Lewis and I were having our break when Junior opened the door of his office and stood there, looking across the yard. He saw us and waved us over.

“We’re on break,” Lewis called to him.

“You guys are always on break,” Junior said. “You were born on break. Tell you what you do: when you feel like getting back to work? When it’s real convenient for you? Just step in here. Okay? Just for a second? Please?”

Junior’s position was that the boys and young men who worked for him, including Lewis and me, were, without exception, idlers, slackers, and bums who did nothing but goof off. In fact, we worked hard for Junior. We did fine by Junior. For what he paid us, we did better than fine. Junior’s rule was pay little and turn the help over quickly. That way, nobody has time to feel he might be due for a raise. The turnover, at least, suited Lewis and me that summer. We were short time. We had graduated in June. In the fall, Lewis was going into the Police Academy, and I was starting in college upstate. We were eighteen. When you’re eighteen, you can stand anything until the next thing comes along. You may not know you can, but you can. You can even stand Junior.

We found him waiting for us behind his office desk. When we came in, he was picking his teeth with a wooden kitchen match. Seeing Lewis and me, he parked the match behind his ear and sat forward. Junior had an old oak swivel desk chair that made a terrible racket at the least move. Squeeeaaaaawk, went Junior’s chair.

“Tell you what you’re going to do this afternoon,” said Junior. “You’re going to take a ride down to Home Depot’s, pick up a hot-water heater down there. They’ve got it. It’s on my ticket. Just sign for it. Then put it on the truck, drive it out to Eugenia’s.”

“Eugenia’s?” I said.

“Can’t you get Walt and Carl?” said Lewis. “Let them do it? We were up there last time.”

“Negative,” said Junior. “Walt’s among the missing. Never showed up this morning. Rough night at Humphrey’s, probably. Carl took the flatbed to Greenfield. It’s on you. I had Stan go up there and look at the old heater. He says it’s shot. He disconnected it. You’re going to get a new unit out there, put it down cellar. Stan will be back late this afternoon to hook it up. Does that sound okay to you? Does that fit in with your plans?”

“Shit,” said Lewis.

“What’s your problem?” Junior asked him. “Not that I care.”

“You know what it is,” said Lewis. “It’s the same it always is.”

“Eugenia,” said Junior.

“Shit,” said Lewis.

“Listen,” Junior said. “I know it ain’t easy. Tell you what. Here.” He twisted and struggled in his chair and pulled his wallet out of his hind pocket. Reekkeeekkk, went the chair.

“There’s twenty apiece for you,” Junior told us, taking out two bills and laying them on the desk. “Get on out there. Go down cellar. Junk the old heater. Get it out of there. Leave the new one for Stan.”

Junior pushed the twenties across the desk toward us. “I expect Eugenia will have something for you, too, when you’re done,” he said.

“She didn’t last time,” Lewis said.

“Plus,” Junior went on, “I hear she’s got a new helper. So. You’re going to have a nice little drive in the country. You’re going to make good money. You’ll get a load of the helper. You’ll have a hell of a time. You’ll thank me.”

“A new helper?” I asked.

“What kind of a helper?” asked Lewis.

“Go see,” said Junior.

—

We picked up the hot-water heater in Brattleboro and were back up the valley in time to make Slate’s by three. Lewis drove.

“Who do you think her new helper is?” I asked him.

“What new helper?”

“The one Junior was talking about.”

Lewis made to spit out the window of the truck. “Shit,” he said.

“You’re saying Junior’s being funny?”

“He thinks so.”

“Why?”

“Pull our chain about having to work for Mrs. S. today, of course.”

Lewis might have been right about that. The valley wasn’t pushing and shoving to work for Eugenia Slate. She was a retired schoolteacher who, over forty years, had ruled our lives, our parents’ lives, some of our grandparents’ lives with a falcon’s eye and a rod of iron. Today, however aged and feeble she might have become, however grown we might be, Eugenia reckoned she ruled us still—and we halfway agreed with her.

Had there been a Mister Slate? Nobody knew, not even Junior. For women schoolteachers of Mrs. Slate’s generation, the Mrs. was perhaps honorary. Or perhaps her husband, having evaluated his situation early on, might have joined the Merchant Marine, the French Foreign Legion, the priesthood. Wherever he was, he wasn’t in the valley.

Now somewhere in her eighties, Mrs. Slate lived in an old place on Round Mountain, still mostly doing for herself, helped from time to time by the otherwise barely visible kindness and charity of Junior; helped as well by a changing team of young women from the Visiting Nurse Association and other providers of simple housekeeping to those well enough, and stubborn enough, to put off making more permanent, more intelligent arrangements.

Mrs. Slate managed, she and her girls, some of whom were local and some ringers from Brattleboro and Bellows Falls. It was one of the last, I assumed, whom Junior had advised us of as we left the yard, unless Lewis was right in suggesting that the new helper was imaginary, invented by Junior, ostensibly to reconcile us to spending the afternoon subject to Mrs. Slate’s harsh will. And Lewis was right. Junior was perfectly capable of the thought. Lewis was right about Junior, I’m saying.

But about the helper, Lewis was wrong.

—

In front of Mrs. Slate’s, a clothesline went from a dooryard maple to a hook fixed on the corner of the house. A young woman was trying to get a big quilt hung out on the line. Mrs. Slate was having her spring cleaning done, it looked like. The quilt must have been damp and heavy, because the girl couldn’t get it to stay put evenly. As Lewis and I watched, she tried to toss a corner of the quilt over the line, only to have it slip off and fall to the ground.

Lewis switched off the truck’s engine, and we sat.

“Tyler’s kid sister, ain’t she?” Lewis asked me.

“You mean Clarissa? The little one? Too tall.”

“No, the other one.”

“You mean Elizabeth? Still too tall.”

Tall she was: my height, if not quite Lewis’s, and that was barefoot. Slender. Light brown hair in a short ponytail, cutoff jeans, a T-shirt that said GIRLS ON THE RUN, and legs that went all the way up to the top. She turned to us and shaded her eyes with one hand, holding onto the quilt with the other. She was nobody we knew—nobody’s sister, nobody’s cousin. A ringer, for sure.

“Well, come on. Don’t just sit there. Bear a hand. Help her. Go on, help her!”

Lewis and I jumped. While we had been viewing Mrs. Slate’s new helper, Mrs. Slate herself had come from behind us, humping along on an aluminum walker and advancing on us like a detachment of cavalry at full gallop. She stood at my window, yanked the door open, and lit into me.

“Tobias?” she said. “Are you asleep? Get out here and be of use. Lewis?” But Lewis had already bailed out of the truck and was going to help the girl with the quilt. I followed him.

“This is Becky,” said Mrs. Slate, behind us. To the girl she said, “These two are Lewis and Tobias. They mean well, but you’ll have to take things slowly for them. And you’ll have to watch them.”

“Hello,” said the girl, the helper, the ringer, Becky. Nothing from Lewis. Nothing from me. Becky.  

“Is that my new heater?” Mrs. Slate asked. “Clyde said it would be here yesterday.”

“That’s it,” said Lewis.

“It looks heavy,” Mrs. Slate said.

“Heavy enough,” said Lewis.

“Well, then, you’d best get to it,” she said. “Hadn’t you?”

We climbed back in the truck and drove over the lawn in front of the house, around to the outside bulkhead doors that led down to the cellar. Mrs. Slate watched us from one side. I got up into the bed of the truck and shoved the water heater in its shipping carton along to the tailgate, where Lewis held one end. Then I joined Lewis, and together we got the heater off the truck and began to carry it to the bulkhead, when, “Stop!” said Mrs. Slate. We stood, holding the water heater between us, one at each end.

“Shit,” said Lewis.

“Aren’t you going to take it out of the box?” Mrs. Slate demanded.

Lewis looked at her. He looked at me. “We’ll get it down cellar first,” he said.

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Mrs. Slate. “That way, you have to carry the empty box back up from the cellar. I hope you don’t think you’re simply going to leave it down there and go on your merry way?”

“No, ma’am,” said Lewis.

“Then take it out of the box,” said Mrs. Slate. “Go ahead.”

I happened to look past her, past Lewis, to see the helper, Becky. She had come from her clothesline and stood apart watching the three of us. She was in the full sun, and I thought her hair looked more dark blonde in that light than brown. I also thought she might have smiled at me, or at us a little, but only for a second. She now says she knew right off. Says she knew that minute. Maybe she did. If so, she knew more than I did. But she’ll tell you that, too.

Lewis set his end of the box on the ground, and I did the same with mine. He drew his belt knife and slit the carton up and down one corner, and then along the bottom edge. We spread the carton open and lifted the water heater free. I took the empty carton to the truck and tossed it into the back, while Lewis put his knife away and went to the bulkhead doors. He threw them open, and we picked up the water heater, one at each end, and carried it down the cellar stairs. Empty, the heater wasn’t as heavy as Mrs. Slate might have thought.

At the bottom of the stairs, we put the heater down and looked around. Mrs. Slate’s cellar was a dark, damp cave, with a dirt floor and no more than a foot or so of overhead. It was lit by a couple of bulbs that might as well have been birthday candles for all the good they did down there. The old water heater stood ten feet from the bottom of the cellar stairs, where Lewis had left it. We got hold of it and rocked it back and forth. The tank seemed to be about half full.

“We’ll have to drain it,” Lewis said.

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Mrs. Slate. She was at the top of the cellar stairs, leaning over the bulkhead and peering down at us.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she said. “There’s no outlet. If you drain the tank, the cellar floor will turn to mud.”

“It’s mud now,” Lewis whispered to me.

“What was that?” Mrs. Slate said from above.

“Water’s heavy, ma’am,” said Lewis. “Suppose this tank’s half-empty. That’s still, what, a couple hundred pounds—and that’s just the water, never mind the tank.”

“I can count, Lewis,” said Mrs. Slate.

“Shit,” whispered Lewis.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” said Lewis. “How are we supposed to get it up the stairs?”

“You’re young,” said Mrs. Slate gaily. “Exert yourselves. Here, Becky can help you. She’s young, too. Becky?” she called.

Her helper was right there. She came down the cellar stairs, and she, Lewis, and I tipped the old water heater onto its side on the dirt floor and managed to roll it across the cellar to the foot of the stairs. Then we stood it back up and leaned it so it lay on the stairs, pointed up, reaching halfway to the top.

There we stuck. The three of us, Lewis and I to either end of the heater and the girl, Becky, in the middle, weren’t able to lift and push the half-full tank up the cellar stairs. We heaved, we set our feet, dug in, and heaved again. And again. On one push, I felt Becky’s hip bump gently against mine. “Sorry,” said Becky.

The tank was immovable. “This sucks,” said Lewis at last. “Put it back down.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Slate from above.

“Too much weight,” said Lewis.

“Fiddlesticks,” said Mrs. Slate.

“Have you got a rope? A chain?” Lewis asked her.

“How should I know?” Mrs. Slate asked him.

“Clothesline,” said Becky.

Lewis grinned at her. “You talk?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure you talked.”

“Not as much as you, maybe,” said Becky.

“Go get your clothesline, then,” Lewis said. Becky squeezed around the heater, up the stairs, and out.

“So?” I asked Lewis.

“So, we go around the tank a couple of times with the line. We tie it off, take the other end up there and tie it onto the truck. Haul it right out.”

“Clothesline?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Lewis. “Why not?”

“Is it strong enough? Clothesline?”

“Not going to be a problem,” said Lewis.

Becky was back with the clothesline. She let one end down to Lewis and me in the cellar and hung onto her end.

Lewis passed the line around the water heater a couple of times and secured it. “Okay,” he told Becky. “Tie your line to the tow ball on the back bumper. Tie it right up. Don’t slack it.” Becky did that. Then, “Do you want me back down there?” she asked Lewis.

“Yes!” I thought.

“Nope,” said Lewis. “You’re driving. Hold it: are you even old enough to drive?”

“I am if you are,” said Becky. She got into the truck and started the engine. Lewis and I stood on the cellar stairs, either side of the water heater, and waited for the clothesline to take the weight. When it did, the heater stirred and began to move slowly up the cellar stairs, Lewis and me guiding it and pushing from our end.

We were about halfway up when the staircase let out a loud groan followed by a ripping, cracking sound, as when a nearly cut-through tree being harvested in the woods tips at last and begins its fall.

“Shit!” said Lewis. “Jump for it!” He and I both tried to jump off the staircase, which abruptly collapsed beneath us in a storm of dust, rusty nails, and rotten splinters. At the same time, the clothesline parted with a pop like a small firecracker, releasing the suspended water heater. Lewis landed on the cellar floor, I came down on top of him, and the heater came down on top of me.

For several seconds we lay there. Then, “Shit,” said Lewis. “You okay?”

“I think I broke my ankle,” I said.

“That was my ankle,” said Lewis.

Becky was above, at the bulkhead doors. She leaned over and looked down into the cellar at the tangle of arms, legs, broken lumber, old water heater, new water heater, and clothesline.

“Goodness,” said Becky.

Mrs. Slate joined her. “What, exactly, do you two think you’re doing down there?” she asked us.

In the cellar, Lewis and I got ourselves sorted out. We stood. We were whole. My ankle was twisted, but not broken. Lewis’s, the same. He had a wrenched shoulder and a bump on his head. We were lucky. We managed to mount the pile of ruined staircase and hoist ourselves up out of the cellar.

At this point, Lewis and I reckoned we were about done. Mrs. Slate, or, more likely, Junior, was going to have to have the cellar stairs rebuilt before the old water heater could be removed, the new one connected. Even drained of water, the old heater could hardly be brought away without stairs to take it up. We were finished, at least for the day.

Mrs. Slate had gone into the house. We found Becky sitting on the porch steps drinking a Pepsi and tapping away on her phone.

Lewis thought he’d make a little time. “Talking to your boyfriend?” he asked Becky.

Becky stopped tapping. She looked at Lewis. She rolled her eyes.

“Just asking,” said Lewis.

Becky took a sip of her Pepsi and went back to her phone.

“Don’t knock yourself out with work, there,” Lewis told her.

“I’m on break,” said Becky.

“On break?” said Lewis. “I’ll bet you were born on break, weren’t you?” Becky ignored him.

Lewis went to the porch and sat down beside her. He massaged his ankle.

“Really racked myself up, there,” Lewis said.

“You’ll live,” said Becky.

“Thanks,” said Lewis. “So, you’re working for Mrs. Slate?”

“It looks that way,” said Becky.

“She related to you?”

“Great aunt,” said Becky.

“So, you what, go to school?”

“That’s right.”

“Where?”

“Princeton,” said Becky.

“Princeton?” said Lewis. “I’ve heard of it. That’s, like, New York, right?”

“Jersey,” said Becky.

“You live down there somewhere?” Lewis asked her.

“Somewhere,” said Becky.

“Where?”

“What is this?” Becky asked him. “What are you? Are you some kind of a cop? Some kind of a detective?” 

“Just being friendly,” said Lewis.

“Philadelphia,” said Becky. “I live near Philadelphia. I’m up here for the summer to help Aunt Eugenia. Okay?” She turned to me. “What about you?” she asked me. “Do you ask questions like he does?” I shrugged.

Behind us, Mrs. Slate pushed the screen door open with her walker and bumped out onto the porch. “You boys can stop pestering Becky now,” she said. “She’s got work to do.”

“She’s on break,” said Lewis.

“Not anymore,” said Mrs. Slate. “If you two have done all the damage you think you can for today, you might as well be getting back to Clyde’s. Tell him what happened. Tell him I’ll need somebody out here in a hurry. Somebody who knows what he’s about. Not you two.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lewis. “Ma’am?”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Brackett said you’d give us twenty apiece when we’d finished.”

Mrs. Slate looked at him. “Are you joking, young man?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” said Lewis.

“I was afraid you weren’t,” said Mrs. Slate. “The wreckage you made, and you want a tip? Don’t be silly.”  

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lewis.

“And, furthermore, before you go,” Mrs. Slate went on, “who’s going to pay for my cellar stairs? Who’s going to pay for my clothesline?”

She looked from Lewis to me. Lewis and I looked at each other. Becky tilted her Pepsi, finished it, and set the empty down on the porch.

“Well?” asked Mrs. Slate.

Lewis went into his hip pocket and came out with the twenty Junior had spotted him back at the yard. I did the same. We handed the bills to Mrs. Slate who took them with a little nod. “Very well, then,” she said.

—

Junior leaned back in his office chair and laced his fingers on his belly. Yeeeoowww, went the chair.

“How was Eugenia?” Junior asked Lewis and me.

“Shit,” said Lewis.

“She give you anything, after?” Junior asked. “Like we said? She pay you, at all?”

“No,” I said.

“We paid her,” said Lewis.

“You paid her? What do you mean? For what?”

“Busting up her stairs,” said Lewis.

Junior shook his head. He looked from one to the other of us. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Did you get a look at the new helper, at least?”

“Sure did,” said Lewis.

“What’s her name?”

“Becky,” I said.

“What’s she like?”

“Ball-breaker,” said Lewis. “Thinks she’s some kind of queen. Too skinny for me. Tobe liked her,” he told Junior.

“I did?” I asked. 

“Where’s she from, this helper?” Junior asked me.

“The city,” I said. “Goes to college.”

“Like you, then,” said Junior. “Will be.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“College?” said Junior. He looked out the window of his office for a moment, across the yard: the dunes of sawdust, the logs piled as high as a house. “I guess college is okay,” Junior said. “There’s no harm in college, anyway. You’ll be okay there, for a couple of years. Tell you the truth, it’s your partner here I worry about. Going into the Police Academy. The Police Academy? So, I ask myself: what does that mean? That means the state’s going to take this kid, give him a badge, give him a gun, for Christ’s sake, give him a car—and turn him loose?” Junior shook his head.

“God save the nation,” he said. He looked up at the clock on the office wall. “Quitting time,” he said. He stood up from his chair. “Tell you what you do,” he said. “Tomorrow first thing, get back out there, fix her stairs, move the old unit, finish the job.”

 “Shit,” said Lewis.

Squaaawk, went the chair. ■

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