Page 13 of The Tenant
“Another woman?” Zimmerly grumbles. “My God, how many do you need, Porter? You’re turning the neighborhood into a brothel!”
Okay, I have hadonewoman living with me the entire time I’ve been here, which clearly falls short of a brothel. But there’s no point in explaining this to my neighbor.
“It’s very nice meeting you,” Whitney says politely. “Mr. Zimmerly, is it?”
Zimmerly is nice enough to Krista, but he doesn’t seem to feel the same way about Whitney. He grumbles something under his breath and then stomps back up the steps in his slippers.
“He’s always like that,” I say to her apologetically. “Don’t take it personally.”
Whitney seems unconcerned by Zimmerly’s rude behavior. I don’t know why, but it drives me nuts that my neighbor doesn’t like me. I didn’t care when my coworkers didn’t all love me, but this bothers me.
One of the old man’s bottom steps has crumbled slightly—probably eroded after years of snowstorms—and for a moment, he stumbles on it. He catches himself, but it’s a close call. An idea hits me, and I dash over to the steps before he can get inside.
“Mr. Zimmerly!” I call out.
He turns around, his sour expression unchanged. “What now, Porter?”
I kick the damaged step, and a little more cement comes loose. “I can fix your step if you’d like. So you won’t trip on it.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “How much?”
“No charge,” I say quickly, even though I could use the money.
He snorts as he looks me up and down. “You don’t look like you could do the job. They don’t teach you how to fix steps incollege.”
“I know how to fix a concrete step,” I say defensively. It’s the kind of thing I used to do with my father when I was a kid. Although I admittedly haven’t done it in years, I remember how to do it. It’s like riding a bike. And if I get stuck, my dad is only a phone call away, eager to help.
For a moment, Mr. Zimmerly looks like he’s considering it. But then he waves a hand at me in disgust. “You’ll probably just make it worse. You can’t even manage your own trash!”
With those words, he turns around and goes back into his house and slams the door behind him.
Well, I tried.
Since Mr. Zimmerly clearly doesn’t want my help, I return to Whitney’s car. I heave the box back into my arms and also throw one of the duffel bags on my shoulder. Whitney follows behind, carrying the bag from the back seat, even though I told her I’d get it. I left the front door open, so it’s a quick trip to get her stuff up the flights of stairs to the top floor. She sets about unpacking while I grab the final box from the car.
When I get back to her room, Whitney has already unpacked about half her clothes. She smiles up at me. “Thanks, Blake. Just drop it on the floor.”
I still can’t get over the fact that Whitney managed to squeeze her entire life into two boxes and two bags. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”
“Actually…” She steps over to the door and shakes the doorknob, which rattles loudly, threatening to fall right off. “Do you think we could get this knob fixed? I have this fear about the doorknob falling off and getting trapped in my room.”
Prior to losing my job, this was the kind of thing I would have called a repairman to fix because I was just too busy and also because Icould. But much like the broken step, a loose doorknob is something I can fix. I’ve got a tool kit, and I’m perfectly capable of fixing this and anything else that’s broken in this house. My father taught me well.
“No problem,” I say. “Anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I just need to make a trip to the drugstore to get some toiletries.”
“If you’re too tired to go out after unpacking,” I say, “you can use our soap and stuff in the meantime. Or our laundry detergent. And you’re welcome to use whatever you want in our kitchen too. Pots, pans…ketchup, mustard.”
“Thanks.” She sets her eyes on me. I previously thought they were brown, but now I can make out flecks of amber. “I really appreciate everything, Blake. You’re a good guy.”
She’s just being nice when she says that. She doesn’t know if I’m a good guy. She doesn’t know me at all.
“It’s really a beautiful room,” she says as she folds a pair of jeans identical to the ones she’s wearing and slides them into an open drawer. “You did a great job decorating.”
“Actually,” I say, “Krista did all that. She picked out the furniture because she wanted a really nice guest room.”
“Well, your wife has great taste.”
