Chapter 6 - Office Hands
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The silence in the narrow hallway was deafening. Noah’s innocent question hung in the air, heavy and loaded with grief.
Emily’s playful smile vanished instantly. She stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Noah, don't ask that.”
Alexander crouched down so he was at eye level with the seven-year-old. He looked at the plastic sword, then directly into Noah’s wide, searching eyes. “No, buddy. I don’t think people work that way. Some things you can't just put back together.”
Noah nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with the honest answer. “Good. Grandma Margaret says people who say they can fix everything are usually just selling something.”
From the small living room, a raspy laugh erupted. Emily’s mother, Linda, walked slowly toward them, leaning heavily on a cane. She was thin from years of illness, her eyes sharp and cynical. She looked Alexander up and down, entirely unimpressed by the cut of his expensive clothes.
“I like that boy already,” Linda said, pointing a crooked finger at Alexander.
She studied him closely as they sat down to a meager dinner of chicken and rice. “You have office hands, Jack.”
Emily nearly choked on her water. Alexander looked down at his palms. They were smooth, uncalloused, and perfectly manicured. “What are office hands?” he asked cautiously.
“Hands that have signed more pieces of paper than they’ve ever repaired,” Linda said bluntly. “Those hands haven't seen a day of hard labor in their life.”
Noah pointed his fork at Alexander across the scratched kitchen table. “Jack lies about fixing things. Mom said he couldn’t even fix the exhaust fan at work.”
The room went dead quiet. Alexander’s stomach tightened into a painful knot. Out of the mouths of babes. Noah had accidentally stumbled dangerously close to the absolute truth.
To break the tension, Alexander stood up. “Where is this broken fan of yours?”
That night, Alexander spent an hour wrestling with a cheap, rattling box fan in the living room. He fixed it terribly, securing it with duct tape, but it spun. He ate dry chicken, lost a passionate debate about whether a T-Rex could beat a Triceratops, and felt something he hadn't felt in a decade.
He felt happy.
When he finally left, Emily walked him to the door. “Jack?”
May you like
“Yes?”
“One day,” she said softly, “you’re going to tell me what’s actually going on with you. Because maintenance workers don’t speak like corporate attorneys.”
