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someone over the head with if they break into your house in the middle of the night. The sap had belonged to my grandfather, who was a parole officer in New York City, like, seventy years ago. My mom kept it, though, because where were you ever going to find one these days? It wasn’t like there was a single store where you could just go in and say, “I would like to buy a sap.” That meant, in my mother’s opinion, it was a valuable collectible. This was the kind of drawer my mom had.
    When I moved in I wanted to get the place cleaned up, but there was so much stuff. I couldn’t get through to the bed in the room I was staying in. I had to tunnel my way. It took me three years to finally get the place cleared out.
    The back door was crumbling and air was rushing in under it. For years I had been telling her to get it fixed, but she always said, “You can’t find anybody around here to do any work.” I figured what she really meant was that there were people around who would do jobs, but she didn’t want them in her house (even if they could get in, with the gum wrappers and half-eaten sour balls).
    Winter was coming and I was panicking about the door. In Brooklyn, you have central heating. You have a super. The super may not be competent, he may not be any good at fixing things, but you have that incompetent man, who must obey your commands, as your very own—more obedient than a husband because you tip him at Christmas.
    I went on local listings on the computer, and at random called a number for a handyman: Melvyn answered.
    Melvyn drove a rusted pickup. He was short and weighed about 250 pounds, most of it in his center. He had on overalls. He had a beard and a red face. He breathed heavily, so heavily and slowly that he seemed to be saying with every exhalation, I don’t want to fix your door, and with every inhalation, I’m not going to fix your door, like some kind of Buddhist chant or yoga breathing exercise.
    But he said he would do the job.
    â€œWhen do you think you can start?”
    â€œStart?” He stood staring at the back door, wheezing. “Oh. I don’t know about that.” It was Monday. “How about Thursday? I could get here on Thursday. Or Friday. Or I could come next week.”
    â€œHow about Thursday?”
    â€œWhat?” Melvyn said. “Um. I’m going to have to check with my wife. She works nights as a nurse. I’ve been out of work. So I thought I would put up an ad. I didn’t think anybody would respond, especially not so soon. I’m going to check with my wife and I’ll let you know.”
    You could tell he was somewhat disappointed I wanted him to do the job. And I did not think I would see Melvyn again.
    On Thursday Melvyn returned. He started to work, first by looking at the back door. I left him hard at it and went upstairs. After about a half hour, Melvyn yelled, “Um, ma’am?”
    I went downstairs.
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œYes, Melvyn. What’s up?”
    â€œI don’t feel good.” He whimpered and had a pained expression.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œDid you know . . . you got a dead squirrel out there in the back?”
    â€œA dead squirrel?”
    â€œI had to go out back to get some air. You got a dead squirrel and it made me sick. I think maybe your dogs ate it. Something ate it. When I saw it, I threw up. You know them kids were over to the house the other day, they ate a lot of candy and they been sick. Maybe I got something from them. I’m going home.”
    He had removed the back door. Now there was a big hole where the door had been. He began gathering up all his tools.
    I followed him to the front door. “Melvyn . . . I . . . Do you think you could clean up your vomit? It’s a very small yard and I don’t want the dogs finding it.”
    He seemed surprised. “What? Oh . . . No. It’s okay. I