A Builder's Tale - Chapter Five

Top audio is AI trying to sound human  

Above audio (2nd) is Female Hal. Think pace Odyssey

Audio works best if listened to while reading text, please ignore mispronunciations, including Mackinaw Island. And poor AI intonation and accents.

             CHAPTER FIVE

  There are no peaceful times

and if there were

you would not have them

       I’ve done what I can, thought Wilson.  He was ready, but anxious over the upcoming meeting with Tim and Daphne, and its expected result, plan approval, and a start to digging the foundation.  The house fit the property.  It was grand in appearance, style and function.  He had balanced the western sun with overhangs and hidden blinds so late afternoon would remain temperate inside.   Spaces flowed and beams soared, with the great room ridge appropriate, and not too high.  The day before with Grace had provided him confidence and assurance of this outcome despite her humor and suggestions of necessary ivy and library lions.    

      Already that morning he had been making phone calls, placating and then reassuring his team of subcontractors that their waiting days were over—that any fears of a future ‘boy who called wolf’ scenario were misplaced. He had called Brown, the excavator, first thing.  Then, perhaps presumptuously, he had scheduled concrete for a week from Monday, promising that the Stevens’ foundation hole would be empty, ready, and waiting.  The plans were complete except for any requested changes.  It would be a fine building.   He knew well that Monday on the concrete really meant Friday, and Dan from Boyd Cement knew this, too.  Any hold up would come from Digger Brown.

     Hurrah!  He would build soon, beginning his race with winter.  It was the construction game. With the meeting eight days off, he waited tight for funds.  Finally, with approval, he expected a speedy payment, enough to make him whole and enough for the excavation and foundation…Onward. 

      He thought of sailing.   Often, in the past, when he had time to use his boat, real time, a week or more.  He had instead looked for work, or money, or both.   There were many instances, in retrospect, when he should have, could have, taken advantage of the ‘Anomie’ and gone sailing.  Waiting for the phone to ring had never proved successful.  This time, it would be different.  He was going to call Tim, make sure that they were still on for next weekend...then stock the boat and grab the cat...he could be gone in an hour.  There was enough stuff here at the house, just three trips with the dinghy, then off to Beaver Island, and who knows, maybe Mackinac again. 

      He and his cat, on his boat, spinnaker flying beneath the great bridge towers.  The Mackinac Bridge, a man-made wonder.  He knew from experience, its scale was difficult to fathom, all sense of perspective gone until you passed beneath it.  From a distance, rising for twenty miles, after the eastward turn at Gray’s reef, hourly growing larger to the eye…believing from a distance that surely your mast would buckle upon impact, until you were finally there, the bridge’s immensity apparent, towering high above your little sloop…you and your vessel by comparison insignificant.   

     Booze, Beaver and books, and lapping water dinners at the Shamrock—If he felt like rowing to shore?  Otherwise, brie and wine and the left-over croissant.   Maybe two days on Beaver and then on to Mackinac.  And depending on the wind, if not Mackinac Island, he would just go wherever the wind would let him, Harbor Springs, or back Southwest, and to Wisconsin.

     He tried Tim on the phone.  There was no answer.  Then he tried the “mobile”, no answer there either.  So, he stocked the boat and let Ivy follow him down the hill until she realized the dinghy was her fate, trying to run, hide, but she was too slow and he tossed her in the bow and left the shore before she could leap out.  The cat finally calming by the time they reached the boat.  The Anomie was the same as the car for her.  There had been many trips, and she knew the outcome.   As soon as she was aboard, Ivy dashed below. 

      He made one more trip back up the hill to check that appliances were off, and the door locked, the key hidden.  Then attempted to contact Tim.  Nothing, and again nothing, and then Tim’s machine.  He left a final message.  Almost out the door, the phone rang.  It was Tim, all static, breaking in and out. 

     “Wilson, I was meaning to call you.  We have to talk.  We may want to see you this weekend.  But I’m not sure.”

      “You’re breaking up.  Ok, I hear you.  What?  I was just about to take off on my boat.  Cat’s aboard, it’s stocked. I’m gone ‘till next weekend.  That’s what you said, wasn’t it, next weekend?  And by the way, I have a plan ready and waiting for you and Daphne.”

The phone snapped and cracked.

      “Hello, hello, are you there?”

Damn, thought Wilson, I’ve lost him.  But then Tim was back.

        “Yeah, but things have changed.  That’s why I called.  We may be on for this weekend.  There’s some stuff we need to go over, discuss.  Hey, if we are?  Can you pick us up at the airport?  The plane’s available, but it’s up to Daphne.”

       Fuck, thought Wilson, and I’m all set to go.  Damn, but that was the business.  Abernathy Building and Design: We grovel for you.  He had liked that T-shirt, with the picture beneath the words, a prostrate carpenter raising his eyes and hammer skyward, almost in supplication.  His lawyer had hated it, his banker too.  Some of his returning employees probably still had theirs.  He had one, somewhere…

      “OK, what time?”

The phone was crackling again.

     “Doh, doh, don’t know…are you there…can you hear me?”

     “I hear you,” he said, then muttering to himself, I should never have called.  

      “I’m not sure.  I’m on to Columbus.  Gor, Eh, eh, Gourmet’s, Crack, crack.  Daphne will call.  Got to go, you’re breaking up.  Crack, crack, weekend,”…  

     “When, what time?” 

     “She’ll call, just hang in there.  Bye.”

     It was Thursday.   What was he supposed to do, just hang about and wait?  Assholes!  Better get the cat.  You can still sail for the day, but he had lost his enthusiasm.  Tim’s call having layered his expectations with renewed concern.  What did they have to talk about anyway, and why had Tim not  set a time?  'Get out now, get out...escape!  But you can’t, can you?’  His demon laughed.

                                           *******************

     Tim was roaring along the expressway, doing ninety-five.  That was kind of lousy, he thought.  But what the hell, he is working for me.  If I have to deal with Daphne, then so will Wilson.  On to Columbus.  Maybe he could still talk her into getting rid of that Philippe. 

     What a mess.  He thought of their meeting the previous day.  Philippe sketching for Daphne, and he, trying to defend his choice of Wilson, and getting nowhere.  What had Wilson said?  He had the plan all finished.  This could be a mess.  Well, too much to worry about, just keep Philippe away from ‘Gourmet’s Everyone’ and Philippe could have Daphne and the house, and all the Mighty Burgers he could eat.  Perhaps it would be a good thing, give Daphne someone else to hassle.  He did not need to worry about Philippe and Daphne, together…having a thing.  That guy was definitely interested in different terrain.       

                                              ******************

       Ivy was nowhere to be found, but Wilson could hear her whining.  Where and the hell had she got to? The boat was only thirty-three feet.  Meow, Meow…sorrowful cat crying.  He looked in the head.  The door to the valve was open.  She was down in the bilge.  Trapped! 

       Meow, Meow. 

      “Ivy, Ivy?” 

Wilson stuck his face down by the head, attempting to see into the little door that accessed the valve, sending waste to the holding tank or to the sea.   The meows growing louder.  “Come here, come here,” Meow, a hiss.  Great. 

Then he returned to the main cabin and began to remove the sole.  Reaching in, he felt a tail, but when he tugged, the meows increased and the tail didn’t budge.  Ok, the forepeak.  He pulled up the cushions of the V birth, then the hatch, pushing his head into the cavity beneath…Peering into an awkward smelly dark bilge.  Two shining eyes looked back. 

      More meows and howling.

      “Ivy, Ivy.”

There she was, covered with bilge muck and diesel.  Wilson reached for her.  She snapped.  Scared and angry!   One lunge.  One grab, and he held a slippery head, a neck, then a body, pulling Ivy upward toward the light.  She immediately ran back and hid in the stern berth, dribbling diesel in a watery silver rainbow, refracting sludge behind her. 

     “Ok, Ok, it’s alright.” 

      Wilson grabbed the cat and moved into the cockpit, his intention to climb down into the Dinghy…Ivy freaked and squirming, slimy from bilge muck.  But, as he stepped to the Tender, she pulled herself free and leaped, missing and hitting the water.  This, in turn, caused him to lose his balance and fall in behind her.  Boy, can that cat swim.  She was off like a rocket and by the time he located his glasses (fallen to the bottom) and climbed into the dinghy, she was halfway to the shore.  He never caught up.  Ivy landed wet, bedraggled like a rat, and shot up the hillside, racing through the rising trees.  Great, he thought.  Assholes. 

      Unable to locate the cat and still wet and dripping, his glasses smeared by the lake bottom, Wilson rowed back to the Anomie and uncorked the Old Draper he had planned to leave virgin, until anchored peacefully at Beaver Island.  Dumping it and some ice into a coffee mug, he chugged it down, added more, then located a half-smoked joint inside the chart table.  After a puff, he changed his mind, put it out in the cup, then dumped it and the remaining whiskey down the drain, deciding to clean his boat instead of getting wasted.  After inserting a cassette of Straus waltzes, he removed the cockpit cushions and found the chemical scrub and his boat brush.   

     He recalled Grace’s comment that the only time she ever saw a man, or men with mops, was when they were cleaning their boats.  Not entirely true, but somewhat… And the more affluent the man, the more likely.  (Grace tried to hang out with monied men. At least they were the ones she spent time observing. She would not have been thinking of her plumber)

     Squeezing the chemical miracle stuff (Wonder Clean on the container) on the spider spots, little tiny specs of black and green, which arrived along with their cobweb magic every night.  There were a week of nights and a lot of spots.  Tossing a bucket over the side, then lifting it filled from the clean lake, he dumped water on the deck, then squirted Wonder Clean.  Then, with the Blue Danube as background, he moved around the boat, head down, leaning on the brush, four circumnavigations of the boat's perimeter and twice through the cockpit, scrubbing, sweating, slipping now and again, cleaning to waltzes in a dance with dirt, in three-four time.  

     When he was finished, he replaced the awning and the white upholstered cushions.  Now a beer and Butterfly, Madama Butterfly, Puccini, ever so cute some said, but he loved the man's music.

      Small waves lapped against the hull, a slap now and then, a small spray of water, the ‘Anomie’ twisted with the wind, east and west, on her mooring.  The teak looked lustrous in the covered cockpit shadow.  He would call Daphne later.   A breeze drifted across him, and Butterfly sang in the early excited happiness of the opera.  Before everything went to shit for her, before the American Hero / Ugly American stole her kid and she killed herself.  Is my life starting to become a libretto?  Perhaps…but things are peaceful now.

     This was the wrong thing to think because as soon as Wilson settled in, to the peaceful pleasure of the afternoon, the peace departed, replaced by noise.  A kid on a jet ski, macho, roaring, racing as fast and loud as he could around the bay.   Yikes…. the fool’s only twenty feet off the shore, must be doing fifty.  If there was ever a time for a shotgun.  Then he realized the moron was probably unaware of the wrecks. 

     In the bay in front of his house lay scuttled schooners.  Before his property had become desirable lake frontage, it had been the lake’s only convenient sheltered place, with a shallow bottom.   For years, this was where they had brought the ships to die.  Now, they had been dead so long that their remains were substantially beneath the waves and dangerous as hell, with old metal bars and fasteners turned into rusted spears lying just below the surface. 

      Wilson leaped up and started shouting; the kid roared by waving and then he stood up, showing off.

     “Hey, Hey!  Slow down, there are wrecks out there!”

The kid paid him no mind and went speeding by.  Then, jet ski whining, he left it behind, soaring through the air, landing in the middle of one of the sunken hulls.  Wilson jumped in the dinghy.  Stupid fucker.

      “You alright, You alright?”

The kid retrieved his Jet Ski. Tanned and teenage thin, scrawny, sun blond hair covering his eyes…he shook it back.  “Nothing too it, man.”

     “You could have been killed.  Slowdown in here,” said Wilson.  Looking at this wet sap of a macho kid thinking I used to be just like that… nothing to it!

    “I’m fine, see you.”

The kid restarted the engine and sped off as fast as his whine would carry him.   Wilson recollecting his youth.  What the fuck had happened to him?  Was it wisdom or stupidity, or both? 

     He rowed back to the Anomie, turned off the stereo and then back to shore to see if he could find the cat.  Ivy was still lost or hiding.  Her hiding, his lost.  The phone rang.

    “Hello, hello, is this Wilson?  It’s Daphne, Wilson.”

    “Hi Daphne, how are you?”

     “Did Tim call?”

     “Sure did. He said you might be coming up this weekend.” 

She sounded happy and chipper.  Dingy Daphne, he thought.

     “I’m bringing Philippe. We’ll take the plane.  Can you pick us up?  We’ll be there at 11:00, Saturday morning.

     “Sure,” he said.

     “And Wilson, could you...crack… crack… crack…Wilson…”

     “Yes”

    “You’re   up Wils.........Satur...........

The phone went dead.  Stupid cell phones.  Who was Philippe?  Probably some friend.  Sounds like a decorator, though.  Interior decorators, he had dealt with them before.  As soon as they saw his new plan... 

     Saturday, ok, so much for sailing, possibly he could steal away for three days, a long weekend, or early in the week…just to Beaver.  He could call from there...check on Brown, with Dan about the concrete, every day.  Sail back in a night if he had to.  Nice thought, but no.  He would be a fool not to be present for the beginning.  He had dealt with Brown and dirt before, and for the concrete… absolutely!

                                                    ****************

Saturday, Wilson awoke to a perfect morning.  Today, all would be well.  He could smell it in the air, in the breeze, from the flowers in the living room, the positive aroma of his morning coffee.  It was eight. He would be at the airport early, just in case… Be there by 10:30, waiting.  Shall I do one more view?  I have the one from the lake. Sure, why not?  One more rendering from the entrance…Downstairs to the computer, spin the image, set the view point, the angle, install the pen.  That was all there was to it now.  The information was all there.   Better add a few trees, a couple of bushes, another walk.  Wilson finished this and set the plotter to work drawing, then wandered back upstairs for another cup of coffee.  Lounging in the tree-filtered sunshine on his glass railed deck, La Mere, Debussy, playing in the background.

     Then he carefully laid out the plans on the floor in front of his fireplace, just so, just right, and the renderings center stage displayed on his dining table.  He cleaned up the flowers and dusted the coffee table, then headed out to pick up Tim, Daphne, and Philippe. Whoever he was?

     It would have been a great day for sailing.  The wind was north and he could smell the crisp, pine-tangy sweetness of it as he waited at the drawbridge, watching six sail boats, in a line, file through.  Something about sailboats, the shine, the spars. He had loved them since he was a child.  He supposed it was the adventure they spoke of, the possibility... like that first time off a cornice skiing, jumping into the unknown, the unforeseen, when you could not see the slope below, boulders, rocks, or snow conditions.  But sailing was usually more benign, unless one found disaster.  He shook the memory from his head.  The bridge closed. People were everywhere on the streets of Beauville viewing stores, sitting on benches, soaking up the overwhelming cuteness of its inland harbor.  No wonder people wanted homes here?

      The airport, what could you say about it…run down and ratty.  One big stretched gable was all it was, that and dust, and a cyclone fence, Cessna’s, little Beeches, an executive jet or two.  He waited, looking south.  Every so often a plane would appear on the horizon, and he would think, ok, here we go.  Then it would land…Not them.  Over and over this happened, at 10:30, at 11:00, at noon, at 1:00.  He lost track and waited.  What the fuck, what am I doing here, back and forth, staring into the sky, plane after plane and never them?  He was wasting his whole day.  But he knew as soon as he left, that would be the moment, that would be the plane, so he remained and waited, and waited more.

      I’m just another servant, he thought... Then finally, a white sleek aircraft descended, taxied and stopped.  Out of it appeared Daphne, waving and waddling, and behind her a tall stick of a man.  Must be Philippe, he thought.  Then Tim.  They walked towards him.  Daphne in front jabbering away at Philippe, he looking down towards her, gesturing with his hands.

     “Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” said Tim.

Wilson looked at his watch. It was 1:45.

     “Well, actually I have, since 11.”

     “Eleven,” said Tim. “But we didn’t leave until one.  Daphne, he’s been waiting since eleven, didn’t you call?”

      Daphne stopped her conversation with Philippe for a moment.  “Oh, I forgot. Sorry Wilson, we’re here now,” she laughed.  “Where’s your car?  Come on Philippe.”

      They all climbed into his jeep and Wilson headed into Beauville, Tim quiet, Daphne and Philippe babbling away. “I love the floor plan,” he heard her say.  “Wilson, Philippe and I have the best new plan.”  Alert, alert. Did he hear her correctly?   He was their architect.   

    “What,” he said.  “But I have your new design finished.” 

Wilson turned to Tim, who was next to him, sitting in the front seat. “Finished!” Tim turned away.

      “We’ve spent all week.  We have a great plan,” said Daphne.

Wilson was in turmoil now.  “What?” he repeated… a different plan… their plan?  “You need to see the plan I’ve finished,” he said…again looking at Tim, who continued to gaze out the window in apparent and contrived ignorance. 

     “Ok,” said Daphne. “But I like what we have done.” 

     “I’ve come up with a great building.  I think you’ll like it, Buddy,” said Philippe.  Buddy?  Clearly, this Charlie-lite affectation of a man was not his buddy.      

     “What?  Who are you?  What are you?  Anyway!”

     “I’m designing the house; didn’t they tell you?”

      “No, they did not!”  Wilson’s lips compressed, his nose pinched, his eyebrows furled in confusion.  He did not know what to say, so he just drove and fumed, almost running over a couple of pedestrians ambling off the bridge…oblivious and   now completely ignorant of his surroundings, and the still beautiful day turned mid-afternoon.

     What was he to do now?  Philippe and Daphne continued to babble.  “Oh, that’s marvelous, so cute, so pretty. What a perfect little town.” Blah, Blah, Blah, Jesus, what a gasbag.  I’m screwed, well no, hold on.  They can still see your plan, sell yourself, sell it!  The car became quiet, and Wilson turned onto the long dirt meander of his drive. 

     “This doesn’t resemble what you described,” said Philippe. 

     “Oh, this is Wilson’s,” said Daphne.  “It’s really different, nothing like my pictures.”  The hammer in his head was throbbing now, and it wasn’t any little lightweight finish hammer of a throb.  It was a 28 ounces of big burly steel and wood framing hammer, ax ache… His pumping pulse so internally loud he wondered if the others could hear it?

    Wilson pulled up too fast, slammed on his brakes, and skidded to a dusty, gravel-spraying stop.  “Here,” he said, looking at Philippe.  “My place.”

     Philippe said nothing, gazing about, seemingly unimpressed.  Wilson’s house did not leap at one with immediate grandeur. No economic trumpets blared ‘I am special.  Look at me,’ at the entrance.  He had designed it that way on purpose, wishing for some mystery, some marvel to the structure.  The first impression was of a contemporary and almost humble building, the garage, an overhanging second floor, and then steps, and deck walks, and steps again.  The awareness dawning on the visitor that this was a much larger home than it initially appeared, until a glass oak entrance opened into a Great room, magnificent in surprise.  A room of soaring thick deep beams, a room of oak and white plastered walls and glass, which captured the forest and brought the outside in.  The mystery of it? It was his designed intention to bewilder and surprise.

     They walked into this room. Philippe carrying a satchel and ignoring Wilson’s plans on the floor.

     “Well, where should we look at this,” said Philippe, gesturing with his leather satchel, then looking out the windows, “You don’t believe in trim do you? And you certainly like blond wood.  This is really modern.” 

He turned to Wilson and held up the case.  “How about that table?” pointing at the dining table where Wilson had spread the renderings. 

    “Wait,” said Wilson. “Look at my plans. Here, the elevations are by the fireplace and the floor plans are on the counter. My renderings are on the table.”

      “This is really modern,” said Philippe again, glancing at Wilson’s drawings, pushing them around a bit.  Daphne did not even bother.  Tim frowned and went out on the deck.  “Ok, where shall we lay out my floor plan?” said Philippe, looking again at Wilson’s plan views, and staring at the elevations as he moved towards the dining table.

       “You know some of what you’ve done is nice, it’s good,” he said.  “We should be able to work together.”  Philippe pointed out this and that detail on Wilson’s drawings.  “See Daphne, maybe we can use some of his ideas.” 

     Maybe use some of his ideas?  What was this shit?  Daphne barely noticed the floor plans that Wilson had spent so much time on.  Then she, like Philippe, also spent a few seconds on each of his elevations.  She didn’t comment on any of them.

      “And these renderings are good. I like the way you did the columns.” 

Philippe saying this as he picked up Wilson’s front and rear perspectives, then rolled them up and set them aside.  He then placed his satchel on the table and opened it.  “Here is what we have.”

        “Tim…Tim come here, see what Philippe and I have done.” 

Tim came in off the deck.  Wilson had not paid attention.  He now noticed that Tim was dressed as a duck hunter, fatigues, a Duck’s Unlimited cap, khaki shirt.  Well, his inner dialogue continued, go get your gun and shoot this fool.  Do it now Tim.  Live up to your costume, be worthwhile!

     Wilson could not believe it. What the hell is going on?    They haven’t even examined my efforts.  “Hold on, wait a minute.  I spent a lot of time on these.  Let me explain the house.”  Tim let his eyes wander around the room.   Daphne sat at the table.  “Yours are nice enough, but this is what I want.”  She pointed to the page, the two pages that Philippe had placed on the table.

     He couldn’t believe it. The plans, these floor plans, were simply penciled strokes, rubbed and messy lines…tracings, really.  And on graph paper!  There were no dimensions!  Fucking graph paper, was this a joke, was this a comedy, what the fuck is going on?  Hah, his demon laughed?  Wilson took a longer look at Philippe, his eyes traveling up, then down. Jesus, this swishy goof doesn’t even know what he is doing.  I’ve spent years building drawing, teaching myself programs and learning to design on the computer and this idiot has sold her on this scratched silliness, on graph paper of all things, Wilson looked in more detail, and no dimensions!

     Philippe and Daphne described the plan.

     “But what is it,” said Wilson?  “How big is it?”  

He focused on Philippe and then stared at Daphne, then Tim.  “This isn’t a plan. Well, this, this, this.  It’s nothing at all!  What does it look like?”

     Wilson was in a shock of sorts.  This could not be real.  What about the idea, his idea, his thought and contemplation, the function of the floor plan and the house working as one?  You couldn’t just design the floor plan and then figure it out.  And then haphazardly plunk a roof on top, figuring the walls and windows as you went.  The house would be a mess. 

     And he said this to them.  “It’s not how it is done.”  He said this to all three of them, explaining his philosophy of design, the siting, the tromping of the lot, the examination of the overhangs, the azimuth of the sun, everything which went into a fine plan and then a fine building.  But it did not matter!  It was water off the duck’s back.  Philippe just kept talking about his cool fireplace and the French doors.  Which will be banging into the furniture, thought Wilson. 

     He stared at the plan again—the scratched messy smudge of it, Philippe’s plan, if you could call it that. 

     “It won’t work,” he said.  “The kitchen’s too small.  The living room isn’t big enough for that piano.   And your company will be stumbling off that step.  It’s too close to the bar.  Look, let me show you.” 

     He retrieved his floor plans; all dimensioned, with couches and tables, chairs, the piano, all to scale.  “See these.  You need to do this.  This works.” But it was like fighting Niagara...trying to get your barrel to float back up the falls. 

     “It’s what I want,” said Daphne, pointing at the graph paper smudges. 

     “Can’t you make it work?” said Tim.  “Can’t you take Philippe’s design and make it work?” 

     “This is no design,” said Wilson. “This is nothing.  This is a joke. What does it look like?  What about the loads, the bearing points, the interior spaces, the rooflines?”

     At this point Philippe said, “Oh I have that figured out, look.” And then he   pulled some scratchy bad art renderings from the satchel.  “See.”  Surreal, he thought of drooping melting Dali watches.  He was looking at a free form drawing of a house with columns and dormers and Palladian windows, its rooflines going off, unfinished, into space. 

     “What’s that supposed to be?” he said.  “That’s no plan. I can’t build from that!  No one could build from that!” 

     Tim, watching, said.  “Wilson, Daphne wants it!  We want you to make it work.  You’re the builder, and Daphne wants Philippe to do it.  To design….”  His speech faltering as Wilson gave him a look that could have set a church on fire.  For ten seconds, there was silence.  “Ok….ok…to assist you with the design. A team....”  Wilson glared at him again.  “We are paying you,” said Tim, almost pleading.

     “It’s what I want,” said Daphne.  “My plan!”  She smiled at Philippe, “Our plan.”

      Wilson said nothing, then went to his liquor cabinet, grabbed the whiskey and, turning towards them, poured three ounces in a glass, drinking half of it in one gulp.  He didn’t say anything other than, “I’m not sure I can do that.” Then he went out to stare at the water, in the process knocking over his barbecue.

      Unbelievable. It would have been nice if they had told him.  He had a contract to design their house. Fuck them!  But no, they had hooked him like a fish.  God, are you a fool.  Waiting, waiting, waiting for them to make up their minds and now you need the money, don’t you? Hooked like a fish!  He had listened and believed them! What a fool!  He was an idiot. So much for all that qualifying.  “Tim's an honest man.”  Hah!  Bubkis! His demon laughing uproariously in the background. 

       Eventually Wilson went back inside, forcing himself to remain calm, listening   to Philippe tell Daphne, “It’s a perfect plan,” as Philippe gestured at his graph paper smudges.  Then Philippe turned to Wilson.  “You’re back.  We want you to do the working drawings.”    

        Philippe’s statement was the final insult. Wilson broke.  His face turned bright, stormy red.  Small veins purpled his temples as he gulped the rest of his whisky and started moving towards Philippe with a menacing quiet rage.  He moved deliberately, slowly, ignoring Tim and Daphne until he stood before Philippe. “Get out of my house…Get out of my house. Now!”    

     Philippe backed away, leaving his satchel and scratches on the table, backing away towards the door and Wilson followed right on top of him, “Out, Out, Out!”  And then it happened.  Philippe turned at the door and crouched with his legs wide, knees bent, long arms waving. 

     “Watch out!  I’ve got a brown belt!” 

     “I’m not going to do anything to you.  Just get out of my house,” said Wilson.  But Philippe stuck to his crouch and then, to Wilson’s amazement, the fool hit him, hit him with a little anemic rabbit punch that just slid off the construction muscles of Wilson’s shoulder. 

     Wilson had only punched one other person in his life, his brother, as a kid.  It was instinct and TV westerns, and then it was One Right to Philippe’s head, happening so fast Wilson could not stop it.   Wilson was probably more surprised than Philippe.  But Bam, fait accompli.  Philippe was on the ground and bleeding from his nose, going down like an athlete faking an injury, but with inappropriate sound effects, screeching and screaming like a two-year-old or a little girl.  Then, a whining, howling Philippe went stumbling out the door, his nose dripping blood to mark his exit.  

     And Daphne was yelling at Tim.  “He hit him. He hit him!” Standing directly in front of her husband her face enraged, looking upward, angry.

“I saw,” said Tim.  “It was just once, and your Philippe started it.  He threw the first punch…or whatever that was.”

     Shit, thought Tim, what a mess, we arrive late, and then she and Philippe insult this fellow, in his own home…now this!

     “I can’t work, I won’t work with him.  He’s, he’s…he’s a barbarian,” said Daphne, wary of Wilson, moving away from him to the other side of the room, as if he were some species of thug, her face red-pink, like the geraniums outside his door. 

     “Oh, Shut up!  Calm down.  Go find Philippe!” said Tim. “Wilson hardly hit him…. Daphne, go get Philippe and bring him back. We can straighten this out!  Do you hear me!”

      “I heard.”

     “Go get him.  I saw, he’s Ok.  Now!”

     Then he turned to Wilson, exasperated.  “What is this?  Kids…Kids!” Then he paused allowing his eyes to move around Wilson’s great room. “Look, I get it.  I should have warned you, no warning, got it, you feel set up.  And that dam Philippe, with his graph paper.  I understand, I’ve seen your plans, your plotter, computers.  I checked you out, remember?”

      Tim moved toward the oak and glass stairs letting his hands feel the finish, sliding his fingers along the railing.  “Obviously this is the real thing…  Philippe designs kitchens, he’s been branching out.  He’s full of himself.   But you should see his office, fancy, impressive, and he has done a couple larger projects, though I think the builders were the reason.  They had to be.  I can see it.  I saw it.  He fools the women.”  

     Tim takes in the soaring beams, and Wilson’s built-in planters, the art on the walls, the trapezoid corner glass rising 21 feet, supporting cantilevered roof loads that appear to float. “I got it, you know what you’re doing.  This is creative, exceptional.  We’re in your house.  But….  If I had…I want to make this work.  And, I like this new plan of yours… I’m no fan of Philippe.  But!  It is going to be Daphne’s house so you are going to need to get on with her.  Please… And him…” 

      “Yes, on your wife, but not that Fraudster!” 

     Tim massaged his temple, and walked a loop around the kitchen, shaking his head, clearly trying not to stomp out too, into Daphne-land, and an even greater mess.  Then he turned. “Well how about this?  We use your plan and I let Daphne give him the kitchen, the interior stuff.  I won’t tell her now.  That will be our deal.” 

     “But I told you from the beginning,” said Wilson.  “I told you how I worked.  I don’t need him.  He’s a fraud!”  Wilson shakes his head.  “Graph paper, what is this, junior high?”

     What had happened here?  He was ready to go, the plan, the new plan was what they had requested.  The excavation was starting Monday.  He had thought… anyway.  And now... this idiot Philippe?  Meanwhile, his Demon was having a party in the background.  

     “But she wants him.  It’s her house,” said Tim. 

     “Let me think about it,” replied Wilson, who then walked outside aware he had no choice.  He walked back in. 

      “Ok.  I’ll try, but only if we use my plan.  That was our agreement, and I have the contract, my copy, downstairs.  You signed it!” 

     “I know.  I know,” said Tim. “But things change.  Contracts are only contracts.  Let’s just try to work it out.  I know you didn’t mean to hit him.  It wasn’t much of punch, anyway.”  Tim started to chuckle.  “Please. Let’s just try.”

     At that moment Daphne and Philippe came back through the front door.   Daphne striding with a decisive, shorts clad, straight legged, jiggle, ready to set things right! And Philippe much taller, bent over, hunched, distressed, his hair in disarray, his nose no longer bleeding, but red as a fire engine along its bridge and tip. 

     Before Daphne could speak Philippe said “Ice, Ice.  I need ice.” Daphne turning to Wilson…  “Well….you... Help him!”

Wilson went to the freezer.  He first reached for the ice bin, but then instead he grabbed a bag of frozen peas.  “This is what I use for my knees,” he said.  “Best thing going.”

     Philippe turned first to the scowling Daphne and then to Tim whose face held an expression of amusement.  Then he threw back his head, and with an affected   gesture placed the green and white bag of frozen peas in the middle of his face.   

     Wilson thought of Nesma Dorman, Gloria Swanson playing the aging actress in Sunset Boulevard…William Holden dead, floating face down in the pool. 

Philippe, looked towards the ceiling, and let out a low moan. 

Pathos or pathetic, pathetic thought Wilson.   

     “Daphne, you barely looked at Wilson’s plans.  They’re good.   Let’s work together on this.” said Tim, the peacemaker.  But Tim, of course, had a motive.  He needed a builder.  He wanted his wife happy and off his back.  And he did not wish to be distracted from ‘Gourmets Everyone’.

      Wilson, not knowing what else to do, went over to Philippe who continued to moan, and said “Sorry.”   But he didn’t mean it.  He didn’t mean it any one bit.  “It was an accident, instinct, but you shouldn’t have….Tim thinks we can work together.   So, I’m willing, if you are?”  Wilson said this even as his Demon was shouting, not a chance.  But what could he do?  They had trapped him.  It might be war.  It was war.  No, he wasn’t willing at all.  A new game was on.  And now, it was time to be, sneaky, clever, something he hated, and he had always lacked the sneaky gene.     

Philippe lowered his eyes from the ceiling, then moaned again. 

What an actor, what an affected bad actor.  Does this really work for this guy?  He would not stand a chance in Wilson’s world of skiers, sailors and construction workers. Wilson’s demon was after him. ‘Ha, Ha... ha, ha, ha.’   

     Another moan came from Philippe and then a nasal sniffle “OK,” he said weakly, “Ok,” holding the frozen peas to his forehead, his waist forward and his back-back.

       Then, for a few minutes, no one said anything. Tim walked back out to stare across the bay, Wilson followed. “That your boat?” he said.  “Nice.”  Then Tim smiled and looked at Wilson. “Fuck.”  Both men laughed.  What else could they do? They returned inside.

     “Didn’t you want to see the lot?” said Daphne.  “I’m not up to it now,” whined Philippe.  “I’d like to go,” and Philippe walked out the door. 

    Wonder how he thinks he's going, thought Wilson?  But with that, they all climbed into his jeep, and he ferried them back to the plane.  Tim feeling like it was resolved, Daphne still angry and Philippe occasionally moaning.  As he left Tim said, “We’ll work it out.” 

    At the airport Daphne ignored Wilson completely as Philippe leaned towards Wilson and thrust out his hand. Then before shaking Wilson’s strong calloused hand, he quickly pulled it back, sensing his might be crushed.  Wilson took no notice.  “We’ll work it out,” he said.  “I apologize.”  Philippe, unable to resist a passive aggressive punch of his own responded. “You know, you should really chop down some of those trees, your house is not bright enough.” 

     And then the three of them walked to the plane.  Within minutes, like departing aliens, the white sleek and polished flying Big Mighty millions missile sped into the sky. 

          Watching the plane climb and shine, grow dim, and then vanish, Wilson reflected on his final statement of  ‘I’m sorry’.  He had not meant it one bit, and as for the future.  He was in limbo-land now, certain he could never trust them…again.