The inspiration for this story came from a post I saw on one of those "positivity" social media feeds. It was only a few sentences long with a couple of pictures, but it struck a chord with me, and a few hectic days of writing and editing later, here we are.
Most of my usual caveats apply: the story is quite long (even for me) and has a slow build (which makes sense, I guess, given its length). Unlike many of my stories, however, there is actually a bit of sex in this one. But if sex is what you're looking for, I can almost guarantee you will be disappointed in the ratio of Lit to Erotica.
With those caveats in mind, and with thanks to my wife for her fine editing skills, I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
CGN
The Plumber, The Painter, and the Wind off the Lake
PROLOGUE
I have never been much for following instructions or doing what I'm told.
In eighth grade, we were assigned to make a volcano in science class. I figured that if the eruption looked good with a couple of tablespoons of baking soda, then it would look even better with the whole container! And what better place for a natural disaster than the teacher's desk at the front of the class. I was right; the whole container of baking soda produced an impressive explosion. What I didn't count on, however, was it producing a week-long suspension from school and a beating from my mother.
In high school, we had to take an art class to graduate. Our teacher loved still life drawing and would ramble endlessly about how it revealed the beauty that is in the everyday objects that surround us. I guess he wanted us to reveal the beauty in the bowl of fruit that he had put in the middle of the classroom, but the most beautiful things that I could see were Brittany Johnson's D-cups which filled out her sweater gloriously. At the end of the class, there were 29 drawings of a bowl of fruit and one drawing of a beautiful girl's smile (amongst other details). Although I was suspended for two days, I got a date with Brittany who loved my drawing, so I feel like I came out ahead on that one.
In my last year of school, the final mathematics exam asked the following question:
Determine the points of intersection between the following parabolas and lines. Illustrate fully
.
While the other students slaved away to solve the listed problems in the allotted time, I fully illustrated a drawing of our math teacher, Mr. Aaronson, dancing a slow waltz in a field of sunflowers with Ms. Stevens, the geography teacher. It was the worst-kept secret in the school that our two shyest teachers had massive crushes on each other, and after four years of watching them pine away, I thought they could use a little push.
I failed the test, but Mr. Aaronson showed my drawing to Ms. Stevens during a particularly dull staff meeting, and when it made her blush and smile, he finally got up the courage to ask her out. They are now married and have a little girl who is as cute as a button. At the end of the year, Mr. Aaronson asked me if I planned to pursue math in the future, and when I assured him that I did not, he gave me a passing grade.
So, what was my problem, you might ask? Was I just one of those kids who didn't give a shit and was destined for mediocrity or failure in life? Like many things, the answer is more complicated than it might first appear, but I am getting ahead of myself. Our story starts on an unusually cold and blustery afternoon in late October, on the north-eastern shore of Lake Michigan about a half hour's drive north of Petoskey, just outside a village called Good Hart.
CHAPTER 1
It had been a busy day. The perfect storm of an early season snap freeze, strong winds, and lake-effect snow meant that there was a couple of inches of snow on the still soggy ground, along with a number of leaky or burst pipes, malfunctioning valves, and boiler issues as people cranked their heating systems up to full for the first time that year. As a plumber, though, I didn't mind. It just meant more work for me, which was always a good thing.
At only 25 years of age, and despite being a master plumber, I was generally the last choice for folks to call, even in an emergency. Anyone with money chose one of the larger and more established plumbing contractors, leaving me with the jobs that they didn't feel were worth their time or effort. That's how I found myself pulling into the laneway of an older house, just off Lamkin Road down by the lake, late that Friday afternoon. It was my last job of the day, but I would be working over the weekend to catch up on my backlog, so I wanted to get it done.
The house looked like it hadn't been updated since it was built, likely in the late fifties or early sixties, other than a couple of coats of paint and a new roof when the original finally gave up the ghost. The front gardens were neatly tended, however, and the property itself was stunning, with panoramic views in three directions out over the lake. The sun was just beginning to dip toward the western horizon as I drove up, so the trees cast long shadows across the laneway.
The house was owned by Mrs. Wilma C. Anderson, who had called me earlier in the day to say that some of her radiators weren't working and that her boiler was making one hell of a racket when she turned it on. I told her to shut the system down and that I would look at it by the end of the day. She sounded quite elderly, and I didn't like the idea of her going without heat for a night during a cold snap.
I rang the doorbell and waited until a tiny wisp of a woman answered. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall and looked older than the hills, but her face was full of life, and her eyes had a twinkle that spoke of humor and mischief.
"Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I'm Davis Crawford. You called earlier about some issues with your boiler and heating system. How can I help?"
Mrs. Anderson gave me an appraising look.
"I wasn't expecting you to be such a handsome young man. If I were fifty years younger, I would tell you exactly how you could help me, and then I'd teach you a trick or two I learned over the years. But I am too old for that kind of foolishness these days, so I will just have to make use of your plumbing expertise instead. And please, call me Wilma."
I couldn't help but laugh and blush at Wilma's surprisingly raunchy sense of humor. I liked her immediately.
"Let's try that again. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, the biggest problem is that I am 91 years old and dying of cancer. The doctors give me less than a year to live. But aside from that, I really can't complain. I have had a good run of it."
I cocked my head to one side and gave her a bemused look.
"Oh, you were wondering what the problem is with my heating system. Well, I turned it on this morning when I got up, and the boiler sounded like there was someone trapped inside of it trying to hammer their way out. There was a worrisome hissing from some of the radiators, as well, and they weren't heating up worth a damn.
"My husband, Phillip, used to take care of those things for us, but he has been gone for almost five years now, so I hate to think what you will find when you look around."