Holding Back the Mud

The wooden mallet slipped off the rebar stake and cracked against Andrew’s knuckle. He shook his hand, spat into the dirt, and grabbed the blue tarp before the wind pulled it free.

Below the terrace, eight feet of raw clay was turning slick under the drizzle. If the slope gave, forty tons of mud would hit the French doors before nightfall. Andrew drove another steel pin through a grommet.

Tires crunched in the driveway. A diesel engine cut out, and Andrew stood up.

Luis Mendoza walked around the garage carrying two cinder blocks against his chest. His boots were caked in red mud, his jacket zipped to the chin. The tailgate of his flatbed was down, loaded with two rows of concrete block.

“What are you doing here, Luis?” Andrew asked, stepping down off the terrace.

Luis set the blocks down with a thud. “Three inches of rain coming by dark.” He took off his thick work gloves and held them tightly in one hand. “The county told my lawyer Vivian’s frozen out. But that bank won’t wait for a judge. I brought forty blocks.”

“I’m not paying you for them,” Andrew said.

“I wouldn’t take your money,” Luis said. “I took the wall down. I’m keeping the mud off your glass.”

Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, feeling cold rain run under his collar. He looked at the raw slope, then at the truck. “Start from the south end. Tie it into the remaining stone.”

They worked without talking. Luis mixed stiff mortar in a wheelbarrow while Andrew graded the footing with a shovel. They laid two courses along the breach, backfilling the trench with gravel to let water drain.

Nora stepped out onto the terrace with three mugs on a tray, her arms folded across her cardigan.

Luis stopped scraping a joint and tucked his trowel away. He took off his work gloves, held them tightly in one fist, and reached into his coat pocket. He held out a piece of glazed blue tile, cracked across the center. Leah had pressed it into the mortar with her grandfather when she was seven.

“I found this in the pile by the driveway,” Luis said to Nora. His voice stayed low. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I should have checked the seal myself.”

Nora looked at the tile in his palm. Her index finger tapped twice against her arm. She took the piece, her jaw softening. “Thank you, Luis.”

Ten minutes later, the downpour hit. Luis packed his tools, waved off the coffee, and backed down the drive. The gray block held, channeling brown water into the gravel ditch.

Andrew and Nora left their wet boots on the back mat. He was drying his face with a towel when three sharp knocks hit the front door.

He opened it to find Karen Moss under a dripping umbrella. Her face was pale, and she held a folded sheet of paper with a familiar county seal stamped across the top.