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Norman Archambault Meets his New Neighbor
by Elizabeth Gauffreau Norman Archambault had just started across the north pasture, a block of salt tucked under each arm, when he heard it again. For the third time in as many days, the sound of a lone man hammering carried on the September breeze. The hammering sounded as though it were coming from the old Snyder place, which had recently been bought by a couple who taught at the college across the river. Distorted by the distance between the two farms, the sound reached Norman as intermittent blows, as though the man hammering were not entirely sure of his purpose. Norman continued across the pasture, the morning sun unusually warm on his back. Once he had replaced the salt licks and gone back to the house to eat dinner with Betty, his chores would be finished until the four o’clock milking. It was seldom that Norman had so few chores to do on a given day, and he felt a small twinge of pleasure as he paused to enjoy the sun on his back. He set the salt blocks on the ground and sat on a flat rock to light a Pall Mall with a wooden match, a sharp burst of sulfur spiking the first draw. He wondered what his new neighbor was building or, more likely, repairing. The Snyder place had stood empty for years. The neighbor—Betty had told him the name of the new people but he couldn’t recall it—was most likely working on the roof. There was no point in repairing floors or windows or doors if a house didn’t have a sound roof. He smoked at a leisurely pace as he continued to think about the neighbor’s roof and whether this fellow, this college professor, would even know how to fix or, more likely, replace a roof. Norman had heard stories of city people from out-of-state, lawyers and accountants, doctors and stockbrokers, buying old farms and knocking out load-bearing walls or setting the chimneys afire or pulling entire lath-and-plaster ceilings down on their heads. Norman hated to think that this new neighbor, this college professor, might be such a fellow. His smoke finished, Norman carefully stubbed the cigarette against the rock and placed the butt in the pocket of his denim frock. His new neighbor’s roof was none of his business. Nor was the hammering any of his business if it was doing something other than repairing the roof. Norman picked up the two blocks of salt and resumed walking. When he had replaced the salt licks, he smoked another cigarette, gazing thoughtfully in the direction of the woods which adjoined his pasture. He began walking again, in the direction of his new neighbor’s house. He walked across his own pasture, a short ways through the woods, and across his neighbor’s pasture, the hammering louder and more purposeful the closer he got. Once he was close enough to have a clear view of the house, he began looking for his neighbor’s silhouette on the roof, his head bent to his work, his arm arcing against the sky. Norman reached the weed-choked driveway of the old Snyder place with still no sign of his neighbor. The hammer continued to ring loud and true, each nail driven home with only three blows. The house was in bad shape, windowsills rotting, clapboards missing, the paint completely weathered away. The roof did not appear to have been touched, its tin covering dark orange with rust. The only evidence Norman could see of recent repairs were some new window panes, although the remaining panes still needed reglazing, and the outline where the collapsing front porch had been removed. Norman walked around the entire house with still no sign of its owner. The sound of the hammering finally led him to a shed attached to the house by an ell, also in serious need of repair, although from some discoloration of the wall and the floor, he could see that the junk which the ell had sheltered for so many years had been carted away. Until the last Snyder had passed on, the shed had held a wagon, old tools, tangles of baling twine, rolls of fencing too rusted to straighten, and a lot of trash, a good forty or fifty years’ worth. Norman stood in the open doorway of the shed, watching his new neighbor hammer on what looked like the beginnings of a platform of some sort, which covered the open space where the wagon had once stood. As Norman’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see that his new neighbor was a lean man in his mid-forties, the same age as Norman himself, give or take. He wore a faded red sweatshirt spattered with paint and dungarees with the bottoms rolled up, the way the kids wore them. His face was smiling as he worked, and surrounding the smile was a goatee, which brought his thin face to a perfect point at his chin. Norman, who still remained unnoticed as his neighbor concentrated on the wood before him, took the opportunity to stare at the goatee. He had never seen a man with a goatee. A few old men he knew, including a great uncle, still wore beards, but Norman had never seen a man with a goatee. Just as Norman decided to take a step forward into the shed, his neighbor stopped hammering, looked up, and said, “Hello, Norman.” Norman stopped and patted his pockets, quickly, front and back, as though checking to make sure nothing had been slipped inside which did not belong to him. “How do you know me?” “We met your wife. You look alike.” His neighbor continued smiling in a way that Norman did not like. “We ain’t no kin atall,” Norman said. “No, of course not,” his neighbor said, still smiling as though unaware that he had just offended a visitor. Setting the hammer down, he wiped his hand on his dungarees and extended it to Norman. “I’m Max Schuller.” “Norman Archambault.” “Pleased to meet you, Norman. Can I get you a beer? I’m about ready for a break.” “No.” Norman continued to stand awkwardly in the doorway. “I don’t drink beer in the morning.” “Well, I’m going to have one if you don’t mind,” Max said. “I’ll be right back.” He left the shed through a door leading to the ell. Norman took a step forward into the shed and examined the project Max was working on. He couldn’t tell what it was. It didn’t appear to have any part of repairing the dilapidated farmhouse. Max returned with a bottle of beer in one hand. “What do you think?” he said, gesturing toward the project. Norman carefully cleared his throat before speaking. “I don’t know what it is, so I can’t say.” Max tilted his head back and took a long drink from the bottle. “It’s part of a set.” Norman shook his head. “For the fall production.” Norman again shook his head. “It’s for a play,” Max said. “At the college.” “Oh,” Norman said. “This is your work?” “You could say that. I wanted to start this particular set here, where I could be alone to envision it. We’re doing ‘Desire Under the Elms’, so of course—” He stopped speaking. “Do you want me to leave?” Norman said, taking a step back. “No, no, of course not. I’ve stopped working.” Max raised the beer bottle in salute. Norman didn’t say anything more until Max had finished his beer and tossed the bottle into a cardboard box full of trash. “When I heard the hammering,” Norman said, “I thought you was fixing the house. The roof, I thought.” Max picked up his hammer. “Oh, no! I’ve hired someone for that. I don’t know anything about repairing houses. Good God, no!” Norman nodded his head once. “I’ll be going now.” |
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