39. Beneath the Rubble
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BENEATH THE RUBBLE
Ethan
My key clicks as I unlock the theater door.
The familiar scent of sawdust and fresh paint greets me as I step inside. I set my toolbox on the floor and look toward the stage.
Wonderland is finally taking shape.
The plywood walls we’ve been cutting for weeks now stand painted in impossible colors. Oversized mushrooms crowd one corner, the crooked garden gate is finally upright, and the Queen of Hearts’ court no longer looks like a pile of lumber waiting to happen.
I’m kneeling beside two sheets of plywood, lining up the edges, when the theater doors creak open behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Reid carrying a six-pack of beer.
“It’s not even nine,” I say, gesturing to the beer.
He lifts it, the bottles clinking. “Emotional support.”
“Beer isn’t emotional support.”
“It is today.”
Jensen appears behind him, carrying a drill and a saw. “What are we building?” he asks, surveying the stage and stifling a yawn.
“We’re finishing Wonderland.”
He studies the oversized mushrooms, the painted scenery, and the platforms, his brow furrowed. “It looks like a fever dream. We can do better.”
“I was thinking abandoned carnival,” Reid adds, setting down his beer.
“Thanks, guys.” My voice is dry.
“We’re here for you.” Jensen glances at my face. “That shiner I gave you looks better.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You deserved it and worse.”
“I don’t disagree with you.”
Their serious expressions last three seconds before we fall into a peaceful rhythm of shared work. We measure lumber, adjust supports, secure scenery, and debate structural integrity.
Jensen, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, tells us about a patient who super-glued his fingers together.
Reid complains about a contractor’s impossible measurements, pantomiming the crinkling of blueprints in his frustrated grip.
I tell them about a client who tried to convince me that putting a window directly across from a toilet was a smart design.
The stage gradually comes together. Platforms become castle walls. We secure the Wonderland flowers, vibrant even under the harsh work lights. Painted scenery, depicting a fantastical forest, rises along the back of the stage.
Then Reid decides we’ve avoided the obvious topic long enough. He leans against a newly erected wall, looking at me.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” I say.
He gives me an innocent look, a half-smile playing on his lips, before taking a long drink from his beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Jensen nods. “He is.”
Ignoring me he turns his attention to Jensen. “How’s Claire?”
I stop working, my hammer falling silent against the wood.
“Still living above the barn. I haven’t seen her much,” Jensen replies.
“And Ellie?” Reid asks.
I speak up before Jensen can answer. “She’s not talking to me. I text her every day. Sometimes she responds.”
“What does she say?” Reid asks.
My voice comes out brittle. “Usually, one-word responses, if I’m lucky.
Yesterday, I asked if she wanted to go for ice cream.
” I work past the knot in my throat. “She replied no.” I grip the hammer, the wood grain pressing into my palm.
“A few nights ago, when I called, she just handed the phone directly to Claire,” I continue, the words tumbling out.
Jensen sets down his drill with a soft clunk. “She’s hurt. Give her some time.”
“I think she hates me.”
“No,” both men say simultaneously.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Reid says, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder.
“She’s thirteen. Trust me, if she hated you, you’d know,” Jensen says, earning a reluctant smile from me.
“I see families after disasters every day,” he continues, “The kids who’ve given up are subdued. The angry ones? They’re still fighting. It means they still care.”
We finally finish the set by late afternoon.
The three of us stand in the front row, our clothes gritty with sawdust, looking up at the stage.
Wonderland stretches before us in bright colors and impossible shapes.
The Queen’s court stands complete along one side of the stage, a menacing yet whimsical tableau. We simply take it all in.
“It’s good,” Jensen says.
I nod, a tightness in my chest. “It is.”
Reid scans the painted details. “You know they’re going to love it.”
“Are you going to opening night?” Jensen asks.
I think of Claire’s words. You can come to the performances. That’s been the extent of our interactions.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”