She looked at the neatly arranged screws she’d removed the day before.
Then at me.
“Where is Harold?”
“Garage.”
“Tell him I need help holding this.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Are you putting it back?”
“Tell him I need help holding this.”
Grace sighed.
“I suppose I went too far.”
“You took off my bedroom door.”
She looked at it.
“Yes.”
A few seconds passed.
Then she tried again.
“I went too far.”
“You did.”
“I suppose I went too far.”
Grace nodded.
It wasn’t an apology.
Not quite.
But it was the first sentence all week that didn’t require me to surrender something in return.
Harold came upstairs.
He looked at the screwdriver in his mother’s hand.
Then at me.
It wasn’t an apology.
I stepped aside.
Together, they lifted the bedroom door toward its hinges.
Grace reached for the first screw.
Twenty minutes later, the door was hanging where it belonged.
Harold opened and closed it twice.
Grace watched.
“Satisfied?”
“Very,” I said.
The door was hanging where it belonged.
Harold handed her the guest-room doorknob.
Grace stared at it.
“You’re giving this back?”
“Of course.”
He walked with her to the guest room and put it back.
