I lean back and let the sunlight hit my face. “No, I don’t really know what I meant by that either; it just sounded funny. Ironically I was unaware Kyrgyzstan even existed last week, and now it’s pretty much all I talk about. Want to know about the city of Bishkek or Lake Issyk-Kul? I’m well versed. Did you know their national sport is horse riding, and no one in the EU will allow planes registered in Kyrgyzstan to fly in their airspace because of security concerns? Because I do. Shall I go on? I’m kind of an expert now.
“Anyway, boring, I know. Point? At first I thought this was all an elaborate ruse by Vienna to completely screw us, but I gave her far more credit than she was due. She’s more low-grade thug than criminal mastermind. Turns out Vlad isn’t a thief so much as he is a mercenary with terrible timing.”
I glance down at the flowers I’m holding. I cut wild roses from the backyard today because peonies don’t come cheap. “On Wednesday, the supplies he said he ordered began to arrive. So far we’ve received the spa tub for the master, a whole bunch of toilets,
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Sheetrock and cement backer board, boxes and boxes of various tiles, and I just got a call that our countertops will be delivered next week. Granted, Vlad still has all the money earmarked for labor, so it’s not exactly like we’re ahead of the game, but it could be worse.”
I smile and nod. “You’re right; I’ve got to stop saying that. Every time I say it could get worse, it gets worse. Speaking of, Mac’s started his leave of absence—unpaid, of course. At least he’ll still have his job once we get these projects knocked out. But I’m not looking forward to the process. When I get home, we’re bringing the tub upstairs; then he and his friend Luke are working on plumbing. I’m a little afraid.”
I pick a damaged petal off one of the roses, and, not knowing what else to do with it, I stuff it in my pocket. This is not the kind of place where I want to litter. “I got a one-week extension on my book. Yep, that’s it; that’s all Nat could arrange after the first one. I’ve got to kick ass this week, because I’m out of second chances. And that’s what’s going on. I should probably scoot but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”
I place the roses on the ground.
“See you next week, sir. And thank you for listening.”
Many things can put the strength of your marriage to the test.
Infidelity.
Alcoholism.
Family conflict.
Children.
Illness.
Dishonesty.
Financial issues.
Yet I’m convinced nothing puts more strain on marital communication than trying to haul a whirlpool tub up a flight of stairs, which we’re currently in the process of doing. I’m at the front of the tub, attempting to navigate, while Mac and his idiot friend Luke hoist up the rear. To say it’s not going well would be like saying the
Hindenburg
ran into a bit of turbulence.
The problem isn’t the tub’s weight, per se. At the most this thing weighs a hundred pounds. Spa tubs really get heavy only once they’re filled with water (and bodies), and if Vlad hadn’t reinforced the floor upstairs before he ran off to start an uprising,
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this would have been a nonissue because we couldn’t have used it.
The problem is the size of the tub. We couldn’t fit it in the front door, so we had to go all the way around the back and try to get it in through the sliding glass doors. After much sweating and swearing, we couldn’t fit it in that way either, and both Mac and Luke started to make elaborate plans to pull the windows out of their casings in an effort to establish a wide enough entry when it occurred to me that maybe we should just take the damn thing out of the box.
Did I mention both Mac and Luke are engineers by trade? Granted, Mac designed telecom networks before he got promoted to management, but Luke’s a full-on civil engineer. He’s responsible for designing bridges and buildings and roads, which means he’s supposed to have a basic working knowledge of geometry. When they were debating Operation Window, I should have left them both to their devices, but no, I wanted to
help
, so that’s what I did.
We began to maneuver our way through the sliding glass doors, me in front and Luke and Mac in the back. Our kitten Agent Jack Bauer—who at nine months old is almost twenty pounds—waited until we were all positioned halfway through the door before making a break for it through our legs and into the woods behind the house.
When I attempted to chase after him, Mac screamed at me not to drop the tub, and I was stuck. I’m sure the cat will be fine, as he’s escaped a couple of times before and there’s very little traffic on this street. My concern is for any woodland creature that crosses his path. Agent Jack Bauer is precisely as deadly as his namesake, only our Jack Bauer is more likely to kill chipmunks, not terrorists. Actually, all of our kittens are ass kickers, hence their names: General Patton,
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Charles Bronson,
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and Sun Tzu.
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So, through the house we went, and now we’re at the turn in the stairwell and we’re thoroughly and profoundly stuck.
“Guys, we need to angle it up and to the left to get it over the newel,” I instruct.
“No, I think we have to wedge it more this way,” Luke disagrees, turning and shoving the lip of the tub until it’s firmly lodged between two wide wood balusters.
“Wrong!” Mac chimes in. “We’ve got to go even more to the right.” And then Mac bashes the corner into the riser.
“You guys, please! I’ve got the better vantage point. Up and to the left!” I plead.
“How about if I try this?” Mac asks, shoving his section of the tub into the stringer, which leaves an enormous gash and makes me wince. The stairs, up until five minutes ago, were the one undamaged portion of this whole house.
“Or what about this?” Luke throws his weight into the side of the tub and hits something, causing it to splinter.
“That didn’t sound right,” Mac says, and Luke agrees.
The fiberglass begins to get slippery. “I’m starting to lose my hold on this thing. Can you just do what I ask and go up and to the left?”
“That’s why you need to wear gloves for this kind of project. See here, Mac? I’ve got the rubber dots on these and they grip like crazy. It’s like the tub would stick to my hands even if I let go.”
“Please do not let go!” I call from my perch on the landing.
“I go more for the high-tech gloves,” Mac says. He rests his shoulder against the tub and shows Luke his hands. “For me, I’m all about the gel inserts. They aren’t quite as grippy as what you’ve got, but I find they go a long way in shock absorption. Hey, when we’re done, I should show you my new shooting gloves. The Palm Swell protects all the nerves in the center of your hand so you don’t get so tired when you’re on the range. Fatigue is the number one cause of misfired—”
“I’m about to drop the tub!” I shout, as the fiberglass slips out of my non-rubber-tipped, non-gel-coated, non-shock-absorbed hands. My end flips forward while the portion the boys are carrying wedges tightly in the stairwell.
The tub is lodged almost completely upright. I can’t see around it, but from the sounds of it, the guys are fine.
“Hey, what happened?” Mac asks.
“I guess I couldn’t hold on to a hundred-pound tub myself,” I acidly reply.
“You should probably get some gloves,” Luke adds helpfully.
Argh
.
I grab the tub on either side and shake it in hopes of dislodging it. No such luck. “You guys, try it from your end!”
I hear huffing and shoving, and if I position myself right, I can see the guys through the tub’s drain hole. Luke’s hurling himself into the tub while Mac tries to lift.
“Yeah, it’s stuck, all right,” Luke confirms.
“Well, unstick it, please; I’ve got plans later.” In a little while I’m supposed to meet Kara at her parents’ house for her big outing. Poor thing was so nervous that she made herself sick and had to take the day off work. I’ve been trying to talk her off the ledge all day.
Mac takes charge. “Let me see what I can do. Luke, what we need here are tools. Let’s go.”
“Wait. Don’t go. Maybe we—” But by then it’s too late. They head directly out the front door toward Mac’s workbench in the detached garage, leaving me alone at the top of the stairs with my thoughts.
I have two thoughts right now. One, that I should have never offered to emcee the goat rodeo that is carrying a tub up the stairs, and two, that I deeply, desperately, urgently need to pee.
I wait for at least twenty minutes before they return, crossing my legs the entire time. We don’t have any functional bathrooms yet and we’re still going in the Porta Potti. As soon as we got the tub upstairs, the guys were going to work on the toilet. I suggested they do the toilet first, what with my deep and abiding love of using the restroom indoors, but they insisted it would be easier to get the tub out of the way.
Yeah. Easy.
“What the hell, you guys?” I ask when they finally return.
“Oh, sorry,” Mac replies. “Luke wanted to see my new impact driver, so we were looking at that.”
“Can we please get me out of here? I’m about to wet my pants!”
“Then use the bathroom,” Luke suggests.
“I would, but you guys haven’t installed it yet! Hurry, please; I’m dying!”
“Whatever you do, don’t think of waterfalls or swimming or anything,” Luke instructs.
“That was very helpful, thank you,” I seethe.
“Hey,” Mac says, “we can probably fit a coffee can or something over the top of the tub and you can go in that.”
“What are you talking about?” Luke argues. “When’s the last time you saw anyone buy a can of coffee? What are you, eighty years old? Gonna use your S&H Green Stamps to buy something nice before you listen to your Pat Boone album? Coffee can, ha! She could probably go in a Starbucks bag, but I’m not sure they’re watertight. Oh, hey, have you tried those VIA packets? Not bad. I keep them in my desk at work—”
Through clenched teeth, I say, “A can isn’t going to fit. Can we please stop talking about coffee now and start moving the tub?”
“Okay,” says Mac, finally taking charge. “Here’s how we’re going to do this. Mia, you’re going to stand at the top and push, and Luke and I are going to come underneath and pull.”
We try this for a few minutes and manage only to jam the tub in more. Then the guys lift the bottom as I pull up and back. We make a tiny bit of progress, but it’s a hollow victory, due to how much this gouges the balusters. We’re just starting to get somewhere when Luke stops us. “Listen, guys, I’m having a low-blood-sugar crash. I think I had too many VIAs today. They’re just so easy to make! You just rip ’em open and add hot water! Bam, that’s it! Anyway, I can’t do this until I eat. Do you have something with protein in it?”
“We’re not doing a lot of cooking here, but we may have some hot dogs in the back of the minifridge,” Mac tells him. “You can heat it up in the microwave in the corner.” The microwave Vlad ordered has arrived, and not a moment too soon. I was getting really tired of eating my SpaghettiOs hobo-style.
Luke starts to trot off, but then stops himself. “Wait. Where are my manners—Mia, would you like a hot dog?”
I would like to scream, I would like to cry, and I would like to hit something or someone. Yet in this moment, I’m probably best off following the path of least resistance. “Sure.”
Luke’s back in a minute.
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“Here ya go, Mia!” I don’t understand how he’s going to give the hot dog to me until I see the end of it poking out of the drain.
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For lack of a better idea, I eat my hot dog. It’s not bad.
The protein seems to refresh Luke, who comes up with the idea of removing the banister and spindles. Ultimately this will cause more work on the back end, but will likely save hundreds in repair costs. “Let’s do it.”
I could wait in any of the bedrooms or up in the loft, but I feel like if I’m not within earshot managing this process, the boys will get distracted. I have to pee so badly my entire body is humming. I’d hoped the salt and nitrates in the hot dog would somehow make me want to go less, but now I’m about to bust
and
I’m thirsty.
“How’s it coming?” I ask.
“Almost there!” Mac assures me.
“Can I be doing anything?”
“Well ...” Luke considers. “You might want to, um, you know ...” But before he can articulate “Hold on to your end,” he pulls the final balustrade, and the tub releases, sails down the length of stairs, banks off the wall, and careens into the foyer, where the force of a hundred pounds of sweat-slicked fiberglass flies across the tiles and knocks the front door wide-open.
I’m off like a shot behind it, making a mad dash to the Porta Potti. As I sprint out the door and over the tub, I slam directly into two Abington Cambs police officers.
“Where’s the fire, ma’am?” says the taller, older one.
“I’m sorry. I was just trapped and—” And that’s when it occurs to me that I have two Abington Cambs police officers in my driveway. “Wait. I’m sorry. Can I help you officers with something?”