s gone, I get close enough to playfully kick Wren’s foot. “Are you dressing him now?”

Wren’s blush belies his casual shrug. “He asked where I got my clothes, so I sent him some links, that’s all.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You can’t help making things pretty, can you?”

“Eric’s a good-looking man, he just needs some encouragement.” His blush recedes to his jugular notch, which glows red between the white wings of his open collar. Looking critically at my ratty sneakers, stained jeans, and faded T-shirt, he says, “Like I keep telling you, Audrey, a person ought to make an effort.”

“Don’t judge me, Wren. I’m about to spend the morning doing plumbing in a basement.”

Eric returns with the cart. A whiff of stale air greets us as I pull open the slanted cellar doors. He stares suspiciously into the gloom.

“Are those stairs sturdy enough?” he asks.

“I guess we’ll find out,” I say.

Eric bumps the cart down the rickety steps as gently as he can. I pull the chain dangling from a bulb in the ceiling. The structure of the house reveals itself at a glance, tree trunks propped on cement footings supporting hand-hewn beams, the rough underside of those wide-plank floors exposed between age-darkened joists. Eric can’t stand up straight without hitting his head, so he overturns an old bucket and sits himself down.

I switch off the necessary circuit breakers, then double-check for current with a tester before twisting off the wire nuts. The water heater I’m replacing is a model from the late eighties that uses standard supply lines. All it takes is a few turns with a pipe wrench for me to get them loose.

“All right, Eric, this is ready to go.”

Together, we muscle the metal cylinder onto the handcart, haul it out of the basement, and wheel it to the van, where I exchange it for the box containing the new appliance. The stairs having supported him once already, Eric descends a second time with more confidence.

“I’ve got it from here, Eric. You don’t have to stay.”

“You might need a hand.” He spreads his own, big enough to make a football look small. “I’ll stick around.”

Eric proves himself useful right away. After we remove it from its box, the new water heater is revealed to be shorter than the one I’m replacing. Rummaging among the basement’s detritus, Eric hauls over a quartet of cinder blocks that raise the appliance to the right level. Together, we lift the tank into place. He’s about to wipe his dirty hands off on his shirt when he catches himself. Instead, he reaches into his pocket for a packet of tissues.

“You must be pretty handy yourself, working in real estate,” I say, putting on a headlamp to better see what I’m doing.

“Actually, the opposite.” Eric sits back down on the overturned bucket. “I have a contractor I call for everything from small repairs to house flips. When my wife picked out a color for the nursery in our first apartment, I painted the room for her as a surprise, but it turned out so sloppy she did the whole thing over herself. She never asked for my help again.” He sighs heavily. “Story of our marriage, really. I tried my best, but what she really needed from me I couldn’t give her.”