The Unfinished Man

It hit me in the garage that night. Stu was working on Big Red, whose hood was propped up, its bed stuffed with barrels of trash to be taken in. Stu was staring at the engine like he sometimes looked down at the pasta pot when the water hadn’t boiled yet.

“Hey,” I said after a minute.

He reached for a wrench on a nearby motorcycle seat.

“Babe?”

He turned his head, the reddish beard fringed around his jaw flecked with dust.

“You coming in so we can talk about it?”

Stu walked around to the other side of the engine, which was partly lit by the moon coming in the garage window. We never parked in the garage. There were too many of Stu’s “projects” in here. Next to the truck and motorcycle was a lathe machine he’d inherited from a local school that he was going to use with his friend to do something, I wasn’t sure what.

I reached in. “Spark plugs?” The red metal was icy under my arm.

“Nah,” he said. “The engine doesn’t turn over.”

“Starter?”

Then Stu kind of came to and said, “Go back inside, my delightful dumpling. I’ll be up for a snoozle soon.” And he began to apply twist the wrench.

Inside I put on some water for tea and sat on a stool at the kitchen island. It was almost midnight. Above hung a row of shiny pots and pans. The counter was green granite. The dishwasher a Bosch. Stu had brought me to his house on our first date. He had invited me for dinner. He was a man who had kitchen utensils and cooked a meal. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I moved in a few weeks later.

--

Stu’s hobby was collecting. That wasn’t a problem. Collectors have stories. This is their distinction, yes? They say things like, that old jelly cabinet? Found that in the Fitch’s barn after the old man died. Or, that old radio from 1923? Never mind if it worked or not.

In the kitchen, next to the shiny new island and cookware was an old cook stove. He used it to pile mail and paperwork. The dashboard of his truck—a silver one, which worked--he called his file drawer.

On our first date, we ate in the adjoining room at a tawny wood table made of bird’s eye maple, surrounded with four Windsor chairs. A vintage Coke cooler sat where a hutch would’ve been perfect. On it, piles of magazines and mail slid off, which he righted with his elbow as he carried our plates of chicken and salad in.

He pointed his fork at me and swooned. “I’m fascinated by the dimensions of you. The blue collar roots, your ability to transcend into academia. There’s a lot of great snap-crackle-pop in your mind!”

I swooned too. I liked his flannel shirts and his biceps. Over the next few dates we walked and talked about the environment, Gandhi, and Leonard Cohen. “I’m your man!”

When we went to bed for the first time, he said, “Big good wow!”

Stu had been trying to meet someone in our small town for some time. His online dating site sent him messages: “A thousand women are dying to meet you!”  

He laughed. “There aren’t a thousand people out here!”

We sat at the island in mornings, where his kid ate cereal before his mom picked him up for school. Stu patted my ass and made eyes at me. “My dumpling! My rare gem!” I was settling in. I liked it and felt at home and kind of soft, like one of those old pieces of furniture, cozy and tucked right in place.

But I couldn’t figure out his thinking. He had this great house but it was filled with stuff that didn’t work. There was a player piano in the living room and a manual on how to fix it, but Stu hadn’t had time yet. The first floor bathroom had faux granite tile, brushed nickel track lighting and a huge Jacuzzi. The upstairs bathroom was painted lilac except for a large patch behind the door, where the drywall showed through. One day I opened a door to a room next to the bathroom that was always closed and could see bits of blue sky through the boards.

Stu was sensitive about these areas, and especially the basement, which he told me to avoid. “Dumpling it is dangerous! I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my precious, yum yum yum!”

In the basement was prize project, his heating system, which he called, the “boilermaker.”  Based on a Swedish model, the system had a stove that tolerated high heats and then pumped water into a nearby holding tank, to be piped up through baseboards via a thermostat.

But the water part didn’t quite work yet. So he’d get the fire roaring at outrageous temperatures and then we’d huddle around and enjoy it until it dimmed. Cluster flies seeped into the farmhouse cracks and hatched their drowsy dumb flies, who circled above as we made love until I made Stu buy some fly paper.

--

One night I came down to the basement as he was stoking the fire.

“Whoa!” Stu put an arm around me and turned me back toward the stairs.

“Just curious,” I said. I could see orange flashes through the air vents. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at a door further in.

“Never mind. Just some storage.” Stu was losing his temper.

“Oh, root cellar, huh? Ok, ok. Just wanted to say goodnight.”

“You are exquisite!” he said, grinning but not really looking happy! “My dumpling, my firecracker! May we never be done!”

--

“I don’t want to hide anything from you,” Stu said when he came up and got into bed.

He rolled my way and had his CPAP in his hand. He called it his sexy diving gear.

“That room you saw? Well, I have a collection of guns. You knew that right?”

“Yea, we go shooting, it’s fun,” I said.

He often fell asleep at night with a Guns & Ammo magazine splashed open on his lap. I’d wake up when it whooshed to the floor. He couldn’t hear it over the wheeze of the CPAP.

“I don’t mind showing you but I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why?”

“They’ll think I’m some crazy militia man. I’m not. I just like the design of them. “I’m a vintage military enthusiast. I’m interested in both the history and the distilled form-follow-function essence of firearms. But I’m nearly entirely anti-war, with the rare exception for repelling fascist attacks.”

“OK, Babe.”

I was glad to turn over onto my comfy pillow. He had a great mattress.

-

Because of his CPAP we couldn’t spoon or anything. But Stu liked sex. Lots of it and had collected lots of ideas. I was up for it.

Next to the bed I kept condiment plastic bottles I’d gotten at the dollar store for canola oil or coconut oil. He wanted to try ties, different entry points and angles. Our surface life was so ordinary, going to his kid’s robotics club with a sheet pan of lasagna for the potluck and talking with the other parents. This was part of the appeal.

--

The morning after I went out into the garage, we woke as usual. Because of Stu’s CPAP we couldn’t fall asleep spooning so he reserved time after the alarm in the morning after he took it off. After a few minutes he got out of bed and I could hear the shower.

At the island in the kitchen I got out the cereal for the kid. Stu came in and went for his oatmeal, passing by me without a pinch. I’d noticed this a little lately but thought he’d been tired.

“Everything OK, Babe?” I said, spooning him at the fridge.

“I have a big meeting today,” he said, edging away.

The kid finished and went to get his coat and boots on. After they left I tidied up and did some work, then went out for a long drive.

I got back at dinnertime. Curiously the lights were out in the kitchen. Inside, I dropped my purse near the jelly cupboard and turned on the lights.  Stu appeared in the doorway, fists shoved deep into his pockets.

I moved in for a kiss.

“It’s over,” he said, wiggling his fists.

The pots and pans shone above the island in the track lighting.

“What?”

“You’ll have to find a new place to live.”

“Wait, we’re not going to discuss this?” I asked.

He moved to the other side of the island. “No.”

“Are you crazy?” I almost said and then stopped. This is a man who has firearms, I thought.

A sole email would deliver all he would say on the subject.

I went quietly and furiously. You don’t know who I am.

But it was too late. I was now part of his collection, too.