“Kinda warm to have all the windows shut, don’t ya think?” John Carpenter subtly suggested to Margret Dylan from behind the mass of wires and tubes he was skillfully manipulating with his tools. With no effort, he directed them to their assigned targets amongst the nest of ancient electronic parts, the likes of which can only be found housed in an antique black and white television set. Margret looked on with vigilance as the man she engaged to save her only friend carefully performed his work.
“Well, I don’t keep the windows open much anymore.” Her frail voice barely penetrated the thick, warm air of the living room that felt more like a sauna than an apartment. He knew the windows probably hadn’t been open for a long, long time.
“Well it’s such a beautiful day, and when I came up the entry, it felt like a nice lake breeze wanted to coax some of this heat off til tomorrow.” John gently continued his soft sell without looking up from the life saving surgery he calmly and methodically performed.
“Well, I’ll fix you some cold lemonade if you’re warm.” John smiled and nodded without taking his eyes from his work. He knew that this kind offer was from a forgotten time. He knew that when a woman of Margaret Dylan’s era offered to fix lemonade, it meant from scratch: lemons, sugar water and care. It was an offer from years ago when everything was made that simply. Despite her circumstances, Margaret still possessed the social graces of a simple time that instilled the importance of polite hospitality, a time that didn’t know the meaning of cell phones and drive-by shootings, a time that would have feared such things as a threat to the solace found in a glass of homemade lemonade.
Margaret had been alone for a long time. He sensed it the moment he walked into the old, neatly kept, one bedroom apartment. She was like many other elderly women in this Chicago neighborhood where John found his skills to be most needed. It was the pictures that always struck John. Husbands always were proudly displayed at the center of the carefully planned scene that typically used a buffet as its stage. Children’s pictures flanked their father's, and then came other relatives and old friends, with graduation and baby pictures prestigiously placed near the front. John knew that these pictures, and the TV. he worked to save, were the only company Mrs. Dylan knew or had known for a long, long time. She served the lemonade to John with a grace and dignity that momentarily disguised the loneliness and fear that burdened her daily life.
“Thank you, ma’am,” John said in a tone that attempted to subdue his baritone register so as not to overwhelm the anticipated “you’re welcome” that Margaret would undoubtedly deliver with a whisper.
John’s voice came from his belly. It was deep and it was direct. When heard in a crowd, it made those who heard it want to listen to the words it carried. The quality most people unwittingly noticed about John’s voice was that it was kind. John’s voice was his calling card. It was the exact sound that was supposed to come out of the mouth of a man like John. His voice put most at ease. It put Margaret at ease. Oddly, it made her remember a different time. She thought perhaps that’s why she readily opened the door and her home to a complete stranger. It was strange even to her that she would do such a thing. It was the lesser of two evils. Purchasing a new t.v. meant leaving her home. That’s something Margaret avoided at all costs. Too many threats. Too many things could happen to her. Plus, Margaret might not recognize the friends she had come to know in black and white if she met them on a color television set.
John finished his task and returned the tubes to happily rest in their proper places. He replanted the wires in the spots from where they’d been uprooted. He replaced the cover to the back of the old set, thus making the reprieve official. He slid the tubed box back into the corner of the room, returned the rabbit ears to the top and packed his tools away. As he took his last drink of lemonade, he instinctively reached down and turned it on. The tubes warmed and the signs of life appeared on the screen. Without bothering to look at the screen, John exclaimed “well all be darned” -- pretending to be astonished by his success, like a magician marveling an awestruck crowd with his best illusion.
He humbly said, “Thanks for the cold drink, ma’am.”
Margaret said, “you’re welcome," as she watched her glass and wire friend resurrect from its former state of lifelessness.
“You did good work and so quickly,” Margaret said with some degree of admiration.
“Idle hands are the work of the devil,” quipped John. Margaret smiled at John’s wit and at the warmth in which it was delivered.
Margaret went to her bedroom to fetch her purse so that she could pay her kind and competent visitor. She returned to find that John had gone. The room was empty, as if the fix-it man had never been there. He left no signs of his visit, nothing, not the sound of a closing door or even exiting footsteps making their way down the hallway. Stunned by her discovery, Margaret went to the front window overlooking the sidewalk in front of her building.
“There he is” she thought, as her eyes caught John Carpenter climbing into his old panel van. She didn’t hesitate and made straight for the door.
“How could this man leave without being paid?" she thought as she hurried down the hall way and onto the entry, where the gentle breeze dried the perspiration that had formed on her brow from walking so quickly. She reached the van just as John was about to depart for his next mission.
“Mr. Carpenter!” she exclaimed like a teacher scolding a schoolboy who had left his jacket in class at the closing bell.
“Yes ma’am”, John said knowingly.
“Why, you haven’t been paid for your work”.
John let out a robust laugh and climbed out of the truck whose old springs seemed relieved by his decision. Mrs. Dylan removed her checkbook from her purse and searched for a pen.
“Well lookie there, it’s Mrs. O’Toole and Mrs. D’Angelo.” John was pointing across the street to two elderly women who were enjoying an afternoon stroll. Margaret looked up to where John pointed and saw the women. She looked at John, somewhat irritated with his delay in allowing her to get back to the safety of her apartment.
“How much is the bill, Mr. Carpenter?” she asked.
As if he hadn’t heard Mrs. Dylan, John interrupted the two women’s stroll with a hardy, “Mrs. O’Toole, Mrs. D’Angelo!” John got their attention as much from sound of his jolly voice as by their hearing their names called. He invited them over with a wave.
“Mr. Carpenter, how much is the bill,” Margaret insisted nervously.
All smiles, John continued with his newly self appointed role as social director by greeting the two ladies. “What a wonderful afternoon for a walk, ladies.”
They both smiled youthfully like they were being asked to dance for the first time. “It certainly is.” “Excuse me, Mr. Carpenter,” Mrs. Dylan interrupted, her tone now showing reverence for her peers. “Ah yes, Mrs. Dylan... I’m so sorry to have put you off. Have you met Mrs. O’Toole and Mrs. D’Angelo.”
As Margaret extended her hand to greet the ladies it occurred to her that John’s interest in being paid seemed secondary to his desire to make introductions.
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs. Dylan. Did John fix something in your home?” inquired Mrs. O’Toole. “Yes, as a matter of fact he did, and I don’t mean to be rude but I need to pay…” but before Margaret could finish, Mrs. D’Angelo was raving about how John had miraculously brought her old refrigerator back to life. Mrs. O’Toole joined in and together they sang a chorus of praise for John Carpenter’s handy work. Before she knew it, John was climbing back into his van where he talked the motor into another start. “Your bill Mr. Carpenter, what about your bill?” Margaret pleaded as John dropped the transmission into drive. “The mail Mrs. Dylan, it’ll be in the mail. You ladies have a nice stroll, now.” The van grew an appendage as it drove off and John waved goodbye with his entire arm. As the van disappeared up the street the ladies gave a slow, meandering chase and the two friends were now three. While her new friends chatted about the shameless condition of the flowerbeds at the city park, Margaret took a moment to consider her savior. As he disappeared she took notice of the lettering on the back of his van. It said:
J.C.
I Fix Things
Margaret smiled and felt the gentle hand of the afternoon’s breeze for a second time that day.
