Boys Life

or an artist. Watching him work was a form of torture for the patience, but no one can say he didn’t know what he was doing. He opened the toaster right up, and sat staring at the naked grills. “Uh-huh,” he said after a long moment of silence. “Uh-huh.”
    “What is it?” Mom peered over his shoulder. “Can it be fixed?”
    “See there? Little ol’ red wire?” He tapped it with the screwdriver’s edge. “Done come a’loose.”
    “Is that all that’s wrong? Just that little wire?”
    “Yes’m, that’s.” He began to carefully rewind the wire around its connection, and watching him do this was like a strange kind of hypnosis. “All,” he finally finished. Then he put the toaster back together again, plugged it in, pushed down the timer prongs, and we all saw the coils start to redden. “Sometimes,” Mr. Lightfoot said.
    We waited. I think I could hear my hair growing.
    “Just the.”
    The world turned beneath us.
    “Little things.” He began to refold the white cloth. We waited, but this particular line of thought had either derailed or reached its dead end. Mr. Lightfoot looked around the kitchen. “Anythin’ else need fixin’?”
    “No, I think we’re in good shape now.”
    Mr. Lightfoot nodded, but I could tell that he was searching for problems like a bird dog sniffing game. He made a slow circle of the kitchen, during which he delicately placed his hands on the icebox, the four-eyed stove, and the sink’s faucet as if divining the health of the machinery through his touch. Mom and I looked at each other, puzzled; Mr. Lightfoot was certainly acting peculiar.
    “Icebox kinda stutterin’,” he said. “Want me to take a peek?”
    “No, don’t bother with it,” Mom told him. “Mr. Light-foot, are you feelin’ all right today?”
    “Surely, Miz Mackenson. Surely.” He opened a cupboard and listened to the slight squeak of the hinges. A screwdriver was withdrawn from his tool belt, and he tightened the screws in both that cupboard door and the next one, too. Mom cleared her throat again, nervously this time, and she said, “Uh… Mr. Lightfoot, how much do I owe you for fixin’ the toaster?”
    “It’s,” he said. He tested the hinges of the kitchen door, and then he went to my mother’s MixMaster blender on the countertop and started examining that. “Done paid,” he finished.
    “Paid? But… I don’t understand.” Mom had already reached up on a shelf and brought down the mason jar full of dollar bills and change.
    “Yes’m. Paid.”
    “But I haven’t given you any money yet.”
    Mr. Lightfoot’s fingers dug into another pocket, and this time emerged with a white envelope. He gave it to Mom, and I saw that it had The Mackenson Family written across its front in blue ink. On the back, sealing it, was a blob of white wax. “Well,” he said at last, “I ’spect I’m done for.” He picked up his toolbox. “Today.”
    “Today?” Mom asked.
    “Yes’m. You know.” Mr. Lightfoot now started looking at the light fixtures, as if he longed to get into their electrical depths. “My number,” he said. “Anythin’ needs fixin’, you.” He smiled at us. “Jus’ call.”
    We saw Mr. Lightfoot off. He waved as he drove away in the clankety old pickup, the tools jangling on their hooks and the neighborhood dogs going crazy. Mom said, mostly to herself, “Tom’s not gonna believe this.” Then she opened the envelope, took a letter from it, and read it. “Huh,” she said. “Want to hear?”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    She read it to me: “‘I’d be honored if you would come to my house at seven o’clock this Friday evening. Please bring your son.’ And look who it’s from.” Mom handed the letter to me, and I saw the signature.
    The Lady.
    When Dad got home, Mom told him about Mr. Lightfoot and showed him the letter almost before he could get his milkman’s cap off. “What do you think she wants with us?” Dad asked.
    “I don’t know, but I think she’s decided to pay Mr. Lightfoot to be our personal handyman.”
    Dad regarded the letter again. “She’s got nice handwritin’, to be so old. I would’ve thought it’d be crimped up.” He chewed on his bottom lip, and just watching him I could tell he was getting edgy. “You know, I’ve never seen the Lady close up before. Seen her on the street, but…” He shook his head. “No. I don’t believe I want to go.”
    “What’re you sayin’?” Mom asked incredulously. “The Lady wants us