Pen Pal(3)

She picks up the bags from where she dropped them on the floor, then turns to go. But she turns back suddenly and blurts, “I’ll pray for you, dear.”

I don’t bother telling her not to waste her breath.

I know I’m a lost cause, that no amount of prayer in the universe can help me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be rude about it. I simply bite my lip, nod, and swallow my tears.

When she walks out, my gaze lands on the letter on the table.

I can’t say what compels me to do it, but before I know it, I’m sitting down to write a reply. I scribble it on the back of the letter Dante sent me.

What are you waiting for?

I mail it before I lose my nerve. It takes a week before I get a response, and it’s even shorter than mine. In fact, it’s only one word.

You.

On the bottom right-hand corner of the paper, there’s a smudge of something dried and rust-colored that looks like blood.





2





I put the letter in the back of my underwear drawer and leave it there, determined to forget about it. If another one comes, I might call the nice detective who interviewed me after the accident and see what he thinks about it. Maybe I’ll get him to look into this Dante character and see what he can find out.

Dante Alighieri, according to the name on the return envelope, which sounds as if it could be entirely made up.

In the meantime, I’ve got other things to worry about.

Aside from the new roof leak, the house has also decided it has electrical problems.

The dining room chandelier flickers. I hear popping and crackling noises when I hit the light switch in the master bedroom. Every once in a while, the doorbell rings when no one is there.

I tried calling three different local roofers, but nobody called me back. So now I’m waiting for a handyman, some guy named Ed. I came across his business card in the bottom of my kitchen junk drawer when I was looking for a pen.

I don’t know why, but I’m expecting an older man with a balding head and a beer belly wearing a tool belt slung around his hips. Instead, what I get when I open the front door to his knock is a smiling, slender young man with long brown hair held off his face with a braided leather headband. He’s wearing a John Lennon T-shirt, faded bell-bottom jeans, and sandals, and holds a rusty metal toolbox in one hand.

He reeks of pot.

“Hey. You Kayla?”

“That’s me.”

Grinning, he extends his hand. “I’m Eddie.”

I return his smile, and we shake hands. He seems sweet and harmless, two things I appreciate in any man I allow into my home while I’m here alone.

“Come in. I’ll show you around.”

He follows me into the kitchen, commenting on how cool he thinks the house is.

“Cool but falling apart a little more every day.” I gesture to the two brown water stain rings on the kitchen ceiling.

“Yeah, these old houses need lots of TLC.” He cranes his neck to stare up at the stains. “Especially with the humidity here. You got mold problems?”

“Not anymore. Took care of that a few years back. Right now it’s the roof leak and the electrical.” I give him an overview of what’s been happening with the lights and the doorbell. “Plus, I smell something burning when I run the dryer. And the TV sometimes turns itself off. Oh, and a couple of light bulbs have exploded recently.”

A sudden cold draft lifts the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck and sends a tingle down my spine. Shivering, I rub my hands over the goose bumps on my arms.

I should ask him to have a look at the weather stripping around the windows while he’s here. But first things first. “Let me show you where the electrical panel is.”

Eddie follows me to the utility room at the back of the house next to the garage. The washer and dryer are there, along with cabinets containing a hodgepodge of household supplies.

Setting his toolbox on the floor, Eddie flips open the metal door on the electrical panel and does a quick visual scan of the switches.

“I’ll check the voltage first, see if the breaker’s running at the right capacity. Then I’ll look at the integrity of the wiring. You might have water damage or fraying that could cause problems. Then I’ll check all your outlets, make sure they’re not compromised. Where’s the meter?”

“Right outside the garage door.”

He nods. “Dig it. I’ll take a look at that, too. Should take me an hour or so to get through everything, then I’ll give you an estimate for the repairs. Sound good?”

“Sounds great, thanks. To get into the attic, the access is on the second floor through the master bedroom closet. The ladder’s in the garage.”

“Cool.”

“Holler if you need me. I’ll be around.”

“Will do.”

I leave him to it and head into my office. I’m able to work for a while before the headache starts. It’s a dull throbbing around my temples and pressure behind my eyes so strong, it makes them water. I lie on the small sofa with the shades drawn and the lights off until Eddie appears in the doorway with his toolbox.

“Oh, sorry, man. Didn’t know you were sleeping. I was just gonna check the outlets in here.”

Disoriented, I sit up. “I wasn’t asleep. Just resting my eyes. I have a terrible headache.”