1.
"You sure you can't stay for supper, sugar?"
Sam crawled backward over the faded blue linoleum and peered around the toilet. "No, Mama," he said patiently. "I got to get to the VA tonight."
"Oh, that's right," said Mama complacently. "I forgot." She looked at the guts of her guest bath toilet, slimy and dripping on the floor. "That looks real complicated," she said worriedly. "You sure you don't want to call your father for help, Samuel?"
Sam Wilson's father had died five years ago. He bit down the sharp retort reminding her of this and swallowed the phantom twinge of grief.
"No, Mama," said Sam, grunting as he struggled with the lower bolt. "I got this. Why don't you, uh, watch Judge Judy?"
"I suppose I could, couldn't I?" said Mama, vaguely surprised. "What channel she on again?"
"I got her set up for you on the DVR, Mama. Just push play," said Sam. The bolt grated, then turned. Dirty water drizzled down Sam's hands. He sat up and braced himself on the toilet seat, preparing to stand. Mama was still watching him, smiling.
"I can't help you, sugar?"
"No, Mama, this is kinda a one-man job," said Sam. "You could, uh, get me some iced tea."
"I can do that, Samuel," said Mama, and shuffled away, her slippers making little squeaking noises.
Sam pulled out the rest of the broken valve and mopped up the water. He had just cracked open the packaging for the new valve and flapper when he heard the scrape and squeak of his mother re-entering the bathroom. She was empty-handed. "You sure I can't help, sugar?" she said, smiling.
"No, Mama," said Sam. "I got this. You go watch Judge Judy."
"I could do that, couldn't I?" said Mama thoughtfully. She stood still and watched her son maneuver the new valve in place. "You sure you can't stay for supper?" she asked. "I got some sweet potato pie."
"No, thanks, Mama," said Sam. "I got to get to the VA tonight."
"You sure do go there a lot," she said. "That looks real complicated. You want me to call your daddy to help? He was always good at this kind of thing."
"No, Mama, I'm almost done," said Sam, trying not to grit his teeth. "Why don't you go watch Judge Judy? I know you like watching her."
"I do," she agreed. She smiled. "You want to stay for dinner, sugar?"
Sam checked his watch. The night nurse was late. "Sure, Mama," he said, trying to keep the fatigue out of his voice. He could call Margie to take his session at the VA.
He knew he shouldn't keep count, but Mama told him five times over the next ten minutes, while he was struggling with the new flapper, that his father was very good at this sort of thing and Samuel really ought to call him for help. She also offered him iced tea three times, but never brought it.
Sam was so tired.
He mopped up his mess and put the old flapper and valve, along with the packaging for the new one he'd just installed, in the plastic home improvement store bag. As he washed his hands, he could hear his mother moving around in the living room, her heavy, faltering step and the opening and shutting of a drawer. He dried off his hands and walked quickly into the living room, alert. His mother was standing at the window, staring out into the darkness, and she was holding an envelope in her hand.
"What'cha doing, Mama?" he asked, pitching his voice low.
Mama started and turned, eyes wide and mouth round. She put one hand on her breast and smiled.
"Why, Samuel!" she exclaimed. "You sure did surprise me!" She shook her finger playfully. "You ought to let me know when you coming over. I would have had a plate ready for you."
"I've been here two hours, Mama," said Sam, trying to smile.
"You have?" Mama looked shocked. "What have you been doing, Samuel?"
"I fixed your guest bath toilet," said Sam. "And I'm going to have dinner with my favorite girl." He grinned. "You." He swept her in for a peck on the cheek, and while she chuckled and embraced him, soft and smelling like lavender and old urine, he slipped the envelope out of her hand.
"Oh, that's important," said Mama.
Sam looked at it. It was her mortgage interest statement from two years ago. He and his sister Mary had torn the house apart trying to find it that April, and had ended up ordering an extra copy from the mortgage company. "I see that, Mama," he said lightly. "Why don't I file that for you? Then we'll always know where it is."
"What a good idea!" exclaimed Mama. "You sure are a smart, handsome boy, Samuel." She paused, brow furrowed, and said, "Why you ain't married yet?"
"I just haven't found anyone good enough to be your daughter-in-law," said Samuel, slipping the envelope in his pocket. "Now, I'm gonna take the trash in the bathroom down to the dumpster, and then we're gonna see about some supper. That sound good, Mama?"
"That sounds perfect," said Mama, pouchy face wreathed in smiled. "I'll set the table." She shuffled to the kitchen, her worn plush robe swinging around ankles swollen with diabetic edema.
Sam hurried across the condo parking lot to the dumpsters. Every step away from Mama's front door felt like a rubber band stretched tight, pulling him back. As he trotted back up her stairs, he realized with a jolt that she might have tried to go to the bathroom in the guest bath, and the tile might still be damp. Fighting back panic, he burst through the door, mind full of Mama lying in a pool of blood on the old blue linoleum. However, Mama was standing in the middle of the living room, staring blankly at an old magazine. She looked up in surprise as he entered.
"Samuel!" she exclaimed, delighted. "What are you doing here?"
"You invited me for dinner," said Sam, deflating in relief. He gave his mother a hug and kiss – the third since he'd arrived several hours ago – and said, "Can I set the table?"
"Of course you can," she said warmly, patting his cheek. "What a nice boy you are, Samuel! Don't forget to set a place for your father," she added, waddling into the kitchen. "Guess he's working late tonight."
Out of her eyesight, Sam let his head droop. Hopefully she'd forget about that by the time they ate.
Sam was halfway through his cold takeout chicken, overcooked noodles, and pulpy sweet potato pie when the night nurse finally showed. "Sorry," she grunted, setting down her bags and shucking her rain coat. "Got stuck in Bethseda."
Sam didn't comment. He knew what DC traffic was like.
Mama was just pushing another piece of sweet potato pie on the nurse when his phone chirped. Thinking it was Margie at the VA, he glanced down, then raised his eyebrows.
STEVE: Hey, what do you know about replacing roofs?
"You want some sweet potato pie, sugar?" smiled Mama.
"No thanks, Mama, I just had two pieces," he said. "It was real good."
"Why, thank you, Samuel," she beamed. She turned to the night nurse, who was checking Mama's meds. "Isn't my Samuel a good-looking boy?" she said hopefully. "Best looking child I ever had. He looks just like his father." He paused, looked around the table, and frowned. "I guess he working late tonight."
The middle-aged, married night nurse exchanged an amused glance with Sam. "Now, Mrs. Wilson, all your children are good-looking," she said, and filled a glass of water. "Here you go. Your pills for the night."
"Oh, my," said Mama, looking down at the little pile, perplexed. "There certainly are a lot of them."
"'Scuse me," said Sam. "I got to get this." He got up and started to type.
SAM: I'm no contractor but I know how to replace shingles. Why? You run outa money to pay someone to do it? Or are you just a bored old retired dude?
STEVE: Ha ha. No, Bucky wants to fix a neighbor's roof. She can't afford it and won't accept charity.
SAM: Good for him, taking an interest.
STEVE: Hold on
STEVE: OMG
SAM: What?
STEVE: He's looking up videos on YouTube
Sam shook his head with a smile.
SAM: Trying new things is good for him, expands his horizons.
There was a pause during which Mama offered him another piece of sweet potato pie. Sam declined politely and waited while the night nurse convinced his mother to change into her pajamas. Sam's phone chimed again.
STEVE: He's going to destroy something if he tries to do it alone. What do I say to try to stop him?
STEVE: There must be some psychological tool I can use on him to keep him from trying to do this alone
STEVE: Help me
STEVE: Please
SAM: Allowing him to extend charity to those who need it is a healthy way for him to process guilt from his previous actions
STEVE: Come on man
SAM: Seriously, how much damage can he really do?
STEVE: With a hammer and crowbar, unsupervised? This doesn't concern you a little?
SAM: Cut him some slack. You know he likes learning new stuff. Helps his brain recover.
STEVE: Stop playing the trauma card.
STEVE: OMG he just found a cat video and he's mesmerized.
Sam helped the night nurse convince Mama to put on pajamas because it was night, and you wore pajamas at night. He spent five minutes explaining to Mama that Sam wasn't wearing pajamas because he had to drive home soon, and he couldn't drive home in pajamas. Yes, it was night. No, the night nurse wasn't wearing pajamas, she was wearing – yes, fine, they were pajamas, Mama; could you please just put on your pajamas for me? Please?
The night nurse thanked him, and he sighed and returned to the kitchen to finish the dishes. Mama had burned the sweet potato pie again. She had never burned pies before. Sam's heart hurt in ways he didn't think it could, even after Iraq.
His phone buzzed. He dried his hands and checked. Steve again. My god, could the world survive a retired Captain America?
STEVE: Bucky has just watched twelve cat videos
STEVE: And now he's watching a Pop Tart cat pooping a rainbow
STEVE: And talking about My Little Pony
STEVE: Apparently the white pony has a white cat. He still says he can fix the roof.
STEVE: He just put the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge
STEVE: Who eats breakfast at twenty two hundred anyway?
STEVE: Do you see the problem here?
Sam sighed. He loved Steve like a brother, but it got old playing Freud for Captain America's personal Manchurian Candidate. Before he could reply, Steve sent another text.
STEVE: I hope I can talk him out of it. You are no help whatsoever, by the way.
STEVE: I just need to keep Bucky off Mrs. Schumacher's roof before he falls through it and wrecks her place even worse than it's already wrecked.
SAM: Think you should let him give it a shot.
STEVE: Has anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass?
SAM: Part of my charm.
STEVE: I think you need to look that word up in the dictionary.
"You want some sweet potato pie, sugar?" smiled Mama. She stood buck-naked in the kitchen, the night nurse hurrying after her with a pair of adult diapers and a harried expression on her face.
ME: I gotta go. But I still think you should let him.
STEVE: If I do, you need to come down here and run interference.
"No, Mama," said Sam gently, guiding his naked mother out of the kitchen. "Pie's all gone and I washed up. Time for bed."
"Already?" said Mama, looking bewildered. "But you just got here, Samuel!"
"Come on, Mrs. Wilson," said the night nurse good-naturedly. "It's nighttime. Let's get ready for bed."
SAM: Kinda busy here, Steve.
STEVE: YOU. ARE. RETIRED.
"But we haven't had dinner yet," argued Mama. She looked up at Sam, her eyes hurt and confused. "I have to get you some dinner, sugar," she pleaded.
"We had dinner, Mama," said Sam gently. "It was real good, too. Mm," he said, smiling and rubbing his stomach. "I had two pieces of that sweet potato pie."
"You did always like my sweet potato pie," said Mama, her face collapsing into smile lines. She turned to look at the nurse. "Oh my," she whispered. "Samuel, there's a white lady in my kitchen."
Sam was going to introduce them again, but realized at the last minute he had no idea what this particular night nurse's name was. They'd gone through so many. "She's just here to help us out, Mama," said Sam. "Now go put on your pajamas."
"Why?" asked Mama, bewildered, as the night nurse led her back to the bedroom.
SAM: You're an asshole.
STEVE: Language, Wilson
Sam put the phone down and helped the night nurse wrangle Mama back into her pajamas. The new meds worked a lot faster than the old ones, and she was getting sleepy and compliant. Still, it took them both to get her into the low bed in her pink, rose-papered bedroom, and she fussed until Sam moved the photo of his parents, a very old one that had been taken at a Sears Photo studio, lined up so she could see it from where she lay. He kissed his mother good-night, promised her he'd see her the next day, and followed the night nurse into the kitchen. She had her kit out, and was organizing meds and supplies.
"We good to go?" he asked, stretching out his back. Crawling around on the linoleum was hell.
"I believe so," she said. She smiled at him, professional, competent. "She'll be fine. I'll call you if there's anything to be concerned about."
"Of course," said Sam, gripped again by guilt. It felt horrible to leave Mama here with a virtual stranger, despite how much money he laid down to the Home Health agency for the privilege of sleeping in his own bed every night. "You've got my home and cell – "
"WHO ARE YOU?" Sam and the nurse jumped reflexively. Mama was standing at the bedroom door, pointing accusingly at the night nurse. She had wet herself, the adult diapers unable to contain all the liquid. "Samuel! How dare you bring this woman into my house? Just wait until your father gets home!"
Sam bit back a groan. He was so, so tired.
Once he had calmed her down and the nurse had her settled into bed watching Judge Judy on DVR, Sam checked his phone. Steve had left a string of messages, ranging in subject matter from Bucky's pig-headedness, the Homeowner's Association Committee Meeting the night before at which Bucky had caused a stir with his proposal to curb the incidents of dog shit on lawns, and a sudden and disturbing interest in Florida State property tax laws.
Sam closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Steve could be exhausting. He could only imagine what it would be like if Bucky took it into his Swiss cheese brain to text message about the same subjects.
XXXX
He could've asked Clint, because at that moment Clint Barton glanced down at his phone, chiming softly on the table next to his work bench. He opened the text message and smiled.
BUCKY: U KNOW HOW 2 INSTALL A NEW ROOF?
CLINT: SURE, NEED HELP?
BUCKY: PLS? KIDS OK?
CLINT: SUMMER CAMP, LAURA IS A COUNSELOR, I'M BORED, BE THERE TOMORROW
BUCKY: TKS
Clint drained his beer bottle, threw a tarp over his latest project, and went upstairs to pack.