Once Upon a Rooftop
by Blanche Day Manos
All Rights Belong Solely to the Author
I jump from my truck, hoist out my ladder and gaze at the chimney going up the side of the house of my very first customer. Is that chimney capped off? I understood the voice on the phone this morning to say the family who lives here had recently stopped using their fireplace and all would be ready for the chimney sweep. That would be me. I walk a little closer to take a better look.
Disregarding the sweep’s cardinal rule of never climbing onto a roof without the lucky top hat, I lean my ladder against the side of the house and shinny up. Climbing across the shingles, I reach the chimney top and look down at the opening. Sealed! What do I do now? My first day on the job is not starting well but this should be no surprise. During the past four weeks, everything else has gone wrong in my life. People who say a chimney sweep is lucky should have their heads examined. The only luck I’ve brought has been to other people–to Sylvia, for instance, when I introduced her to Brad. I blink away the ever-ready tears that are brought on by thoughts of my ex-fiancee.
“What are you doing on my roof?” A deep masculine voice startles me and I look down into two angry blue eyes topped by wind-blown black hair appearing abruptly above the eaves. I gulp. My customers usually stay on the ground.
“I should have knocked first. I’m sorry. I climbed up to take a good look at your chimney. It is capped off.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? The fireplace is sealed. I haven’t ever used it.”
The man peers at me with eyes that mirror exactly the color of the sky, but I notice they are becoming watery and his face is taking on a greenish hue.
“Then why did you call me?” I ask. I feel my own face getting hot.
“I didn’t,” he answers.
I fish in my shirt pocket for the paper on which I had scribbled his address. “840 Spring Street,” I announce smugly.
He jerks his thumb in the direction of the house next door. “Wrong house.”
“You mean this isn’t…”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get down,” he mumbles. “I can’t stand heights.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as his head disappears below the eaves.
I follow him down the ladder.
“I didn’t mean to be so brusque,” he tells me. “It’s just hard to find a time when this street is quiet. Deliver me from motorcycles and noisy kids. Then, when I heard you on the roof, I thought maybe squirrels were trying to get in since it’s the wrong time of year for Santa.”
“No squirrels, no Santa,” I say, lifting the ladder to my shoulder. “I’m just the chimney sweep.”
His eyes lose their hostility and I see a flicker of interest. Most people think female chimney sweeps are amusing.
“How long have you been doing this? Do you enjoy it?” he asks.
“Only since January and yes,” I answer, settling the ladder back into my Ford.
He leans against the door of my truck and squints at me thoughtfully. “Why did you decide to become a sweep?”
An indignant retort almost surfaces but I clamp my lips shut before I tell him that it is none of his business. I remember my mother’s words of wisdom, “Sally, if you want to keep Brad, you are going to have to quit being so outspoken. Think before you speak! Butter up Brad’s ego a bit, let him think he is boss, and for goodness sake, please don’t quit your job here in the dress shop to become a chimney sweep.”
I climb into the cab of my truck. “I have a chimney to clean next door,” I tell him. “I’m sorry that I bothered you.” As I drive away, I glance in the rear view mirror. He is standing where I left him, watching me turn into the driveway of his neighbor, the one living at 840 Spring Street.
It is late when I finish cleaning the last chimney of the day and go home. Walking up the steps to my wide, wood front porch gives me a feeling of peace, of belonging. I had better enjoy that feeling while I can because with no partner to help with business bills, I won’t be able to keep this wonderful house. When Brad opted for Sylvia, he left me holding the bag, or in this case, the ladder. We were going to be partners in the chimney cleaning business and he would foot half the bills, but he left without a backward look when my friend Sylvia entered his life. My hopes of being able to afford this ten-room antique vanished like so much smoke from a chimney.
I love the tall, sheltering trees in the yard. I love the neighbors. I wave at Mr. Shelby watching from his window. The Shelby’s are retired, and a bit nosy. I like to think of them as the grandparents I never knew.
Going through the front door and down the hall, I reach the favorite room in my house–the kitchen. It needs a new sink and the faded wallpaper of yellow butterflies and white daisies has grease spatters. The window sticks and I have to prop it up with a stick. The stove is a 1935 gas range that I bought at a garage sale, but it is shining clean and sparkles with its own special beauty.
After supper, I put my chimney cleaning vacuum and brushes in the enclosed back porch. Wrapped in my blue corduroy robe, I settle onto the plump pink print sofa and flick on the floor lamp. Reading the hometown news should be boring enough to lull me to sleep.
The phone rings and the caller’s deep voice is vaguely familiar. “Sally? Sally Grant? This is Sam Meyer. You almost cleaned my sealed-off chimney this morning.”
“Yes?” A past mistake come back to haunt me already?
“If I uncap the chimney and start using my fireplace, will you come back over and clean it for me?”
“What?” I’m too tired and depressed for jokes.
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing. What I mean is, I think you are an interesting person and I would like to see you again.”
I am speechless. Wearing a becoming dress from my mother’s shop, with carefully applied make-up, I might rate a second look but this morning my short mop of brown curls was blowing all over my head and I wore nothing more devastating than a pair of faded blue jeans and a comfortable shirt. Did that make me look “interesting”?
Sam clears his throat. “I wondered if perhaps you could meet me for lunch tomorrow at The Lamplighter?”
“Wait. Wait a minute. How did you get hold of my name and phone number?”
“My next door neighbor. The one whose chimney you were supposed to clean in the first place.”
I pull my robe closer around my shoulders and consider. He seems harmless enough. Having lunch with him might help take my mind off Brad and Sylvia and bills, at least, momentarily.
Will this decision prove to be another example of my poor judgment? “OK. Tomorrow is a slow day for chimneys. Lunch would be nice.”
(To Be Continued)
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