Leaving New York

Chapter 42

Several days later, after Gar tried to get in touch with Phillipe, he said, "Did something happen between you two?"

I lied and said, "No." I hoped Gar would fire him even though there was still a little work to be done that I didn't know how to do. Finally, the jerk texted me an article about Adam winning some game.

I wrote back saying he needed to finish the roof.

He said, "I will finish pronto but don't need a helper anymore."

I said, "Fine—I'm busy anyway."

I told Gar he would be there soon.

When I was in the kitchen the next day, I heard someone struggling with keys to the front door. I walked into the cavernous hallway and swung the big red door open. Phillipe stood there looking befuddled. I said, "You never could get that door open." He had a five-gallon bucket of roofing compound in one hand and his tool belt in the other.

We smirked at each other; I wanted to hold him then punch him in the nose.

"It won't take long—I will do by myself."

"Fine."

I watched Phillipe trudge upstairs, then went to the kitchen.

What could I do? He was a profound racist; his beliefs went against every fiber of my being. Somehow, a miraculous power came over me, like I was two people, one directing the other. I poured two cups of coffee, walked up three flights of stairs slowly, steadily. I threw open the attic door; Phillipe was smearing roof compound over what I knew were the last leaks.

"I thought you might like a coffee."

He grabbed one, sipping it slowly. My resolve began to fade—I looked around at the eaves, searching for something to say.

I blurted out, "I got a lot of changes to think about."

"What changes?"

"Like what you said—I do too much."

"What is it you want to do?"

"More outdoor stuff."

"Like garden?"

"Right. I might as well tell you I been working way beyond what my room and board is worth."

"That's no surprise. I work too much, too, as I said before. I'll finish in two hours--done."

"I . . . I . . . I'm going to miss you, Phillipe."

"I can't imagine that—I'm such a racist, fascist pig."

I grabbed him, his coffee cup falling. "I love you, man. Maybe we don't agree on everything, but you're a good man."

He pulled back, picking up the pieces of the broken mug.

"Let me finish—twenty minutes. I'm so hungry; I didn't eat breakfast. I take you to "Villa Punjab."

"On Leon Jost? It's so far."

"We go in the truck, you big pussy."

I splashed water on my face and put on my new Old Navy pullover. Phillipe stood in the doorway with his bucket. "I have to come back and get all the tools—they're everywhere. I lose them all the time—it gets expensive." We trotted to the truck then dove into frenetic Paris traffic. At the restaurant, I plopped down in the booth ordering, "Panek Paneer and water." I couldn't believe I was sitting with Phillippe. I still hated his belief system, but it comforted me to be with him.