My Genes Don’t Fit

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Jane

D uring the past month and a half I’d managed to hold it together by keeping myself so busy there was no time to think. I didn’t go to bed at night until I was so exhausted I crashed. Even then I had nightmares—they weren’t all about work disasters either. It seemed every horrible thing that had ever happened to me in my life decided to attack my subconscious.

I awoke most nights in a pool of sweat, then booted up my laptop and stared at the security camera footage of employees going to and from a warehouse. Why? Because after I came out of my slump, I cleaned out my purse and found the flash drive the IT guy in Philly gave me. The police may have looked at the film, but I was convinced they must have missed something. I wanted to nail the bastard who was responsible for getting me fired. I wanted to pick up the phone and tell Leon who to go after. I’d be vindicated, completely in my rights to thump my chest like Tarzan’s Jane.

But Bethany Plastics aside, whenever my life imploded and fell apart, I did everything in my power to fixate on something else. Presently, buying and selling houses, as well as packing up and moving consumed most of my time. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any control over my unawake hours.

While I drove from Denver to La Crosse, I’d passed the miles with Madeline Miller’s debut audiobook, The Song of Achilles , which I’d enjoyed immensely thanks to my librarian daughter’s expert recommendation. Except it ended three hours too soon and I spent the remainder of the drive singing loudly and badly. Music helped a little, but my mind wandered too much. By the time I arrived at Meg’s, my spirits were again analogous to a dirty washrag, wrung out and flapping erratically in the wind.

My daughter had a wonderful eye for home décor. I’d never be able to pick such brilliantly outlandish colors and make them look fantastic together. She had two 1920s lamps with colorful glass shades, their fringe dripping with beads. On every surface there were vases of silk flowers in colors of vermillion, magenta, bright yellow, and cornflower. In one corner was a coffee table supported by a statue of an elephant—I gave that to her a couple of birthdays ago after she’d picked it out, of course. I never bought anything for Meg unless she chose it herself. My tastes were too “eighties” (her words, not mine).

Nonetheless, entering her living room always dealt me with a brisk slap in the face. Yep, every single time, I got a shock, even though I knew it was coming.

After she left for work, with a cup of coffee in hand, I studied Meg’s wall of framed photos—the frames were beautiful, each one a colorful and unique work of art. Sure, I’d seen them before but I always hoped they’d contain different photos. She did update the pictures from time to time, but it seemed as if her memories with me weren’t worth keeping.

I sighed, pushing away my dark thought. I’d had far too many of those of late and it wasn’t in my nature to be depressed even if I’d recently walked through hell.

Maybe Meg didn’t need to be reminded of the memories we made together because I kept photo albums and she looked through them whenever she came to visit. I don’t know why she treasured so many pictures of her father. Perhaps it was because she didn’t get to visit him as often whereas she and I got together at least twice a year. Hopefully, we’ll see a lot more of each other now.

I studied a picture of Jack and Meg riding horses with eucalyptus trees in the background. Jack looked natural in the saddle. Meg as well. There was Jack on his front porch, his fingers wrapped around a beer. Meg in her cap and gown at her college graduation—I’d taken that one. There was another of Jack with his two brothers in front of the Yelarben Pub. No surprises, all three of them had beers in their fists. There was Jack in his kitchen, Jack sitting in an easy chair, Jack with two-year-old Meg on his shoulders—I’d taken that one, too.

In the far corner was the only picture with me in it. It was the first time I’d been allowed to hold Meg in my arms, my lips pressing against my baby’s crown. I’ll never forget waking up in the ICU a week after she was born. The doctors told me that I had unusual veins at the bottom of my uterus as well as a rupture, and had I not been in the hospital for observation, neither I nor Meg would have survived .

As a thundering noise shook Meg’s apartment, I jolted from my revery and clapped my hands over my ears. For Pete’s sake, I could barely tolerate the sound. Was her neighbor deaf?

“Hey, Mom!” Meg yelled above the ear-splitting subwoofer still coming from the upstairs apartment. My daughter stepped inside while Maya greeted her, turning into an ecstatic, tail-wagging cyclone of fur. “Whatcha doing?”

Pursing my lips, I turned from my laptop on the kitchen breakfast bar and pointed. “Looking up the city ordinance for noise violations.”

Meg cringed, her gaze drifting up to the swinging chandelier, her entire apartment vibrating like a 1960s fat-jiggling machine. “That guy is so annoying.”

Understatement.

“Have you ever asked him to stop?” I shouted, my head pounding so hard I’d developed another one of my psychedelic auras akin to a child’s kaleidoscope. If this kept up, I’d have to get a hotel room until my house closed.

“I’ve been meaning to,” she replied, setting her purse on the counter. It was so like Meg to avoid confrontation. Sure, she had no problem when it came to me, but she couldn’t stare down a fly if it was outside her close-knit circle of friends and family.

Not me, however. I relished confrontation, especially when it came to the peace and quiet of my personal space. I held up my phone. “Well, today’s the day. I downloaded a decibel app. Even down here the reading is eighty-five, and it’s been going on for over an hour! That’s cause for a call to the police.”

“Ugh.” Meg fished her phone out of her purse. “I’ll call them now.”

“No.” I hopped off the stool and marched toward the door. “It’s only fair to give Mr. Subwoofer a warning first.”

“Ya think? I’ll bet he won’t hear you even if you bang on the door.”

“No?” I asked, stopping.

Meg picked up her dog and followed. “At least give me a chance to talk to him before you bare your fangs.”

I scoffed at her melodrama. “Have you looked up the ordinance laws?”

“Well…no. ”

“Then I’ll handle this. Besides, if he gets mad then he won’t take it out on you.” A twisty idea popped into my head—one the subwoofer types probably wouldn’t be able to resist. “Hey—why don’t you put a handful of chocolate chip cookies in a Ziplock bag and bring them up?”

“You baked?” She sidled into her galley-sized kitchen but I didn’t wait.

Determinedly, I continued on my quest, taking the stairs two at a time. I pounded on the man’s door, giving myself a couple of bruised knuckles that immediately started to swell, thanks to my thin skin. “Hello?” I shouted at the top of my voice, kicking the door to avoid further injury.

The rap music cut off just before the door swung open. “What the hell?” blurted an angry, enormous man who looked as if he could have doubled for a hairy Big-Time wrestler. The guy had to be at least six-feet-six and three hundred and fifty pounds.

My first sparring match came to mind, the one where I’d been clonked on the head and awoke in an ambulance with stars darting through my eyes.

I squared my shoulders. Dammit, I wasn’t going to let this man’s size frighten me. I’d earned my black belt. I knew how to defend myself no matter the immensity of my opponent. “My daughter, Margaret, lives in the apartment below yours and has suffered your incessant noise for…” I turned just as Meg started up the stairs. “How long?”

She’d left the dog behind and now carried a bag full of cookies, eyes wide, mouth drawn, obviously terrified. “Since h-he moved in about a year ago.”

I held up my phone. “The decibel reading of your music in her apartment is eighty-five. I checked with the city ordinance and we would be within our rights to call the police, however—”

“Who do you think you are?” the man barked, his thick eyebrows slanting downward and forming a unibrow.

Not a good look for him, I’d say.

To his outburst of aggression, my training kicked in. The first action is not to react . I took a deep breath and looked him square in the eyes. “I am a mom and a very nice lady.” I jammed my phone in my pocket and widened my stance a little, bending at the knees, ready to fend off an attack. If this guy so much as laid a pinky on me, I was going to take out his knee with a wicked roundhouse kick, then I’d back Meg down the stairs making sure he couldn’t touch my daughter. “I also have one helluva headache because of the noise booming from this apartment.”

He jabbed his thumb into chest. “I got rights. ”

“Yes, you do.” I also pointed to my chest. “As do I. We didn’t come up here to make you angry…” I bit my lip, thinking fast. “Tell me something, sir. Do you prefer it when people treat you with respect?”

He peered over my shoulder, scowling at Meg as if he didn’t trust her. “Damn straight.”

I gave him one of my VP of Operations, “I’m in charge and I’ll take no bullshit” stares, ticking up my chin. “Well, that’s why I’m here, because it is respectful for me to tell you that your noise is causing me a health hazard.”

“A what?”

“A blessed migraine,” I rephrased a little sharper than I’d intended to sound, pressing the heels of my hands to my temples. “Presently, the silence is soothing, don’t you think so?”

“Huh?”

I sighed for effect. Obviously, not all of us appreciated peace and quiet. “I’m asking you politely to keep your music below fifty decibels, if you please.”

Glaring, the man ran his fingers down his overgrown beard. “What if I don’t?”

“Oh, dear, we really would prefer not to involve the police, but if that thundering bass continues to rattle the plates in my daughter’s kitchen, then we’ll have no recourse but to take up the matter with the cops.” Before he had a chance to cogitate my message, I added, “Did you know you could download a decibel app?”

“I can?”

“Absolutely.” Deciding this guy wasn’t going to try to give me a sucker punch, I pulled out my phone and showed him. “See? You don’t want to upset your neighbors, do you? Especially nice neighbors like Meg who are super friendly and who would never hurt a soul.”

The man didn’t reply, but he did pull out his phone. “An app, huh?”

As he opened Google Play I said, “By the way, I’m Jane. What’s your name?”

“Ripper.”

Why wasn’t I surprised? “Pleased to meet you. I baked today. Do you like cookies?” I asked, moving in for the kill. In my book, in order to encourage someone to do something for you, a little kindness was the key to success.

His eyes widened, making him appear almost friendly. “Homemade?”

I took the bag from Meg and handed it to him—he didn’t need to know they were slice-and-bake. “Fresh out of the oven. ”

He opened the bag and reached inside. “Uh, thanks.”

“No, thank you. Don’t forget to download that app. If you do, you might not be deaf by the time you’re fifty.”

“Thanks, Ripper.” Meg leaned around me, giving him a little wave. “Your Harley is awesome.”

The man actually grinned—maybe he blushed as well? Nah. He was just red in the face from my little scolding.

Meg and I returned to her apartment where Maya went batty, acting as if we’d been gone for hours. “Thanks for not practicing karate on his face.” My daughter’s laugh bubbled through the air. “God, Mom, you were over a foot shorter than that guy.”

I glanced at the paper towel where the cookies had been cooling. Jeez, Meg had given Ripper all but two. “The first rule in karate is to walk away—to do everything in your power not to fight.”

“What’s the second?”

“To apply the appropriate amount of force.”

She shrugged. “Which means?”

“Allow me to give a little demonstration of what I call the Drunk Uncle Maneuver.” I faced her with my hands on my hips. “Let’s say your Uncle Roger is soused at a wedding and making an ass of himself—maybe he’s in someone’s face and the situation is about to get ugly.”

“Okay.”

I grabbed the top of Meg’s hand, twisted up and out against the tender sinew in her wrist, then started escorting her toward the bedroom—it was an easy maneuver, but effective because it caused enough pain to be able to lead the drunken person anywhere. “Come on, Roger. It’s time for you to take a break.”

“Ow!” Meg complained, tugging her fingers away. “That hurt.”

“Sure, a little, but I didn’t cause any damage because the situation didn’t require it.” I rubbed my palms together. “However, if your neighbor upstairs would have tried to attack me after I politely told him his music exceeded the city ordinance, I might have taken out his knee.”

Meg backed away. “God, that’s awful.”

I held up my hands in surrender, offering an innocent grin. “Better than crushing his larynx and rendering him unable to breathe.”

During my week at Meg’s I settled on an assisted living facility for my mother and made arrangements to move her. The closing of my Victorian house was executed without a hitch, most likely because I’d paid cash. Afterward, I spent a day cleaning the floors, bathrooms, and countertops. And the following morning I was as excited as a ten-year-old when the truck delivered my effects.

Searching, I read the labels I’d written on the boxes stacked from floor to ceiling in my entrance hall. The worst thing about moving was unpacking. It was always faster with extra hands but I didn’t ask Meg to help me because Lance was coming to town tomorrow and she needed some time to prepare. I also was hell-bent on unpacking, because there was no way I wanted my daughter’s boyfriend in La Crosse without having him over for dinner. You could learn a lot about a person when you broke bread with them.

By the end of Lance’s visit I’d have the house tidy enough to host a meal even if it killed me.

At least that was my plan.

First, I needed a functional dining room, a fact which put unpacking on hold for a moment.

“Aha,” I said, finding the box with my tools at the bottom of a stack. Even though I’d invested my severance and rolled over my 401K, I didn’t want to use any of my nest egg on the house. I’d made enough money selling my place in Denver to use the profits for renovations I had planned. I wanted to buy some antiques as well. It was a sacrilege to own a Victorian house and stuff it full of modern furniture.

In fact, the only furniture I’d brought with me was my bedroom set, a Mission-style dining room table and chairs, and the comfy white couches from my living room. This old house had five bedrooms. Thanks to the movers, one was now occupied with my couches where I planned to watch TV. Since all of the closets were tiny, I’d earmarked the smallest bedroom to convert into a dressing room which I was going to have a heyday designing.

I’d make everything in this house as historically correct as possible—the draperies, the Persian carpets, vintage replica faucets for the two claw-footed bathtubs. I’d already started combing the local antique stores in my quest to find a vintage dressing table. Maybe I’d add some red satin drapes and a portrait of a Gibson Girl—though they were technically Edwardian.

After shifting all the boxes off of the one marked “tools,” I used my pocketknife to slice the tape, opened it up and pulled out a hammer. The first thing I was going to do was remove the hideous plywood bar in my dining room.

The previous owners had forfeited on their loan, a testament to their lack of judgment, I suppose. But because the house was in need of repair, I purchased the place for the balance they’d owed the bank and the realtor’s commission. Yes, it was a steal. My undergrad was in accounting. I had analyzed the numbers, factoring in all the repairs I wanted to make, and this little gem truly was a windfall. Even if I went over my budget by a whopping one hundred percent, it would still be a good investment.

And I intended to make this place mine—to turn it into a showplace where I’d be proud to host parties (if I so desired). Sure, for a million dollars I could have purchased the mansion on idyllic Cass Street, but in my opinion, Cass had too much traffic, even if the entire populous of the city of La Crosse considered Cass Street to be the shizzle.

After everything I’d been through, I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself. I wanted to be left alone. I hadn’t looked at the news since I left Denver and didn’t give a rat’s ass. And aside from a cursory glance or two, I hadn’t checked my email, either.

I still had a driving need to find the culprit who was ultimately responsible for getting me fired. So, I spent countless hours staring at the warehouse footage in the middle of the night. It added new meaning to the saying “watching paint dry.”

In my dining room, holding my hammer, I closely examined the plywood bar which had been erected in front of a gorgeous built-in oak China cabinet. It had Corinthian columns extending to the ceiling, and the sides of the cupboard were inlaid with an intricate fig leaf pattern. The drawers were all functional, though they needed proper pulls, rather than the cheap copper ones someone must have installed around the 1930s. The drawer pulls in the butler’s pantry were ornate and original Victorian and I planned to find something similar. The piece should be polished and on display, not the backdrop to a bar that looked like a teenager had thrown it together in his parents’ basement.

There was only one nail attaching the eyesore to the wall, so it took but a few swings of my hammer to dislodge it. To my joy, the oak paneling underneath wasn’t terribly damaged and would only need a dollop of wood putty, a little sanding, and a touchup of stain to cover the hole.

I hauled the plywood out back to break it down into pieces small enough to fit in the fire pit. The effort to swing a hammer felt good, though bending over made me dizzy. I managed not to wobble too much while I took out twenty years of pent-up aggression from kissing Leon’s ass.

Aside from desperately needing fresh paint, there were so many things about this house that I adored—the rose marble hearth in the drawing room, five stained glass windows that ushered in sparkling light which varied at different hours of the day. The entrance hall was spacious and welcoming with vaulted ceilings and the original woodwork of the main staircase was still intact, though it needed a new carpet runner to show it off. Persian of course, maybe red, maybe gold. I’d know once I picked the paint colors.

All the hardware on the doors was original brass, etched with incredible details of leaves, urns, and flowers. Even the hinges had been embossed. Everywhere I turned I discovered something new, treasures that weren’t in any of the pictures I’d seen, things that gave this house its very own character—including a Steger and Son’s piano which had been left in the library. It was a gorgeous upright with inlaid oak, and ionic columns supporting the keyboard. They were incredibly similar to those in the dining room china cabinet. However, to my chagrin, the piano sounded like a wounded cat when I played it. As soon as I got the chance, I’d call a repairman and have it tuned.

I took a few lessons when I was a kid and I’d always wanted to start back up again. Now that I had a vintage piano in my vintage house, I planned to enjoy it.

After demolishing the bar, I spent the afternoon unpacking boxes when the brass knocker on the enormous front door boomed, making me jolt.

“A moment!” I hollered, weaving my way through the clutter of wadded paper, boxes, and bubble wrap.

On the front porch, a bearded man faced me, his expression serious. About my age, he was solidly built with a tanned face, contrasting with his thick, nicely trimmed gray beard. his shirtsleeves were rolled up, flaunting a pair of well-muscled, hairy forearms. He wasn’t terribly tall, but still had a good five inches on me.

“Hi.” He gave a friendly nod and smiled, making the corners of his shiny green eyes crinkle. He wore a University of Wisconsin ball cap and work boots. “I’m Bob Anderson. You called about some landscaping?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely.” I stepped out onto the wooden porch and closed the door on the mess behind me. “My yard needs a complete makeover. How soon can you start? ”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. You do realize we’re already into October and we’ll be lucky if it doesn’t snow before Thanksgiving?”

Undaunted, I led him to the edge of the porch, where the shrubbery was overgrown, some of which had already started to turn brown in anticipation of autumn. “Come spring, I want this place to look amazing. I’m thinking a well-cultivated English garden would be ideal.”

He pointed to a clump of spindly looking bushes. “Well, you’ll want to keep these lilacs. All they need is a bit of pruning and they’ll fill out nicely.”

I liked this guy already. “Perfect, and what do you think about planting some wisteria to grow along the top edge of the porch?”

Bob removed his cap and scratched his shiny bald head, several shades lighter than his tanned face. “Wisteria takes a lot of work and if you don’t stay on top of pruning the vines, they can damage the wood and cause rot.”

The wood on my clapboard house had already been subject to enough damage. “What do you recommend?”

“Well, if you want to plant a wisteria vine, you ought to build a trellis and constrain its growth there rather than on your house’s wood.”

I glanced over the side of the rail to a pile of rocks with moss growing on them. “Can you build a trellis?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent.” I led him down the steps to a brick walkway that wasn’t in bad shape. “So, in preparation for winter, how do you suggest we start?”

“If this were my house, I’d prune everything back pretty aggressively now. As you said, it’s overgrown. With a good fall pruning, come early spring we’ll be able to see what we have to work with—build your trellis and plant your wisteria.” Bob pointed to a flower bed—at least I think it used to be a flower bed. “There you have a mess of untamed tiger lilies. If you don’t get those under control, they’ll eventually strangle every plant in your garden.”

I almost suspected the lilies had already gone wild. “We don’t want those then, do we?”

“No, ma’am. In my opinion, tiger lilies are a lazy man’s flowers. They grow fast and take over.”

I stooped down and tried to pull one, but only ended up with a handful of spindly leaves. “I’d rather have more variety. Let’s take them out while we’re trimming.”

By the time Bob left, we had not only started to sketch out plans for my new garden, he’d given me phone numbers for a painter, a boiler service repairman, and a basement floor specialist, all of whom I called immediately. The painter could start on the outside of the house in June, the boiler service repairman would be here next week to winterize my heating system, and the basement floor would be poured in two weeks. It must have been my lucky day because the basement guys had a cancellation, otherwise I would have had to wait six months or more.

In my opinion, moving day was a win. Not only did I get half of my boxes unpacked, I met Bob who seemed to be clever and honest—the salt of the earth. When it came to contractors, they always had the best connections and it was better to ask them for referrals than to comb the internet, calling people who might or might not be reliable, no matter what their star rating was on Google.

Because the kitchen needed an upgrade immediately, I didn’t bother shopping around and calling contractors. The day after I arrived in La Crosse, I’d gone straight to the big box hardware store with the dimensions and sat with a consultant to design my kitchen. I chose an oak veneer for the cupboards which would coordinate nicely with the Victorian character of the house, but this was the twenty-first century and I needed modern conveniences when I cooked. Tomorrow, I had a new gas range and a side-by-side refrigerator being delivered so I could make dinner for Meg and her boyfriend.

With luck, the kitchen would be finished by Thanksgiving. If not, at least I’d have a decent oven in which to roast a turkey.