What must it have been like for that first little pig? Imagine quaking behind those sheaves of straw, seeking purchase as the wolf draws breath. “I guess mama was right.” Outside, the wind gathers speed. “I am an impulsive fool. A fat lot of good it does me now.”
Last week, I had to make yet another decision without Tee to help me. It was time for Bug to upgrade to a bunk bed. My mother did a little online searching. She wanted hardwood, finished, built-in bookcases. "Nice," she told me. "He should have nice beds."
I was thinking beds for a five-year-old. Safe. Cheap. Disposable. I looked. I dithered. Days went by, then weeks. A person can roam the forest for an eternity, seeking the perfect slice of real estate, circling back around to nowhere. Was I expecting a woodworker to fall from the sky? You are on your own. The wind hissed around my ears. No one is going to help you. I finally hopped onto the computer, found a relatively well-reviewed company and ordered an inexpensive set of beds.
They arrived three days later, packed in boxes on a pallet in the garage. I wanted cheap, and I got cheap. Flimsy pine, narrow boards, lumpy foam mattresses. Punishing myself for my folly, I refused help from my folks. I began hauling boxes up to the second floor. Nasty noises danced along beside me, blowing loathsome old refrains. No one is going to help you. I tore open boxes, cursing under my breath. If you don’t do it, it ain’t getting done. Digging around on the cluttered tool bench for screwdrivers and drill bits, I banged and clattered until I had everything in hand. Then I turned on the music, laid out the instructions, took a deep breath, and got cracking.
A few hours later, I called my folks upstairs. We wedged ourselves into the corner and worked together to lift the top frame up onto the bottom. We stood back and surveyed the damage.
“At least they aren’t too heavy,” my dad offered.
As is typical for most bunk beds that arrive in cardboard, a roll of thin slats was intended to suffice for mattress support. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a set of matchsticks hold my little boy in his sleep.
“Picking up plywood sounds like a great job for your dad,” my mom suggested.
“I can do it,” I growled. “It’s my problem.”
I have shingled roofs, built docks, and hung drywall. Buying a couple pieces of plywood is a snap. I headed to Home Depot on Saturday morning and strode in with a tank full of confidence. It sprung a lead as I skidded into the lumber aisle. The Sphinx commanded the corridor, her riddle encoded in incomprehensible markings upon towers of wood. The wind picked up. You have to figure this out alone.
For years, Tee and I have done these things together. It did not occur to me in all those trips to the hardware store with my husband that we were re-writing my biography. The independent gal I remember from earlier decades has journeyed through an era of interdependence. Without knowing it, I have learned to count on someone else. Certainly, the self-reliance I carried from those earlier chapters has been a rock during the tumult of the past 16 months. Down under the fortitude, however, runs a vein of sorrow. When I tap it, I can feel the poison riches there.
No one is going to help you.
I withdraw to the surface and fix my gaze on the horizon.
“Larry, can you give me a hand with some plywood?”
Larry, in his orange apron, grinned and happily obliged. Larry roped in Clay, and the two of them hauled giant sheets over to the mechanical saw. A few cuts, a swipe of the credit card, and I was home with an extra layer of support for my kid.
After dropping the wood in the frame, I finished assembling the ladder and the last of the boards. I lay the mattress on the bottom bunk and flopped down on it, wrecked. My mother came in and sat next to me. “These turned out nice,” she said. She ran her hand over the smooth frame. The bed held our weight.
Inside the flimsy structure of the life I am trying to build from the detritus of my marriage, I am a bundle of nerves and wicked whispers. The wind I hear blowing around outside could be just a summer breeze or it could be something more sinister. Perhaps it is just my ears playing tricks on me. I lay there in a state of grim pride, listening. Look what I built all by myself. I may be all alone, but I’m badass. I don’t need anyone.
What wicked fiction.
My mother paid for the beds. Tee let me use his car for the wood. Larry and Clay cut and loaded the sheets. My dad helped me lift and haul frame and mattresses. The online company called ahead, my boss let me make arrangements for deliveries, and my mother came to meet the delivery truck. The very room in which Bug will sleep in his new beds is in my parents’ house.
The whispers may indulge, but they lie.
When the two little pigs saw their homes collapse around them, they did not end up wolf kibble. They sought shelter from their well-fortified kin.
I am not alone. Interdependence is not a recent development. It is the true nature of human relationships. People rely on each other in all sorts of configurations, of which marriage is only one. I may feel like the structure is caving in and it is my muscle alone keeping my son and me from being eaten alive. That myth feeds pride and self-pity in equal measure.
Bug and I have solid support under us. We use the materials at hand. We build what we can. In the absence of brick, we team up with our neighbors and jury-rig a system of support. This life may be made of sticks and straw, but luck and good hands have woven it strong. It will hold up against the darkest wind, be it from without or within.
