Page 23

A smile spreads across his face. “Thanks!” and with that, he’s back to TV and sauerkraut.

“Worms,” Tanner offers quietly, and I glance back at the bottle of what used to be perfume and nod, seeing it now.

“Do I want to know what the blue is?” I ask, but it’s rhetorical because I find myself shaking my head. “Anyway, if you need help with that shadow box, I can help you. Otherwise, how’s the independent study going? How’s your history paper on the revolutionary war going?”

Tanner nods to the stack of papers on the coffee table.

The coffee table that, like the floor, must surely exist as objects cannot hover and float, and yet I’m not certain of its existence because I only believe in things I can see.

I snatch the packet and sift through the papers as he updates me on the progress.

“It’s going. I mean, I’m caught up on everything but the paper is coming slow. When I sit down to really get it done, sometimes I get a headache and I just… hit this wall,” he explains, gripping at the back of his head.

“That’s probably more related to that concussion you got.” I shrug. “But history has been known to cause headaches, too. ”

I read through his outline while he eats, and check the rest of his work in other classes, too. Not only is he caught up, but in English and Math, he’s actually finished. I slip the work back into the envelope to protect it from the war zone that is this house.

“You finished your English and Math. You didn’t say that.”

He shrugs humbly. “That stuff didn’t give me a headache.”

I grip my chest like he’s mortally wounded me. “Ouch.”

Rawley’s phone rings, and he answers it quickly.

“Hi.” He takes a bite, and says, “We’re eating.

” Another pause, and because of the TV, I can’t hear the other end of his call in the slightest. “I will.” He looks at Tanner and rolls his eyes.

“I will.” Tanner cups his hands to his mouth, yelling “hi mom!” and Rawley tugs the receiver away from his mouth, telling his brother, “she says hi.” A moment later, the call is over.

“What did she want?” Tanner asks.

“Make sure I fed the underlings.” He looks at me. “Thanks again. It was gonna be shitty freezer pizza otherwise.”

“Does she know about the washing machine yet?” Tanner asks, reaching into Rawley’s food to steal additional fries. Rawley seems unbothered, and again, these boys surprise me.

Most brothers fight and punch and argue over fistfuls of fries. But there’s camaraderie here.

Archie spins, eyes wide. “You ratted me out?”

Rawley puts his hand over the top of his brother’s head, patting. “I didn’t. I told her it was me. But would you believe that when she found Dawn dish soap in her body wash that she figured out it was you?”

Archie’s eyes well up, and Rawley stops them with a simple palm to his cheek, brief but tender. “It’s okay. She wasn’t mad.”

Tanner looks my way. “Arch was trying to help mom and do laundry and, TLDR, the machine ain’t running anymore.”

I look around the house at the explosion of clothing. It makes sense now. “So that’s why it looks like this,” I comment.

Tanner laughs. “No, it always looks like this. But that is why there’s a stank in the air.”

Rawley sniffs. “I think that’s Archie.”

Archie sniffs, and sniffs again, and gets caught up in over the top sniffing until he falls over laughing and coughing. Rawley laughs, but pulls him up by his shirt. “Finish your food. You have to take a bath. Mom said.”

My eyes veer off to the small hallway adjacent to the living room.

There’s a door pushed open, and from here, I can spot the edge of a dryer, leading me to believe it’s the laundry room.

I take off my hat and place it atop a pile of mail-covered in crushed peanut shells.

“Mind if I take a look at the washer? I’m good at fixing things. ”

Rawley sits up a little straighter, sliding his empty box of food onto the table, sending a cup of pennies and pistachios to the floor. “Yeah? You think you can fix it?” he asks, suddenly interested.

I shrug. “Not certain but I can try. Fixed my mom and pop’s machine a few times.”

Archie faces me with hopeful, wide eyes, and something blooms behind my ribs at the honest, sweetness in him. “Yeah? Can you fix it? Oh Coach, if you fix it, oh man. I’ll owe you so big. My mama’s gonna be so happy if you can.”

I get to my feet and make a move toward the hall, because telling me that washing machine working will make Clara June, the prettiest little woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, happy? I hook my chin toward Rawley as I pass him. “Let me have a look.”

He gets to his feet, and I stop, toe to toe with him.

He glances at Tanner, who seems to be aware of what’s happening.

But I’m not. Rawley clears his throat. “You care if I watch? You know, in case Archie decides to stick a hanger in the dryer or something, that way I’ll know how to fix stuff. Maybe.”

I’ve taught a lot of students about George Washington, the British Army, the Boston Massacre (which coincidentally led to a lesson about where Boston is located—yes, that’s true), football plays, sports etiquette, locker room rules and so much more.

“I’ve never really fixed things in a teachable way,” I admit, following him into the tiny room where I bend down to run my hands up the sides of the washing machine, searching for the front panel clips.

“And I could be doing things differently than a person trained in fixing things but,” I find a clip and bend it, then move aside, nodding toward the other side.

“I’ll do what I can. Now, reach around the back, there’s a metal clip that holds the front panel on.

It’s toward the bottom. When you find it, pull back. ”

Rawley nods his head as Archie appears with a small pink tool box. “Mama’s tools. If you need ‘em.”

I pop open the small, plastic box to find a screwdriver—Phillips with a set of adjustable heads band the bottom in thick black rubber—a hammer that would probably struggle to send a nail through butter, a measuring tape (which is so rusted, I’m only guessing what it is based on the shape), a plastic box of drywall screws, three marbles, a Band-Aid, and what appears to be a decapitated Ken doll. I set my eyes on Archie.

“Some of my stuff is in there, too,” he says, and I notice now he’s wearing my hat. I tug it down then knock it up, adjusting it so it looks right.

“Thanks, partner,” I tell him just as a loud pop reverberates through the small room.

“Got it,” Rawley says, and I pinch the front panel and move it sideways, exposing the machine’s insides. “Man, is it just a piece of metal covering this? I always thought it was like, I dunno, connected.”

I shake my head. “Nope. This way you can do exactly what we’re doing and take one panel off versus taking apart the whole machine.” Archie taps my shoulder, and I turn to give him my attention as Rawley takes a chamois and wipes the dust from the insides of the machine.

“What can I do for you, partner?"

His smile is from ear to ear, Russian sauce adding orange to his lips. “I like being called partner.”

I tip my head. “Well that’s what I’ll call you then.”

He stares at the machine and then glances my way, suddenly serious.

Sliding his small hand over my shoulder, he grips me, and leans close to my face, his sandwich all over his breath.

“I used mama’s real nice soap and it broke the thing.

” He shakes his head in a comical way that reminds me of a dissatisfied old man returning a twenty-year-old power tool, complaining that they just don’t make things like they used to. “Can you believe it?”

I look at Rawley, who is smirking as he wipes his hand on the yellow rag. “I can believe it.” I reach into the machine, and trace out the water line, and pull the heavy, black tubing forward.

“You’re touching its guts,” Archie whispers.

“The machine isn’t alive, Arch,” Rawley says, clearing a spot on the pile of clean bath towels for his brother to come sit .

I refocus on the black water line. “This is the water line, and your machine uses a special kind of soap that gets your stuff really clean, but doesn’t make a lot of bubbles.

” I pull the other line out slightly, and look at Rawley.

“This is the water line in, and this is the drain line. Likely what happened is a clog. So the first thing we’re gonna try is disconnecting the lines, and drain them. ”

“What if that doesn’t work?” Rawley asks, peering into the inner workings of the machine.

“Well, we’ll see. I do think it may fix it though, based on the issue.

” I face Archie once more. “When you use regular soap, like shampoo or body wash, the machine puts a lot of water in at once and instead of making a little bit of bubbles, all that water and soap make a lot. Too many bubbles, even, and the lines get clogged, and when that happens, the machine knows it’s not working because it has sensors, so it shuts off. ”

“Smart,” Rawley says before adding, “but this is really old. Are you sure ours has that sensor?”

I nod. “They’re pretty standard, even with older machines.

” Adjusting the tubes so I can hold them side by side, I point to the grooves in one of them, indicating fresh water.

“The fresh water in line will be marked, in some way. See this groove here?” I move my thumb over the slight heat stamp applied to the tube. “This is how you know.”

Rawley nods, and tips his head toward the laundry room sink basin. “How do you drain it if the cord doesn’t reach the sink?”

“You got a big tupperware bowl?” I ask, skating my hand up the line to find the support clip that holds the hose in place.

“Yeah, the throw up bowl,” Archie says. “It’s the bowl we all puke in. ”

Rawley nods, gently knocking the back of his hand into his little brother’s leg. “Yeah, Arch, go get it.”

Archie wrinkles his nose and stomps his foot, sending my hat down over his eyes. I knock it back so I can see him. “I don’t wanna touch that!”