Apology by Jon Pineda (books to read this summer .txt) 📕

“Doing what?” Exequiel said.

“Putting up cables, I think.”

“Cables?”

“The long phone lines.”

“Oh.”

He still looked confused.

“Haven’t you ever seen guys do that? Hanging up there on poles?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“It would be something permanent,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Most people who get on with the company do pretty well for themselves.”

“I don’t know about that,” Exequiel said.

“I’d think you’d be good at it. You just have to be a good climber, I’m guessing.”

He took another bite of his food and then looked at her again, but differently, in a way that made her think that he had never seen her before in his life.

“What?” she said.

“Permanente.”

“Yes, permanent.”

Wendell came walking into the kitchen. His hair was a mess of tangles. He’d had a fitful night of dreaming. He yawned and peered at the two of them staring back.

“I could use some coffee,” the boy said.

He laughed at his own joke.

“I’m sure you could,” Elle said looking away from her son. “You could use a lot of things.”

Before he could be made permanent, Exequiel had to prove himself on the job. There was other paperwork to clear, but first things first, they told him. They enrolled him in a class for pole climbing. They called it working aloft.

He didn’t think he would be able to do such a thing, but it turned out, so long as he took his time and was careful, his body would respond. It would allow him to ascend with each controlled step.

They trained him to use an extension ladder. The swiveled hooks on the top end held what was called the fly section of the ladder in place, along a strand of coiled metal wire. On either side of this strand were telephone poles. The training yard was filled with patches of mulch for cushion in case trainees fell. The poles weeping creosote and other carcinogens made the inside of Exequiel’s throat burn, but he didn’t want to say anything for fear of being ridiculed.

Once, placing the ladder midspan, he climbed as high as the ladder would go. There was nothing in front of him. Above, there were few clouds left, textured with distance. Exequiel tested the strand with the voltage meter, placing the sharp tip against the coiled wire. Then he went on to loop his leather harness belt through the side of the ladder. The strand wavered slightly. His body tensed.

“You’re doing fine,” his trainer yelled from the ground.

Exequiel exhaled slowly. He slipped the hook onto the metal D ring, there on the other side of the thick belt. Of all things to be in his mind, he was surprised he could hear the boy’s voice telling him it was all right. That yes, he knew he was afraid, but there was a reason he was doing all of this, and the boy was thankful for it. He understood that Exequiel had traded out one fear for another.

The boy was, he needed Exequiel to know, aware of such sacrifice.

Then he drew comparisons to the lessons Exequiel had already taught him. About the pawn and the knight and the bishop and the rook. The queen, the most powerful piece on the chessboard, could move endlessly in any direction, while the king, of course, was the vital piece that limped along one space at a time. Everything was a sequence that worked toward trapping the king.

To keep him from moving any further.

“Check yourself,” the trainer yelled from the ground.

Exequiel had belted in, but the ladder was starting to slide to the left. He leaned forward when he shouldn’t have. The ladder slid quickly to the right. His body seized up again. His legs were frozen near one of the top rungs. He suddenly grabbed hold of the strand with both hands and took another breath.

There was nothing in front of him.

That night, he lay in bed and Elle rubbed his legs.

“You can do this,” she said. “I know you can do it.”

She let go of his left leg and moved slowly up and down on the right one. He tried to breathe through it. He winced, forcing his head to stay on the pillow. Even though he had showered and brushed his teeth, in his mouth was a trace of creosote. He felt as if he had spent the day chewing on the tar-colored glaze.

“They tell me tomorrow we gaff,” he said.

“What is that?” she said. “What does that mean?”

“Something to do with hooks and braces.”

“Hooks?”

She placed her hands firmly on both of his legs. She wanted to keep them from moving.

“They have these metal things they strap to your legs,” he said. “I saw a man doing this before we left the yard. He scraped up the pole, sinking the hooks in with each step. I had never seen anyone do that in my life, not really climb like that.”

A knock came at the bedroom door. They could hear Wendell’s muffled voice asking if he could come in and see what they were doing. Elle laughed at her son’s candor. He went on to admit he was angry Grandmarsha wasn’t letting him watch The Love Boat.

“Do you mind if we let him in for a little while?” she said.

“Let me put on a shirt,” Exequiel said.

Before he could finish getting dressed, Elle opened the door. Exequiel stood there, bare-chested and in his thin boxers. Wendell looked at him with eyes swollen and red.

“What happened to your shoulder?” the boy said.

Exequiel glanced at Elle.

She quickly changed the subject. Exequiel pulled on a new T-shirt and started to leave the room. He could hear Elle telling Wendell it was time he started watching how he spoke to others, especially grown-ups. Exequiel could end up staying for good, and what did he think about that?

She brushed the bangs out of Wendell’s eyes. The boy still looked sad. She was whispering to him that if he wanted, he could call Exequiel Dad. She thought it might be nice if he did.