Chapter 4 - The Flashing on the Roof
By noon, the sun had broken through the grey clouds, casting long, pale beams of autumn light over the roof of 412 Elm Street.
Adrian stood on an aluminum extension ladder he had bought at the local hardware store two hours earlier, along with four sheets of galvanized zinc flashing, two tubes of industrial sealant, and a heavy leather tool belt strapped over his charcoal sweater.
His hands—usually pristine, manicured, and accustomed to signing million-dollar contracts—were covered in dark gray roof tar and old dust. A deep scrape bled slowly across his left knuckle where a rusty nail had caught him, but he hadn't even bothered to wipe it away.
Down in the backyard, the three girls were sitting on an old wooden picnic table beneath a dying apple tree.
Sophie was trying to use one of the small wooden tools to round the edges of a balsa block, her small hands clumsy but determined. Naomi sat beside her, reading her children's book through her foggy glasses.
Emily stood near the base of the ladder, her hands tucked deep into her short denim jacket pockets, watching Adrian's every move with hawk-like scrutiny.
"You're doing it wrong," Emily called up.
Adrian paused, his hammer hovering over a zinc nail. He looked down over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his forehead with his dusty sleeve. "Am I?"
"Mr. Higgins from down the street fixed the garage last year," Emily said, stepping closer to the ladder. "He used blue glue first, then the nails."
"Mr. Higgins used silicone sealant," Adrian explained, dropping into a kneeling position on the steep roof pitch. "Silicone cracks when the temperature drops below twenty degrees in Pennsylvania. Galvanized zinc with butyl rubber tape lasts thirty years. You want things to last, Emily."
Emily looked at the shiny zinc sheet he had just secured over the rotting wooden gable. "Thirty years is a really long time."
"It is," Adrian agreed softly. "It means when you're thirty-six years old, this pantry will still be dry."
Emily pondered that math for a moment, her brow furrowing. "I'm only six."
"I know."
"When I'm thirty-six, you'll be old."
"I'm already old," Adrian said with a faint, rare smile.
"Mommy said you were thirty-seven."
"Thirty-seven," Adrian acknowledged. "That's old enough to know better."
Emily looked at his scraped knuckle. "You're bleeding."
Adrian glanced at his hand. "It's fine. Just a scrape."
"Mommy had a big box of band-aids with pictures of yellow ducks on them," Emily said, her voice dropping into that quiet, solemn tone that made Adrian's heart ache. "She used them when she got sick from her medicine. We still have three duck band-aids left in the bathroom."
Adrian slowly climbed down three rungs of the ladder until he was eye-level with his eldest daughter. The smell of cedar, roof tar, and rain hung between them.
"I think you should save the duck band-aids for something important, Emily," Adrian said gently. "A scraped knuckle isn't worth a duck."
Emily looked at his face—the high cheekbones, the straight nose, the dark hair streaked with dust—and then looked into his gray-blue eyes. For the first time, she didn't look angry. She looked terribly, heartbreakingly curious.
"Why didn't you come when Mommy was sick?" Emily asked. Her voice didn't carry accusation this time; it was a pure, desperate plea for an answer that made sense in a world that had suddenly lost its anchor.
Adrian's breath caught in his lungs. The weight of his entire wasted, arrogant life seemed to press down on his chest with suffocating force.
"Because I didn't know, Emily," Adrian whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Your mother was trying to protect you from my family. My family... they are not nice people. They do bad things to people who get in their way. Your mother wanted you to grow up safe, in a house with apple trees and wooden birds, far away from dark offices and loud men."
"She didn't want you to find us?"
"She wanted me to find you when I was ready to be a real father," Adrian said, reaching out his hand, stopping an inch short of touching her shoulder, giving her the choice. "And I wasn't ready then. But I am ready now."
Emily looked at his open palm. She didn't take it. But she didn't step back either.
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"Grandma says rich men always leave when the weather gets bad," Emily said.
"Then I'll just have to stay through the winter," Adrian replied.
