Ronnie Babcock liked not worrying about how she looked. She'd sweated through her shorts, through her sports bra, and through one of her favorite tee shirts. (It showed the Mutant from This Island Earth. In a heart-shaped thought bubble, the Mutant asked himself: But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?)

Usually when she worked closely with a guy, there was some kind of tension (either good or bad) and she got self-conscious and clumsy. Sometimes she thought she could feel her IQ plummet. Sometimes she felt that way around Wishes. He seemed oblivious. She'd confided in her friend Parmie, who told her, "Hon, think with the big head."

Darryl "Aardvark" Willitt was definitely a guy. But he was about the age her dad would have been; like the uncle she never had. Also gay (in his words, "a mean old queer"). She felt at ease with him.

For a short guy, Aardvark had big hands. He grabbed two bricks with each hand, and handed two to her with a nod. They had worked out a good rhythm together, (once she got the hang of basic bricklaying) and didn't talk much. She knew he was keeping an eye on her work, but somehow it didn't make her nervous. Every time she messed up, he had an anecdote about some monumental screw-up in his own past, supposedly leading to horrific, sometimes physically impossible consequences.

She wasn't sure which were the true stories and which were total junk. She had theories, but no real proof. His unlit Lucky Strike would bob up and down as he talked, his pale grey eyes looking as innocent as a baby's. When he came to the conclusion (usually disgusting or wildly improbable) and stated the moral to be drawn (highly questionable and often a non sequitur), he'd just scratch his greying crew cut and smile.

They were almost done building a brick mailbox pillar. They'd picked out the brick to match the house, one of the nicer ones on Belmont Avenue. This was the fourth job she'd worked on with Aardvark. Not counting creating a website for the businesses (Aardvark Stoneworks, and his in-home "salon", Bad Hair Day).

She was pretty sure he was just humoring her about the website. She'd used a free blogging service instead of paying for a domain name. It hadn't actually brought in any additional business; Aardvark's customers all seemed to be friends, friends of friends, or somebody who'd heard word of mouth. But she had fun adding artwork to the site. Its homepage featured a photo of Aardvark's middle-aged F-150, its bed full of chunks of granite, its sides and hood decorated with paintings she'd done over a couple of weeks.

She focused on the work in front of her. Aardvark had put her in charge of the cement mortar. She eyed the pan; looked like just enough to finish. If not, she'd make more. It felt good to work with her hands. Most of her jobs had consisted mainly of tapping on keys and sending electrons here and there. She was even getting used to the heat, and found she liked being tired after a day of physical labor. Her hands were growing calloused, her shoulders and arms getting some visible muscle. Between that and the Peter Pan cut Aardvark had given her in his salon chair (and a switch to her natural blonde, streaked with red), she felt like a tomboy.

She glanced over at Aardvark's stout ropy forearms. She pictured him squinting one eye shut, smoking a corncob pipe. He was wearing his USS Nimitz/CVN-68 cap.

When Ronnie had finally noticed Aardvark was missing half his ring finger on his left hand, she asked him how it happened. This time there was no story; he just tapped the stump against the brim of his Nimitz cap.

She took a break and got them both some cold bottles of peppermint tea from the cooler. Aardvark preferred the stuff to Gatorade, and he'd gotten her hooked on it.

The main pillar was done; Aardvark would do the more delicate work of setting the bricks he'd shaped to match the mailbox they'd insert later. She watched him work, listening with half an ear to the CD playing in Aardvark's 20-year-old boombox. Something she'd never heard of, called Small Talk at 125th and Lennox. Not really songs, more poetry. She felt somehow she should be getting more out of it, but half the references meant nothing to her.

Woah—what the Hell? Something in the lyrics caught her ear. She said, "Did he just say that?"

Aardvark listened a moment. "Oh, yeah, that's a great one. 'The Subject Was Faggots.'"

"Maybe I don't get forty-year-old New York poetry, but it sounds just a little bit bigoted."

"Nah! You gotta have a sense of humor."

Their client, Debbie Something—Doultry, Debbie Doultry—came out through the garage and down the driveway, still wearing a silk robe and bunny slippers as she had been when they'd showed up at eight. Still, in fact, looking a little sleepy, but now also a little tipsy.

Ronnie went to turn off the CD, and pulled her phone out of her cargo shorts pocket to check the time. Well, she thought, it's after noon. That was always good enough for Dad.

Aardvark said, "Oughta get a cheap watch, you're gonna break that fancy phone, carrying it on the job." He turned to smile at the woman as she came close.

Debbie smiled back. Something about her eyes, her hesitant smile, made Ronnie see a scared 12-year-old girl, though Debbie was probably 30. What is it with dumb blondes? Ronnie thought, and was immediately ashamed of herself. One of her few prejudices was assuming blonde women—other than herself—were stupid.

Debbie asked, "Y'all care for some beers in the house? It's gettin' to be the hot part of the day."

Ronnie could see Aardvark pause, perhaps struggle a bit within himself; one of his made-up rules was "Never turn down a free drink." Actually, she wouldn't mind one herself.

Behind them, a car pulled into the driveway. Debbie exclaimed "Oh! Here's my husband." She chewed on her lower lip. Ronnie turned to see an Infiniti come to a halt, and a tall, strong-featured man step out. She thought his face looked like a bust of one of the Caesars she'd seen once.

The man took Debbie by the shoulders. "Debbie, Sweetheart, remember about getting dressed nice and early, so we can have lunch together?" He glanced toward Ronnie and Aardvark. His gaze slid over Ronnie without stopping, but froze on Aardvark.

He turned back to his wife and spoke to her with a tight smile. "Sweetie, why don't you go get ready, and we'll go someplace nice for lunch? Go on now."

Debbie walked back up the driveway, and Doultry turned to face Aardvark, took a few steps toward him. "How in Hell—what are you doing here?"

Aardvark jerked a thumb toward the brick pillar. "Doing a job. Be cool."

Doultry said, "I'm a deacon, do you know that? I am a deacon in my church, and we're trying to have a baby."

Aardvark spoke in low, calm tones. "That's fine, Carl. I'm just building your mailbox here. I didn't know Debbie was your wife. Or that you had one."

Doultry looked toward his house for a long time, then looked back. "I think it's best if we both keep our mouths shut."

Aardvark said, "Fine. You have a good life. Good luck with your marriage."

Doultry's face visibly darkened. He glanced at Ronnie, then moved in to tower over Aardvark. His voice came out hoarse and shaky. "Is that some kind of threat?"

Aardvark held the man's gaze, then pulled up his tee shirt sleeve to show the tattoo on his right upper arm: the model for his business totem, a cartoon aardvark smoking an unfiltered cigarette. He spoke in clipped, precise syllables, almost losing his Mississippi accent. "I told you once, a freak accident endowed me with all the strength and wisdom of the noble aardvark. I don't screw people over. So chill the Hell out. Go live your life."

Doultry seemed to deflate a little. He took a few steps backwards. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Aardvark hadn't moved. "That's okay. You go on now."

Doultry turned and went into his shady garage. He hit the button on the wall and the garage door came rumbling down.

"Let's pack it up." Aardvark was gathering his tools. Ronnie helped him load the truck; he got in the driver's seat, so she walked around to the other side. That side of the truck as yet bore no decoration, but in that moment she knew what she was going to paint there.

She got in. Aardvark started the truck up and pulled out. He punched the radio on; AM 1690, playing a John Prine song.

When they turned onto Windy Hill, she said, "So that's what you're like when you're mad."

He winked at her. "Darlin', you've never seen me mad."

"Good! Hope I never do, Boss."

"You betcha."

"Did he really say, 'We should keep our mouths shut?' That was like a great straight line."

He laughed. "One hundred percent straight, I guess the idea is. Hear no evil, speak no evil."

"Well, you know, Kinsey said nobody's a hundred percent straight or gay."

"Oh? What about you, girly girl?"

"Well, maybe me. I'm doomed to ruin myself with men."

He leaned over and rubbed her shoulder. "You know Brian Cornell, I think I've mentioned him before?"

"Ah, you were together, some years back?"

Aardvark didn't answer until they'd gone under the rail bridge and turned left onto Atlanta Road. "Right. The only man, really, I ever loved. He never did come out to his family, not until the end. Know when his mother found out? When he was dying in an AIDS hospice. That's how I met Moira, you know, Shane's Auntie?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, her second husband was there. Poor bastard: got it from a surgical transfusion, back before they screened. He and Brian died the same damn day. Which was eighteen years ago this Friday, so if you see her, be sweet." They stopped at a red light. "Hell, I don't even know where I'm going. Listen, I'll cover your part of the pay for that job."

"Don't worry about it, Aardvark."

"What's that? Did you just say, 'Thank you, Aardvark'?"

She sighed. "Thank you, Aardvark." She looked around; they were at Spring Road. "Hey, take a right here, then another right."

"Where to?"

"Well, I'm going to show you."

They went up King, then around the Centennial Park roundabout, and parked behind Smyrna Public Library. They took their peppermint tea and crossed the road to the Village Green.

Ronnie led the way around the pond. "Come on, Aardvark. I want you to meet Henry David."

"Which is who?"

"Which is ... him!" She pointed to a boulder, where a large bronze frog sat, resting elbow on knee and head on hand, contemplating the pond. Ronnie put her butt against the rock next to the sculpture, her long legs stretched out. "The frog on the library steps is Ralph Waldo Emerson, and this here is Henry David Thoreau."

"Huh. Yankees." Aardvark leaned against the rock, peered at the pond over the frog's shoulder.

Ronnie took a drink. "Thoreau said something like, 'I wanted to live deep, and suck out all the marrow of life.'"

"That sounds mighty gay."

"Yes, it does. But I come here and help Henry David look at the pond, and it reminds me, life is right there in front of us. Live deep; suck some marrow."

"Guess sometimes you suck the marrow of life, and sometimes life just sucks."

Ronnie punched him on the arm. "It's not so bad. Contemplate the pond."

"I see geese and ducks."

"Well, that's a start. This is fun." She put her arm around the frog. "Henry David and me've got it figured out. For once I get to be wise and make a point. Give me five minutes to enjoy it."

Aardvark sat with his back against the boulder. "Hope I'm not sitting on goose crap. That's all those birds do, eat and crap."

"No it isn't, Man, they fly, too."

He let out a long sigh. "You're okay, for a punk kid. You're solid."

"Am I a brick?"

"You're a brick."