The Trials and Tribulations of a Remodel
Thiago had left the upside-down window open.
Thiago was tired.
He walked up the stairs and paused at his bedroom door which sloped left and was arched. This was unexpected since the door he purchased had been square. He pressed his palm against the frame to verify that he was seeing things correctly; an errant sliver of wood burrowed into his palm and the burn jolted his spine straighter. The new door frame, raw unfinished wood that he hadn’t bought, was more of a surprise than the tilted door.
His wife, Fernanda, warned him weeks ago that the contractor was no good. She had a gift for pointing out problems with no easy solutions. He’d told her it was fine, to which she’d responded that he was lazy, to which he’d turned his back and gone to work. He’d reasoned it really would be fine and it was easier dealing with her familiar disappointment than trying to find another contractor in their budget.
The door was proof that he’d been wrong.
He stepped into the room and pulled off his t-shirt, stretching his arms as far as he could above his head and closing his eyes. Ting, ting, ting. The noise forced his eyelids up and he moved towards the window installed last week. It was shut. He pressed his fingers against the metal, shivered at the cold and noticed water slithering along the aluminum frame. He ran his hands along the sleek bright silver strip and inhaled the unwelcome dampness of infiltration.
The widow was upside down.
A sharp moan like a cracking bone filled the room. Thiago didn’t know if it came from him or the misaligned house.
*
Thiago had first seen the house twenty-seven years ago. His mom had put her small hand on his shoulder, guided him against the frame of her bedroom door, marked his height, and said he and the house were destined for one another. He hadn't understood all that meant then—the bills, the maintenance, the never-ending pressure to preserve the legacy for his own children—but she had smiled, showing the gap where she had lost a tooth, something she never did, and he was happy.
*
—Hey Rodrigo—Thiago said. —About the door.
Rodrigo, the contractor, was Thiago's age, but with hairier knuckles and a toothpick perpetually perched on his lower lip.
—Cool, right?—Rodrigo responded, chewing at the wood.
—It doesn't look right.
—What?
—The door, it's sloping to the left. And there shouldn’t be a new frame…
Thiago choked back the thick mucus that coated the back of his throat, tried not to remember his mom, and rubbed the sliver in his palm.
—Doors don't slope—Rodrigo said.
—They shouldn’t...
—Hmm…you have a vision problem?
Rodrigo’s toothpick bobbed up and down. Thiago shook his head and pressed his lips together.
—Let's check it out then—Rodrigo said.
In front of the door, Rodrigo tilted his head, pulled out his cell phone, swiped on the screen. Thiago waited for him to check for level.
—I watched this video at least three times.
—Video?
—You know, Carlos the Constructor on Youtube? His videos are the best, real quality. I pay more as a subscriber. Everything I know, I learned from him.
Rodrigo sucked on the toothpick and the slurping noise roiled Thiago's stomach.
—Youtube? The door is crooked, man.
—Well, that's not my fault. Carlos must have done something wrong.
Thiago had a black vulture tattooed on his neck, the head reaching up his jaw, beak snapping at his eye, the claws clutching a skull at his collar bone. The bird's neck pulsed with the vein in his throat. The bird was a symbol to keep away ill-will and the thick black line traditional design normally intimidated people.
Not Rodrigo.
Fernanda would never let Thiago live this down.
*
As he considered his response, a bird flew into the room, escaping the rain. Thiago had left the upside-down window open. Rodrigo's toothpick fell to the floor and he ducked and weaved, squawking as loudly as the lost bird when it shit on him. Some people believed that bird shit was good luck but Thiago knew that birds shit all the time for no damn reason. But just this one time, he'd take it as an omen. He pulled out the sliver in his hand and smiled at the sharp pain.
—Rodrigo, you're fired.
When Rodrigo left, Thiago stood against the door frame and pushed a pencil against the top of his bald head and scratched a line. He’d stopped marking his height decades ago but he couldn’t stand the bare wood. After that line, he marked all the heights he’d been since living in the house, but knew it would take more than a pencil to undo the damage that had been done.
Melissa Witcher (she/ela) is a writer and artist. She was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S. and has lived in São Paulo since 2011. Her rejections far outnumber her acceptances but her writing can be found in the wild & wonderful literary hinterlands. She is a reader at CRAFT.
