Whitechurch by Chris Lynch

moments too well. I pull it back, must speak carefully. “It is, Pauly. It is a great house. So, then, your uncle’s gonna make it possible …?”
    “We’re workin’ on it. Shit’s gonna happen. But it’s a go, man, it’s a go. We got it all figured up.”
    I nod, as it is the only strategy I can muster. “But Lilly’s … Remember, Paul? Once the school year’s up—”
    He raises a hand to shut me up which is fine since I got further than I had expected to.
    “That’s just because—okay?—because she doesn’t know the possibilities. She thinks about dead ends in Whitechurch but I think about the opportunities. She is really kind of limited that way, so I’m doing the figuring for us. To make it possible for her to be happy here , Oakley, see? I know she really wants to be happy here —’”
    The phone rings, and he is all smiles answering it.
    “Ya, sweetie, ya. Big stuff. But I’ll fill you in more in person. Oh, unbelievable. No, no you gotta wait. But here’s a hint—don’t go packing your bags for Boston just yet….”
    I am listening, I am picturing Lilly’s expression.
    “Ya. Well, ya, he’s here, but so what? This is our moment, Lilly … no, no, he just left. Never mind. I’ll talk to ya later.”
    He sits there on the bed, staring at the phone.
    “Did she want to talk to me?” I ask.
    “No,” he snaps. “Where did you go, anyway?”
    “Kitchen,” I say.
    “How is it then?” he asks.
    “Needs work.”
    “Let’s see.”
    So we do, down the yellow stairs to the needy old kitchen. Pauly stands there in the middle of it, and I still can’t tell exactly what he thinks because the glasses are obscuring the windows to his soul. But he does this arms-spread, taking-it-all-in, Sound of Music twirl, sizing up every inch of the room. Then he stops still.
    “This is it,” he says. “This is where I am needed most. Change of plans. You take the upstairs. I am going to save the life of this house, right here in the heart.” He rolls up his sleeves, like for surgery.
    I shake my head. “Jesus, Paul, this is an awful lot of work….”
    He finds a loose sheet of wallpaper in one corner, starts clawing it down. “We are not afraid of work,” he insists. “Come on, Oakley, are we afraid of work?”
    “Well, I suppose it’s not the work, exactly—”
    “Good,” he says, “good man. Let’s kick some ass, Oak, me and you.” He whips around now and—it does not matter whether he has the glasses on or not—I can see in the windows. “We can do it, I am certain we can do it, Oakley, if you’re behind me. You’re behind me, right? Right, we’ll show him. Then we’ll show her … she can’t be doubting, y’know, Oak, or nothing works, right, y’know?”
    There is no answer. There is no answer that will say what I want to say to Pauly without saying what I do not want to say. So the two of us spend ten ridiculous minutes circling the room, pulling down a strip of wallpaper here, pulling up a strip of linoleum there. I am near despairing when help, or at least diversion, arrives.
    “Pauly,” Lilly says from the doorway of the kitchen. She is looking all around, and where Paul sees potential, she … fails to see potential.
    We look at each other, me and Lilly. We don’t know why she’s here. We are very glad she is.
    “The more I thought about it … you don’t need this crap work, Paul … come on home.”
    He is flabbergasted. “What are you doing here? I didn’t tell you to come … you’re ruining everything …”
    “Let’s get out of here, Paul—”
    “Fuck, Lilly. I’m onto something huge here. I told you that. What are you—” He stops himself, very quickly stares into me—rips off the sunglasses to do it—then at her. “Sonsobitches,” he says low, then puts the sunglasses back on. “You’re wrong. This time you’re wrong.”
    “Pauly,” she says, sympathetically, which is her mistake.
    “Just shut up,” he says, then leads her out.