Composite

With our house in sight, I press the garage door opener, hoping to minimize the time Paul can  stare at the shutter.  I keep pressing the opener, but it’s not until we’re in the driveway that the door begins rumbling open. Another thing the home inspector and I missed at the inspection; the old man selling the place  certainly snuck a few things past us.

In his car seat, Paul stares up at the shutter, which flanks the left side of his bedroom window. The bottom left portion of the shutter has pulled away from the brick. “It’s okay, bud,” I say, “Three of the four screws are in. Tight. It’s not going anywhere.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t know that.”

The four shutters have 16 screws; 15 pin shutter flush against brick. Why hadn’t the home inspector seen the 16th? The seller should have been the one driving to Home Depot for replacement “hunter green” shutter screws. Maybe I should have taken Paul to the inspection.

I coast into the garage, listen as the door rumbles shut. I hope Amy doesn’t hand me the baby until I’ve at least gotten out of my suit.

I grab the box of shutter screws off the front seat, set it down next to the ladder I borrowed last night from my next-door neighbor. The screws are designed for composite shutters, but the salesman assured me they work just fine on vinyl shutters.   As I let Paul out of his car seat,  I remind him to try and relax tonight.

Last night at dinner Paul begged God not to let the broken shutter pull  away from the brick and start a chain reaction resulting in the house’s entire face getting sucked into the street, the force shooting his baby sister, like a catapulted stone, into the windshield of our neighbor’s Lexus.

As I spoon baby food into  Sarah’s mouth,  Paul bolts up from his seat and grabs the baby chair.  He squats down, gripping its front two  thin legs.

Tonight’s prayer is even longer. While he details the results of the baby’s impact into the windshield, I pat his shoulder. “Get back in your seat, buddy.”  He lets go of  one baby chair leg and grabs  Sarah’s  hand. I have to pull hard to get his hand off.

Amy scoops up Sarah, who is  crying,  and walks out.  Over her shoulder she says,  “Dan, fix the  shutter already, okay?”

“Planning to.”

After the bedroom door bangs shut upstairs, I help Paul to his feet. The two of us sit at the table, picking at our sandwiches. I try not to stare at him, already more fearful and anxious than I ever was.

After I’ve done the dishes, I browbeat him into a game of “Connect Four.” He keeps looking out front. I keep glancing upstairs. Eventually, he wins.

In his room, he pleads with God not to disfigure Sarah. At his request, I join him on the stained carpet, giving myself over to whatever presence he feels.

I blow into my fingers again, glance down at the ladder base. According to Wikipedia, every year at least 200,000 ladder climbers  end up in the ER.

According to the “ehow” directions, I just need to remove the snapped screw parts with the drill, then use needle nose pliers to snatch the shards. Once the shutter hole and brick hole have been cleaned out, the new screw should jam this shutter  fully into place.

I drill deep into the elfin screw encased by brick. The drill bit gets stuck. After six attempts, I’m able to yank it out.  I pretend not to  notice Paul watching me through his window.

I climb down the ladder, dig through my toolbox, a wedding gift from my dad. Even with a larger drill bit, I’m unable to  yank the screw out of the brick. “Fuck this,” I say, feeling both childish and good.

Upstairs, Paul’s door creaks when I open it. I make a mental note to get WD-40. I join Paul, staring at the shutter’s warped bottom, no more than eight centimeters away from the brick. I can still picture Paul’s face, after he emerged from using Amy’s obstetrics unit toilet six months ago.  Turned out the toilet seat rim had three drops of Amy’s blood. For weeks, Paul couldn’t fall asleep without me whispering assurances that Mommy wasn’t going to  bleed to death.

Maybe I’ll hire a handyman.  Or maybe I’ll talk to Amy again about taking  Paul to a pro.  I vetoed the idea last week but maybe she’s right.  Even if the shutter is fixed, within a day or two,  Paul will be obsessing over a creaky stair, a leaky sink faucet, some new scratch on the baby.

Paul moves away from the window, squats down. Tonight I don’t wait to be asked.  On our knees, hands clasped, I repeat after him: “God, tonight please let this house be spared.”