By Christopher Mitchell

The Jack of All Trades

Autumn bowed to winter in resignation. The snows started, and Oliver spent much of his time keeping the fires lit and the stable warm.

It had been the most profitable season on record, with Oliver using the extra income to buy more books and lumber to expand the study. He’d just finished placing the order with Eddie Two-Rivers when Penelope exited the theater. Now, he and Penelope walked arm-in-arm in the quaint downtown of Silverspring.

They smiled and waved at people they passed, reveling in the early sunset that bathed their world in glorious orange and navy. John and Beth Haversham waved through the window of the Gas and Grocery, white fluorescent light spilling out onto the soft snow and lighting the world in electric brilliance. The snow and salt crunched under their booted feet, and Penelope’s excitement vibrated through her voice as they entered the Havershams’ small store.

“It was such a good movie, Ollie! Have you seen it?”

Oliver smiled and held the door open for her. “I haven’t! I always heard the Gatsby film was great, but I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the book itself.”

“Oh, you should have seen it! Leo did so good in it…wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Beth?”

Beth gave a little laugh. “Someone was at the movies while another someone avoided them, didn’t they?”

“Oh, it’s okay, Mrs. Beth,” Penelope assured her, “he had to get the orders in for the expansion. He would have been there if it wasn’t for that, I know it.”

“Well…” Oliver teased, bracing himself for Penelope’s light shove.

“You ass.” She said lovingly, then wrapped her arms around his waist in a bear hug.

Mrs. Beth’s eyes watered, and her hands were clasped together under her chin. “I’m so happy the two of you found each other!”

“You did good, honey!” Mr. John called from the aisle, sweeping up the last of the day’s chores and getting ready to close for the night. “Ollie, give me a hand over here, would ya?”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver called and made his way up the aisle, adjusting items on the shelf so they were perfectly square as he passed, and grabbed the dustpan from Mr. John’s outstretched hand as he approached.

“Just you building the add-on?” Mr. John asked, referring to the study.

“Penelope plans on helping,” Oliver answered, crouching to hold the dustpan in place while John swept the dust and food crumbs and wayward prairie grass into it.

“You mean you plan on doing the work while Penelope reads to you?” Mr. John corrected. He allowed Oliver to stand to full height before continuing. “Project like that’s gonna need some extra hands.”

“I figured you’d come help, Mr. John.” Oliver smiled.

“Me!” The old man laughed heartily. “The only thing I’d be good for is dying on the property, son.”

Oliver laughed and walked next to Mr. John, going at a leisurely pace to match the older gentleman’s arthritic ones.

“It’s gonna be a big job, for sure.” Oliver looked about the small market, seeing what may have been missed, so he could help the old couple close early.

“Bigger than this old store requires, Ollie, now pay attention and stop looking for work.”

He’d caught Oliver’s inspection. Oliver chuckled.

“I’m serious, son.” Mr. John continued. “Just you working around the clock still puts you to at least April if you don’t cut corners. Then there’s waiting for the thaw, the settling, the foundation repairs—”

“Are you trying to have me not build the study, Mr. John?” Oliver asked, turning and raising an eyebrow at him.

“Not at all, you hasty bastard, now hush and listen to me.” He said it playfully, but Oliver heard the dash of mild annoyance in it and decided to stay quiet. “I met a man earlier today who’s just come into town. Been helping out all over for the past two weeks or so. Knows his craft— knows everybody else’s craft, too.” Mr. John stopped at the end of the aisle and faced him, undoing the tie of the apron around him. “I think he’d be a good addition to the farm, son.”

“I don’t need the extra hands, Mr. John,” Oliver said firmly.

Mr. John held his hands up placatingly. “Just meet the damned man, would ya? You’d be doing this old codger a favor.”

Oliver thought a moment, then turned to face the sounds of Mrs. Beth and Penelope giggling.

“Wouldn’t you like her to have the study sooner rather than later, Ollie?” John said behind him.

He would. More than anything.

He wanted to see her eyes sparkle in excitement with the finished product…it aimed to be spectacular.

“Alright, alright, you stubborn old bastard.” Oliver relented. “Introduce me to your jack of all trades.”

A short while later, they were back in Harry’s Diner, walking toward the man Mr. John swore would cut Oliver’s work time in half. They’d left Penelope and Mrs. Beth to peruse the thrift store nearby, where Penelope combed the shelves for baubles and trinkets to add to the house’s history.

“He’s a damn demon with a saw and hammer, Ollie.” Mr. John was saying as they weaved in between tables of patrons enjoying Harry’s homestyle fries and Salisbury steaks and veal cutlets, “You remember how Mrs. Thompson’s roof had all that damage from the hailstorm last year?”

“I do,” Oliver said, finding his eyes drawn to the counter seat where, less than six months before, he’d met the love of his life.

“He finished it by himself in three days. Three days, Ollie!” Mr. John held up three fingers for emphasis. “Did it for a pittance too, asked for her to give him credit here at the diner.”

“He works for food?” Oliver asked, curious.

“Says it’s all he needs.” Mr. John threw his hands up as if to say it was the most asinine thing he’d ever heard of.

Oliver agreed.

They approached a man in a rumpled flannel, the sleeves rolled to show the layer of black thermal fabric underneath. He was younger—in his early-to-mid-twenties maybe—with dusty blonde hair cut close to the scalp and sported a fine layer of chin stubble to match. Little flecks of paint dotted his clothes and skin, showing the day’s work better than any business card ever could.

He was pressing his knife into a slice of chicken parmesan as Mr. John cleared his throat to introduce himself. “Evening, Jack,” He started, placing his hand delicately on Oliver’s shoulder. “Wanted to introduce you to your future employer.”

Jack rose quickly and met Oliver’s eyes, then held his hand out in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ketch. Mr. John’s told me a lot about you.”

Oliver clasped the hand and shook it. “Has he now?” He gave Mr. John a knowing look, and Mr. John shrugged in acquiescence.

“He was talking about books, and your name came up.” Mr. John said with a shrug. “Figured what’s the harm in filling him in on a fellow bibliophile.”

“Whoa!” Jack said, taking his hand back and holding them palm out near his shoulders. “I’m no bibliophile, I just said I enjoyed reading.”

“This is a town of less than two-fifty, son.” Mr. John said dryly. “If you read out here, you’re a bibliophile.”

They all laughed, and Jack gestured for them to join him. They removed their overcoats and sat, ordering coffees when the waitress arrived.

“And toss a beer to Jed, would you, Katie?” Jack added. “Let him know I’ll be by to check on his furnace tonight when I finish up here.”

“You got it, Jack.” Katie Branson said, batting her pretty, twenty-something eyelashes at the young man and tucking a lock of her black hair behind her ear before leaving to gather their orders.

“Thanks, Katie!” Jack called as she left. “Good kid. Her dad’s an asshole, though.”

Oliver burst into laughter. “Had a chance to meet our town contractor, I take it?”

“Met him pulling permits for Mrs. Thompson,” Jack responded, eyes narrowing. “He was a nice enough guy until I mentioned he was wrong about Wyoming roofing codes… didn’t seem to like that too much.”

“You mean telling a man who’s been in construction longer than the internet would be offended by a callout?” Mr. John said, tone rife with sarcasm. “No!”

They all laughed again.

It felt good to laugh with men, Oliver realized. Before Penelope, he’d rarely said much, if anything, to the people of the town outside of the usual “how do you do?” or “how’s business?” Now, as they all settled in and got comfortable, Oliver could see the benefits of male companionship.

“Mr. John tells me you’re a Jack of all trades,” Oliver said, thanking Katie as she dropped a hot cup of black coffee in front of him.

Jack held his hand to his heart in thanks to Katie, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Been ripping boards and hanging drywall since I was in middle school…keeps my hands busy.”

Oliver turned his mug to get at the handle. “You a fan of work?”

“I’m a fan of purpose, Mr. Ketch.” He said, taking a tiny bite of his chicken. “So, I guess… yeah, work is sort of my purpose.” He cut another small piece from his chicken. “Mr. Haversham says you’re building a study?”

“Adding on to one.” Oliver corrected. “Building it for my… Penelope.”

They’d never put titles to what she and Oliver were to each other… funny; he realized he’d never introduced her as anything other than Penelope to people.

“Penelope…” Jack said. “Like the Odyssey?”

Oliver smiled. “Yeah…exactly like the odyssey.”

“Great story; liked the Iliad better.” Jack took a sip of his water. “The love story was better in it.”

“Love story?” Mr. John asked. “You mean the parts between Helen and Paris?”

Jack laughed uncomfortably and leaned back in his chair. “Actually, the one between Achilles and Patroclus.”

Oliver perked up. Jack knew.

“Them!” Mr. John exclaimed. “They were brothers in arms, not lovers!”

Jack shook his head and pointed his fork good-naturedly at Mr. John. “See, that’s where most folks got it wrong, Mr. Haversham. You gotta know the history of Greece to understand the phrasing Homer used in his stories.”

“Are you referring to Athens’ phrasing,” Oliver asked, “or Sparta phrasing?”

“Same difference.” Jack scoffed, passing Oliver’s test. “The older soldier taking on the younger, teaching him in all things in love and war until the younger comes into his own—”

“And the cycle starts anew.” Oliver finished, nodding in agreement. “With the younger becoming the older and taking on the role of mentor and lover.”

Jack nodded, a little smile reaching the corners of his mouth. “The translation made Homer’s words seem like they were nothing more than a battle pair, but they were more than that,” Oliver swore he saw the man’s eyes twinkle with longing. “Such a love as theirs…man, I would kill to have that.”

“You will someday.” Mr. John assured him. “There’s some lucky guy out there—”

Jack laughed so loudly that other patrons nearby stopped their chatter to see what was so funny. The blond-haired man shook his hands in front of himself and calmed his laughter. “No, sir, I apologize. I like women, but—”

“You can recognize the beauty in love, regardless of what it looks like.” Oliver finished for him.

“Exactly!” Jack shouted, slamming a fist on the table. “That’s it exactly!” He was uncaring that others nearby overheard him, “No man, woman, or group of people can tell me otherwise. Love is love is love, and to discredit someone’s love is to invite an evil into your life no amount of prayer can fix.”

Oliver pounded the table in agreement. “Here, here! How about a nightcap, gentlemen? I’m not a drinker, but I feel like the moment calls for one.”

He held his hand up to get Katie’s attention when he felt Jack’s hand grip his wrist. The action caused Oliver to rip his focus back to the man across from him.

Jack’s eyes showed resolve…and the smallest measure of pleading. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Ketch,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Me and the spirits don’t mesh well, if you take my meaning.”

Oliver’s eyes softened, and he nodded. “A couple of decafs then…”

Jack let go of his hand, and he tipped his head in both apology and thanks.

They talked. About The Iliad, about the extension of the study on the farm, and as the seconds turned to minutes, Oliver found himself becoming fond of the young man.

“I think it all stems from what we are as a species,” Jack said, leaning on his elbows, continuing their conversation on war. “It’s in our nature, unfortunately…to fight, to vie for resources, and to either eventually cede to the competing group or die fighting.”

“But you aren’t taking into consideration the ethics our species has produced.” Oliver countered. “Philosophy expanded our rationality on what is and isn’t acceptable by the standards of war. The Geneva Conventions—”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Jack said, cutting him off. “But I was back east before I decided to head out here…the idea of ethics in war is a lie.”

“You were in the Northern War then?” Mr. John asked in awe.

It wasn’t a topic the folks of Silverspring brought up lightly…those had been dark days for the country, with rumblings of it still happening near the Canadian border.

Jack chuckled derisively. “No. I wasn’t.” He twisted at the paper his straw had come in, and Oliver noticed his right knee jostle up and down nervously as he spoke. “I was passing through and got conscripted into a labor camp there. Got to watch people fight and die over scraps and rats and any other form of sustenance they could get their hands on…” He shuddered and looked around at the patrons of the diner. “Be thankful it didn’t make its way this far west before D.C. established boundaries: you learn awful quick that even good people have their breaking points.”

Oliver, not knowing what else to do in the presence of Jack’s sudden nervous energy, reached across the table and stilled Jack’s twisting of the paper.

“We’re thankful, it didn’t,” Oliver said softly, “and we’re thankful you’re here.”

Jack smiled a half-smile, his eyes flashing gratitude, and he nodded in thanks.

Oliver let go of his wrist, meeting the younger man’s eyes. “I find myself in need of a carpenter.” He held his hand out to seal the deal. “When can you get started?”

Jack took the hand and shook it. “For you, Mr. Ketch? Tonight, if you asked it of me.”

Oliver smiled. He knew the young man meant it.