He was a handy guy, my husband. Always had been. Whenever there was a problem around the house- leaking pipes or a busted boiler- he would wrinkle his nose in disgust if I dared suggest we call a plumber.
“I’ll do it,” was all he’d say before donning a tatty pair of overalls and digging out whatever tools he needed from the attic.
His hands were big and rough and constantly glazed with a persistent layer of dirt, reflecting the years of hard labour he’d endured throughout his long career.
I’d always loved that quality about him. Not the dirty hands mind you, that I could take or leave, but the ability and know-how to start a project and see it all the way through to completion. It was something I deeply admired.
That was until he hatched the bright idea of replacing the fence in our backyard, anyway.
“This one’s rotten,” he informed me one day, running a grubby hand over the faded orange paint. “If we don’t get it replaced it’ll likely be coming down on it’s own soon enough. We’d best get ahead of it.”
“Alright, I’ll call-“
“I’ll do it.”
And so he got to work. First he tore down the old, admittedly flimsy eyesore and drove new posts deep into the soil, accompanied by many assurances that ‘this won’t be going anywhere.’
He loved a good project, but something in his eyes told me he’d been enjoying this one a damn sight more. I kept him fueled with sandwiches and coffee, and practically had to drag him into the house when the sun went down.
“But it’s almost done!” He complained.
“It isn’t going anywhere,” I laughed, “and you can’t operate on caffeine alone. You need sleep.”
And so, pouting like an overgrown child who’d just had their playtime cut short, he wolfed down supper, took a two minute shower, and clambered into bed alongside me. When golden sunlight tickled my eyelids open the next morning, I sighed at Paul’s vacant side of the bed and threw back the covers to follow his lead. I breezed through my morning routines and descended the stairs to wash yesterday’s dishes.
I looked up at the window to check on Paul’s progress and paused. He was out there alright, but he was sitting precariously atop the fence.
I frowned through the blinds with my hands submerged in a soapy sink, unable to fathom what on Earth he was doing up there. I palmed my hands dry and headed outside to find out.
“Hey Lynn!” He called out cheerily when he saw me coming. “Look! The fence is done!”
“Yes Paul, I can see that,” I smiled, “but why are you sitting on it?”
The smallest shadow of a falter passed over his grinning face. “Oh you know… I was on the fence about getting up here at first…”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter while I stared incredulously up at him. The time to stop came and went but Paul just kept on laughing. When it finally faded to a breathless wheeze, he was forced to clutch at the top of the fence to save himself from tumbling backwards. His cheerful demeanor cracked for the first time, giving way to a choked panic that even the near-fall didn’t constitute. His eyes went wide and he panted with the effort of digging his heels into the wooden panel.
“Oh,” he chuckled nervously, “that was close.”
“Paul… what’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing darling! Just admiring my work, is all.” His tongue probed the cracked surface of his lips. “Would you mind bringing me out some water?”
I shook my head but did as he asked. When I handed him the cold glass he carefully distributed his weight so he could lean down to reach it, then straightened up and gulped it down in one go.
He handed back the glass and I stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to say. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready, okay?”
Paul nodded down at me with a smile that seemed somewhat forced before I turned and headed back inside.
I whittled down the hours tackling chores around the house I’d been putting off for a while, humming upbeat songs and contemplating anything at all as long as it wasn’t Paul and his bizarre behaviour.
When the ticking clock could no longer be ignored I bumbled around the kitchen, subconsciously stretching each stage of food preparation well beyond the timeframes I had come to expect of myself. More than that, I was fervently avoiding looking at the window while simultaneously wondering why.
It was fear, I realised.
For one reason or another, I was terrified that I would look up at that small rectangle of glass to see Paul still out there perched atop the fence. I scolded myself. I was being silly, I knew that, and yet still I didn’t look. Only when his dinner sat steaming on a plate with a can of cold beer standing neatly beside it could I finally mold my voice into words.
“Paul!” I called through the open back door. “Dinner’s ready!”
For a moment there was no response. I stared at the beam of evening light stretching from the doorframe across the kitchen tiles, muttering a prayer that his socky sillouhette would appear there.
“H-hun? Would you mind bringing it out here?”
I froze and gulped back a pocket of air. How long was he going to keep this up? Why was I going along with it? Why did my hands shake so violently as they grasped the hot plate?
It took everything I had to place one foot in front of the other, and it wasn’t until I stood in the cool shadow of the fence that I finally looked up at my husband.
His wide eyes that normally sparkled a deep ocean blue were surrounded now by vivid webs of red. Tears swelled at their corners before streaking down dirty cheeks and into his smiling mouth. He reached out to take the plate from me, but the cutlery slipped over the edge and fell between blades of grass.
“Don’t worry about that baby,” he said as I followed them to the ground. “I think I’ll stay out here a little bit longer if that’s okay with you. It’s a beautiful day.”
I glanced once more at his face, blistered from sunburn and peeling away in places, and merely nodded before hurrying away.
I gnawed at my nails, dimly aware that my leg was bouncing as I watched images play across the TV screen and registered not a one. My mind was focused solely on the empty seat beside me, fraught with worry and stress. But I knew where Paul was. There was no mystery there.
He was outside, safe and sound. Balanced atop his newly erected fence like a strangely territorial gargoyle.
I grabbed the remote and upped the volume to drown out the nagging thoughts and concentrated with all my might on the celebrity couple that had just gotten back together for the fourth or fifth time.
All throughout the early hours of the morning I could hear his distant sobs playing to the beat of my tears thudding against my pillow. Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I would drag him down by his legs if I had to.
A flash of blue lit up the curtains and a clap of rumbling thunder followed.
Just not right now. It could wait until tomorrow.
Heavy bags had gathered under my eyes by the time the alarm spurred me into action. I skipped my sacred routines and swept downstairs cladded in nought but my nightie, knowing that slowing my pace for even a moment would spell disaster for the modicum of determination I’d spent the entire night building. I stepped barefoot onto soggy grass and made myself look.
As expected, Paul sat right where I left him; hair plastered over his forehead in strands soaked from the night’s chaotic downpour. However bad I thought I might look, I knew it didn’t compare to Paul.
I marched right up to him, holding out a hand to grab hold of his shin, but stopped short of the fabric of his overalls. I looked up and clapped a hand over my mouth in a mixture of surprise and horror.
Paul’s face was mere inches from my own. His lips were still stretched in that horribly strained smile, but his eyes were pleading desperately.
“Please!” He hissed through gritted teeth.
I tried. I swear I did. His big eyes followed my every move as I tried with all my heart to just reach out and touch him, but it was as if I was a protesting passenger within my own body and there was more than air between us.
“I’m sorry,” I mouthed eventually, before taking a step backwards.
Paul’s head shook violently and tears were running freely, but the forced smile never left his lips. “That’s okay hun,” his eyes darted from left to right, “I’ll be inside soon!”
It’s been a week since then. A week.
For the first few days, I would take my time building up the courage to carry out some food and drink and hand it to him without meeting his gaze. Now, as dreadful as it makes me feel, I can’t even bring myself to do that.
He slides over to the leaking gutter whenever he needs to drink, and I’ve seen pidgeon carcasses littering the grass around him on the rare occasion I can force myself to peel back the curtains and look. He doesn’t sleep. How could he? But neither do I. Sometimes I wonder which one of us has it worse, though the answer might seem obvious.
I’ll try to update in a few days time. Hopefully there will have been some change by then, but just to clarify:
I am not asking for help.