Hanson's perfect teeth, a blond flip, and matching sweaters and skirts, long after the girls he knew were wearing jeans. He also remembers that Didi was a cheerleader and that she took it seriously, like a course.
"We've got two boys ourselves. Tom junior's fourteen
now, a handful. Ellis, the little one, is nine going on two, if you know what I mean."
Andrew isn't sure he does, but he nods. "I'd planned to stay a week," he answers, "fixing up the place before I put it on the market."
As soon as he says the word
market,
an unwelcome suspicion enters his thoughts. Has T.J. sniffed a potential sale and come looking for a client? Do real estate salesmen routinely read death notices in the papers? Or, to give his friend the benefit of the doubt, did T.J. really hear of Andrew's mother's death only this morning from a client? He can imagine the conversation:
I'm sorry to hear that,
T.J. would have said, immediately calculating how to get the edge, the same quality that, in another era, had made him the best hockey player the county had ever seen.
Her son, Andy, and I used to be real close friends.
"You selling?" asks T.J., too casually, bending down and peering out the kitchen window, as if something out there had caught his attention.
"I guess," says Andrew.
"Really," T.J. says, standing up but not quite meeting Andrew's gaze. "Well, shit, you need a hand, I'd be glad to help outâfor old times' sake, like. To be perfectly frank, I don't really handle such small layouts these days, but seeing as how we're old friends..." He looks around the kitchen as if eyeing it afresh, but Andrew has the sudden and distinct impression he's been taking inventory since he walked in the door.
"Whadda you want for it?" T.J. asks.
Andrew shrugs. "I've no idea. What do you think?"
"It's in pretty bad shape," says T.J., "and pretty isolated except for the Close house, and that's not an asset, if you follow me....I dunno, maybe a hundred. One twenty-five."
Andrew nods. He is certain that T.J. has made these
calculations earlier in the day. They fall from his tongue too quickly.
But since Andrew hasn't committed himself to any other real estate agent, and because he wants only to make the transaction as painless as possible, he begins to see the arrival of T.J. as remarkably fortuitous, if not entirely coincidental. He wonders if T.J. feels the same awkward distance from their friendship as he himself doesâor if he even cares.
"Be my guest," he says.
T.J. shakes his hand. "Excellent," he says, smiling and giving himself away completely. "I'll be speaking to you later about the details, and as soon as I talk to Didi, we'll have you around. I'd pick a date now, but I have to ask Didiâyou know how women are."
Andrew winces inwardly. He doesn't know how women are any more than he suspects T.J. does, but there is something in the use of the cliche that tells Andrew that his friend's marriage isn't good. The knowledge surprises himâand then he wonders if perhaps he's mistaken, if the marriage is only not good that day, that week, that morning. If T.J. had come by last week, he wonders, would Andrew have sensed a different marriage? One more intimate, more hopeful? He knows that for most of his own marriage, its character often changed from one day to the next, depending sometimes on circumstances, sometimes on whether or not he and Martha had made love that morning.
"So," says T.J., shifting his weight against the sink.
Now that business, in its own way, has been conducted, Andrew can smell T.J.'s need to be moving on. It's human nature. Andrew has done it countless times himself.
T.J. picks up his jacket and puts it on. Andrew notices that there are beads of perspiration On T.J.'s upper lip. They move toward the door, open it and stand together on the stoop. They are both looking out at the other house.
"You seen Eden yet?" asks T.J.
"No, I haven't."
"I don't think I've seen her six times in ten years," says T.J. "And
"We've got two boys ourselves. Tom junior's fourteen
now, a handful. Ellis, the little one, is nine going on two, if you know what I mean."
Andrew isn't sure he does, but he nods. "I'd planned to stay a week," he answers, "fixing up the place before I put it on the market."
As soon as he says the word
market,
an unwelcome suspicion enters his thoughts. Has T.J. sniffed a potential sale and come looking for a client? Do real estate salesmen routinely read death notices in the papers? Or, to give his friend the benefit of the doubt, did T.J. really hear of Andrew's mother's death only this morning from a client? He can imagine the conversation:
I'm sorry to hear that,
T.J. would have said, immediately calculating how to get the edge, the same quality that, in another era, had made him the best hockey player the county had ever seen.
Her son, Andy, and I used to be real close friends.
"You selling?" asks T.J., too casually, bending down and peering out the kitchen window, as if something out there had caught his attention.
"I guess," says Andrew.
"Really," T.J. says, standing up but not quite meeting Andrew's gaze. "Well, shit, you need a hand, I'd be glad to help outâfor old times' sake, like. To be perfectly frank, I don't really handle such small layouts these days, but seeing as how we're old friends..." He looks around the kitchen as if eyeing it afresh, but Andrew has the sudden and distinct impression he's been taking inventory since he walked in the door.
"Whadda you want for it?" T.J. asks.
Andrew shrugs. "I've no idea. What do you think?"
"It's in pretty bad shape," says T.J., "and pretty isolated except for the Close house, and that's not an asset, if you follow me....I dunno, maybe a hundred. One twenty-five."
Andrew nods. He is certain that T.J. has made these
calculations earlier in the day. They fall from his tongue too quickly.
But since Andrew hasn't committed himself to any other real estate agent, and because he wants only to make the transaction as painless as possible, he begins to see the arrival of T.J. as remarkably fortuitous, if not entirely coincidental. He wonders if T.J. feels the same awkward distance from their friendship as he himself doesâor if he even cares.
"Be my guest," he says.
T.J. shakes his hand. "Excellent," he says, smiling and giving himself away completely. "I'll be speaking to you later about the details, and as soon as I talk to Didi, we'll have you around. I'd pick a date now, but I have to ask Didiâyou know how women are."
Andrew winces inwardly. He doesn't know how women are any more than he suspects T.J. does, but there is something in the use of the cliche that tells Andrew that his friend's marriage isn't good. The knowledge surprises himâand then he wonders if perhaps he's mistaken, if the marriage is only not good that day, that week, that morning. If T.J. had come by last week, he wonders, would Andrew have sensed a different marriage? One more intimate, more hopeful? He knows that for most of his own marriage, its character often changed from one day to the next, depending sometimes on circumstances, sometimes on whether or not he and Martha had made love that morning.
"So," says T.J., shifting his weight against the sink.
Now that business, in its own way, has been conducted, Andrew can smell T.J.'s need to be moving on. It's human nature. Andrew has done it countless times himself.
T.J. picks up his jacket and puts it on. Andrew notices that there are beads of perspiration On T.J.'s upper lip. They move toward the door, open it and stand together on the stoop. They are both looking out at the other house.
"You seen Eden yet?" asks T.J.
"No, I haven't."
"I don't think I've seen her six times in ten years," says T.J. "And
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