Page 17 of Wild Hit
Yeah, no. I’m thankfully still in time to prevent a trip to the hospital.
“How about I do it instead?” I ask from my driveway, and both of them turn to me like I must’ve teleported here. The shockin their expressions is exaggerated enough that it prompts me to ask, “What?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Audrey’s face twists in annoyance. “What if you get hurt for real? If that happens there’s no way I’m keeping my job. Or my life.”
“Right, Dad. Even I know better.” My daughter shakes her head like she can’t believe me.
I’m equal parts frustrated and amused, which until this moment wasn’t a combination I thought possible. Placing my hands on my hips, I say, “What I mean is that I can do the thing by myself, and then there’s no risk of someone hammering my hand or something.”
Marty lowers the mallet. “Oh.”
“No.” Audrey shakes her head, the back of her hair swinging around while strands at the front stick to her sweaty face and neck. “I could never ask you to do this for me.”
“But you could ask my daughter?”
Awkward silence ensues. I didn’t mean it as an attack. Honestly, I just wanted to show her that her concerns are unfounded.
“Um, I didn’t mean?—”
“You know, you’re right.” She straightens out, releasing her grip on the post. “I’m just going to wait for my roommates and we’ll get this done safely and in no time.”
My chest deflates with a deep sigh. I continue my trek to round out the hedges that divide our yard from the sidewalk, and once I’m close enough I motion at my daughter to scoot over. Also, I take the mallet from her just in case. The last thing we need is her dropping it on her foot or something.
“What are you doing?” my neighbor asks as I take in the surroundings.
Her previous mailbox lies disassembled on the grass. The shiny new one awaits for its rightful place, and it seems like thepost that I’m now holding corresponds to the latter. She could’ve just unscrewed the old mailbox and loaded the new on the old post, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.
I grab the top of the post and give it a stir, as if it was a big spoon and the dirt underneath was soup. I figure that if this is the best way to dig an umbrella into beach sand, it may work here. Glancing up at Audrey, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as a dig. I just meant that if it’s safe enough for my daughter, it’s safe enough for me.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait, you have a good point. Maybe this wasn’t safe for Marty all along.”
“I’m fine. I have all my fingers, see?” Marty raises them up for my view.
“It’s a happy day.” I grin.
Checking for a quick moment, I confirm that the post is as dug up as it’s going to get. I reach for the mallet and give it a good whack, just to make sure that the mailbox is gonna stay in place. The bad news is that I’ve managed to disturb her pretty grass.
“Oops.” I kneel down, reaching for the dirt to smoothen it with my hands. Next thing I know, Marty joins me.
We once did something like this, planting some flowers in our old Denver house a couple of years ago. The biggest difference—aside from the fact that Marty wasn’t permanently grumpy like she is now—was that we were by ourselves.
I turn around in time to catch our neighbor also sinking to her knees, heedless that she’s getting her knees dirty since she’s only wearing shorts. Neither of us is wearing gloves, but somehow the one who surprises me about it is Audrey. It’s not like I know her, yet I’ve clearly painted a picture in my mind that was all wrong.
Apparently she’s reallythisAudrey, the one that wrestles her mailbox to submission in the dirt, and not the glamorous onethat danced to Frank Sinatra with me. Rivulets of sweat trickle down her face like she’s been going at this for a while.
“There,” my daughter announces, sitting back on her haunches to brush at her hands. “What’s next?”
“Now…” Audrey grabs the collar of her T-shirt, smearing dirt all over it as she wipes sweat off her face. She leaves a big streak of dirt on her cheek. “Now we screw the new mailbox on top.”
“How’s this? I hold it, you screw it, Marty passes along the screws,” I suggest. Complaints don’t rise immediately, so I take it as agreement. “Vamos.”
Now that the post has been defeated, the rest of the work goes smooth and quick. Which is a bit of a bummer when I was starting to have fun. Marty and I stand off to the side, allowing the owner of the brand spanking new mailbox to give it a try and?—
The thing squeaks like a rusted door in a horror movie. The three of us cringe at the strident noise.
“Marty,” my neighbor says in a dark voice. “Cover your ears.”
“Why?”
