Marco’s thoughts were swirling with frustration and disbelief.
“Idiot”, he yelled. “Move out of my way. Jesus! Who taught you how to drive?”
Marco honked long and hard as he accelerated his truck past the sedan and out of the Tractor Supply parking lot. But it wasn’t enough to calm him down.
Any other day he would have stopped, stepped out even, to give a piece of his mind. “Not today”, he voiced out loud, trying to console his racing mind because he was already late.
So he sped out, swung a hard right to turn southbound towards State Highway 31, and aggressively cut into the one lane traffic.
Another long and hard honk but this time it was aimed at Marco. He ignored it, then eased off the gas pedal to slow down and started to inch his way through the busy Main Street evening traffic.
There was no way out of this traffic for another 5 miles, no short cuts, no alternate routes, especially not to where he was headed. He let out a deep sigh and sunk in to be cradled by his leather seats, and resigned to the helplessness of his situation. He was going to be late and only one question weighed on his mind, “How late?”
The old lady had insisted on getting the job done by nightfall and Marco had agreed to it reluctantly. “Should’ve said No”, he thought, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
Marco didn’t usually take rush jobs but this time he gave in to the old lady’s insistence and agreed to completing it by Friday. She must have her reasons for wanting doors fixed fast, he thought. Perhaps old age anxiety. She didn’t even bargain when he quoted his price. Two grand, and not even a blink.
When Marco pulled up to the old lady’s driveway earlier that week, he noticed a carport to the right side of the house, a separate unit about 50 yards from the porch. On the phone, the lady had briefly explained to him what she wanted his help with. So he was already inspecting the carport before the lady came out to meet him.
It was a typical pre-built wooden carport with closed off walls on all sides and an open front, enough space to park one vehicle - a hatchback, sedan, or a crossover, maybe even a small pickup truck. Marco’s truck wouldn’t fit in without ripping off its roof.
Marco had also noticed that every house he drove past that day had an open carport. So there’d be plenty more money to be made from the neighborhood if he played his cards right. So he took his time to be meticulous in his measurements, and decided to drive to Tractor Supply 25 miles north instead of Fred’s hardware store, hoping to earn him some bragging rights for the quality of materials he used.
He had already dropped off the doors that morning, which took only two days to build in his backyard workshop. He always stocked up on lumber for these types of jobs that tend to come his way. All he had left to do was to secure the doors onto the side beams of the carport, fix handles, and an auto-latching lock. One to two hours tops, he estimated, and he would be able to call it a night.
“Finally!” The 33 inch all-terrain tires on his truck helped Marco see the traffic lightening up ahead as the two lane state highway came into his view. As Marco’s weaker leg stretched a little to apply pressure on the chrome-plated gas pedal, he glanced at his phone. 22 minutes to Havenwood.
“He’s late”, she said and her trusting companion looked up at Lydia with an acknowledging groan.
“If the cops had done their job I wouldn’t have to pay to get doors fixed now, would I?”
Agnes was lying comfortably by the side of the easy chair. She rested her striped head back down on the floor and closed her eyes, still listening acutely to her mistresses words as well as for any intruding noises.
Lydia remembered the day the realtor showed her the house. The open carport was part of the attraction, adding a quaint and nostalgic feel that reminded her of a childhood long gone. This is where they would retire, she had decided. Just her and Agnes for the rest of their lives. A fresh start.
An image of three knives on the kitchen island came rushing to her mind. Lydia quickly strained her eyes shut and forced a troubling memory out of focus.
“Remember that realtor, Agnes? What was her name? What a character! So charming in her southern accent yet so ignorant. Carla!”
It was Carla who first used that word in a casual conversation they were having. They were standing on the porch talking about Havenwood when Carla pointed to a house in the distance on the other side of Lydia’s fence line and said,
“That there is where Sandra lives. You’ll love Sandra. Such a sweetheart she is, even though she’s a Yankee.”
Lydia was flabbergasted. She looked disapprovingly at her new acquaintance for a moment, then responded.
“You know you can’t call people that. It’s discriminatory. Is that what you will call me too? Coz I am one too you know.”
Carla’s vacant expression was very telling, like a deer struck in the headlights.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, Ms. Lydia. I just meant she’s from not here is all. Not a local.”
In the three years since moving into Havenwood Lydia had been called a Yankee several times, directly and indirectly. Lydia used to react just like she did with Carla and try to correct them, educate them. But over time she started to brush it away. The Havenwood residents had never seen the world like she had, Lydia reasoned, and probably never had the opportunity or means to leave their county line let alone cross borders.
Lydia remembered a conversation that she would never forget.
“Mikey says you come from money.”
“Mikey asked me to charge you $120 not $65.”
“Mikey said…”
Ignorance and stupidity were easy to deal with but Lydia was always wary of the conniving and scheming lot, and there were plenty of those too in Havenwood, like Mikey and Janet.
How naive of Janet to repeat Mikey’s word for word, Lydia thought. He surely had a spell on her. Well, not any more.
“Oh Agnes, let’s hope Marco doesn’t turn out to be a Mikey. He’s going to have to fix those doors tomorrow. It’s twenty past six already.”
Agnes made a disspointing groan, and then her ears perked. She could hear the distant hum of an engine, and it was getting louder and louder.
Marco didn’t slow down as he took the exit on US Route 412 to merge into the dark single lane road running parallel through the West Tennessee farmland towards the Missouri state line. If he had stayed on Highway 31 about 8 miles back, he would have already reached home.
There’s a lot of money to made in Havenwood, Marco reminded himself, as he pulled into the driveway of an inconspicuous looking house on the first bend. Marco felt overtly confident that he would be able to convince the old lady to excuse his tardiness especially since he was prepared to complete the job even if it took him all night.
Marco noticed the two doors he had made still leaning against the carport, exactly where he had left them. He had Jim help him lift it off the truck bed and carefuly place it sideways. Now he would have to move it himself. That’s going to be a challenge. What if he were to fix the handles first, he wondered, would he be able to move it easier?
He slammed on the brakes and the truck came to a screeching halt. Then he turned off the ignition, hopped out and walked towards the house. He could hear the relentless barking of a dog from somewhere inside.
The porch lights came on. Lydia stepped out from inside her quaint house.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry ma’am. Got late getting the stuff from Tractor Supply. Too much traffic on the way back. I can still get it done tonight. Don’t you worry.”
Agnes kept barking. The leash around her neck pulled her back from getting through the open door and pouncing on the intruder.
“It’s very late. Maybe you should come back tomorrow. I don’t go to church so I will be here all day.”
“An old lady who doesn’t go to church on Sundays? Must be a Yankee.” But Marco kept that thought to himself, and responded, “Tomorrow’s tough, ma’am, I am sorry but I’d rather get it done t’nite if you don’t mind. Promise it won’t take long.”
Marco realized he was having to shout due to the damn dog barking. Lydia had made her point and reached back to close the door shut. The sound of Agnes’ barking got muffled.
“How long is not long?”
“Just give me an hour, ma’am. That’s all it’ll take. Not a minute longer.”
“Ok, so you’ll be out of here by 7:30pm? Yes?”
Marco looked at his watch. It was 6:27pm.
“Yes, ma’am. It will done by then. You have my word.”
“Ok then. I will let the dog loose at 7:35pm so you better be done and gone by then.”
“You got it, ma’am. You got it!”
Lydia smirked as Marco turned around and started to walk towards his truck. Her hands reached behind to open the door behind her as she slowly turned around, her eyes still watching the short stocky man walk away.
Agnes had already stopped barking when Lydia stepped back into the warmth of a fireplace still burning bright. She looked at her companion restlessly pacing back and forth, then walked over and unhooked the end of the leash that was secured to the harness Agnes was wearing.
“Be patient, my darling. It’s going to be a long night. You will get your exercise soon.”
This story is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or events depicted are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Stay tuned for part 2 coming soon. Meanwhile, if you think you know how this story goes, drop your thoughts in the comments below.