The Slope of the Roof.

A short story about fear of heights.

“I don’t like spiders at all, but I love heights.” Tom Holland

Uncle Francis had been on a bender since the Larkin’s barn collapsed the previous June. Budd Larkin blamed him for not supporting the barn properly when he poured the foundation. My uncle came home and opened a bottle of Four Aces. He stayed drinking until my aunt finally told him to leave.

It wasn’t his first bender. That would’ve been back in Brampton, when he got laid off at the Amerax Sheetmetal plant. He came home in a funk, got a bottle of wine out of the fridge, and drank steadily for a month.

Fortunately for him, my aunt had a little money saved. One day, going through the Grey County Examiner, this farm came up for sale near Stayner. It wasn’t much, but Uncle Francis was good with his hands, so they bought it.

He told Larkin they hadn’t used enough clay and straw as a binding agent. The mortar was nothing but sand now.

He spent the next year fixing it up, staying sober. Then Budd Larkin came by, asking my uncle if he’d do some foundation work. Uncle Francis went over the next day to look at the job. He told Larkin they hadn’t used enough clay and straw as a binding agent, meaning the mortar between the fieldstone was nothing but sand now.

“I can prop this barn up nine ways to Sunday, Budd,” he said. “It’ll still come down eventually. You need all new block work.”

“I don’t have the money,” Larkin said. “I just need it repaired.”

“Suit yourself,” my uncle said. “I’ll get started in the morning.”

Uncle Francis rented supports and a backhoe. He dug a trench, put in struts, then poured concrete forms under the four corners.

Before the concrete had a chance to harden, a rainstorm collapsed the whole west end of the barn. Larkin came over to the house all pissed. He told Uncle Francis he should have used more concrete. My uncle said it wouldn’t have made any difference. Larkin went off in a huff and Uncle Francis got out the bottle of Four Aces.

After my aunt told him to leave, he ended up in some down-and-out hotel over in Owen Sound. Doc Hurdy — a neighbour — came by one night. “He’s going to to kill himself if he keeps it up,” he told my aunt. She called me in Collingwood just as I was getting home from work. She asked me to him back.

I didn’t have to say anything. He picked up his cigarettes and cap and followed me out the door.

I found him sitting at the bar of the hotel, looking about as down as I’d ever seen him. I didn’t have to say anything. He picked up his cigarettes and cap and followed me out the door.

“Can we make one stop?” he asked, saying he’d done some plumbing for a guy in town the previous week. He wanted his money. When we got over there, the guy didn’t want to pay. My uncle grabbed his shirt. The guy hit my uncle in the face. Uncle Francis didn’t even try to hit him back.

He got back in the car without saying a word.

Once he was home at the farm, he seemed okay. I’d go over every few days, finding him sitting at the kitchen table, reading the local newspaper. That’s where he read about the contractor in Clarksburg who got blood poisoning and had a stroke. My uncle knew the man’s brother. He was a contractor, too. Uncle Francis wanted to go see if he needed any help.

I took him over since his licence was suspended. The brother was out front of his house, a big guy with sunglasses that looked mashed to his face. Uncle Francis asked if he had anything going in the way of work.

“What sort are you looking for, Francis?” the brother asked.

“Whatever you’ve got, Avery.”

“There’s a washroom to do over in Thornbury.”

“Suits me fine,” my uncle said.

He got his tools out of my car and put them in Avery’s truck. I said I’d pick him up at five-thirty in Thornbury. When I arrived, Uncle Francis was sitting on the porch steps of the house. His baseball cap was pushed back on his head. He’d been crying.

“Wrench slipped out of my hand,” he said. “I chipped the tub.”

I heard my uncle say he’d pay for the damage. “I don’t know what else I can do, Avery,” he said.

Avery showed up and started shouting at Uncle Francis. I heard my uncle say he’d pay for the damage. “I don’t know what else I can do, Avery,” he said. They talked a bit longer. Then Uncle Francis got his tools and brought them to the car.

“Avery just needs to cool off,” he said to me.

The next morning, Avery called him, saying water was coming in one of the upstairs bedrooms at the Thornbury place. He figured it was seeping through the flashing. He was ready to give Uncle Francis another chance.

“I’m on my way,” my uncle said.

I’d stayed over the night before, it being the weekend, so as soon as my uncle got off the phone, he said, “We’d better get over there before Avery changes his mind.” Thing was, though, even as he was getting his stuff together, my uncle didn’t seem right. His new dentures weren’t in, so his face had that hollow look, I don’t know. It was like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have.

My aunt noticed it, too. She asked what was wrong.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just tired, I guess.”

Anyway, we got over to Thornbury just as Avery was backing into the driveway. He had his dogs with him, two black Labs. He left them in the truck and walked around to the side of the house with Uncle Francis. They both looked at the roof.

You could see my uncle was nervous looking up. Avery asked if he was going to be okay.

The chimney ran between two steep peaks with gutters down each side. You could see my uncle was nervous looking up. Avery asked if he was going to be okay. “Tell me if you aren’t,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” my uncle said. “Just keep the ladder steady.”

We held the ladder while he put on his tool belt and started up. Every few steps, he’d look down, moving something around in his mouth.

Avery threw up a rope.

“Loop it around the chimney and tie yourself off. I’ll send up the flashing.”

My uncle tied himself off. Avery sent up the flashing.

“Coming your way,” he said as we pulled the ropes. My uncle had his heels hooked on the eavestrough. He grabbed the flashing and pulled some tin snips out of his belt.

“Start from the peak and work down,” Avery said.

“I know what I’m doing,” my uncle yelled down.

He’d done plenty of roof work over the years. Heights never bothered him before. Something changed as he got older. Maybe it was the years of drinking. He blamed it on his eyesight. Now he got dizzy changing light bulbs.

I had to run a few errands, so I left him at the Thornbury house. I told him I’d bring him lunch at noon. When I got back, Avery was bringing tarpaper over to the ladder, Uncle Francis was hauling it up. Everything was fine until his tin snips fell. They almost hit Avery in the head. Avery threw his hat on the ground.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Francis?” Avery yelled up.

He was pressed flat against the roof, the safety rope twisted around his leg.

My uncle didn’t answer. We had to step clear of the overhang to see him. He was pressed flat against the roof, the safety rope twisted around his leg.

“Francis?” Avery yelled. “You okay?”

Still no answer.

“Damn it to hell,” Avery said, taking off his coat and climbing up the ladder.

His dogs were barking like crazy now. Avery tried unwrapping the safety rope from Uncle Francis’ leg. “Lift your damn foot, Francis,” he said, but my uncle was frozen stiff. He couldn’t move.

Avery finally had to get his knife and cut my uncle loose. “Bring up that other rope,” Avery called to me. “We’ll lower him down.”

I brought up the rope and he looped it around the chimney.

“I’ll get him to the ladder,” Avery said. “Hold the other end tight.”

Once Uncle Francis felt his feet on the rungs, he started to move on his own.

Uncle Francis looked terrible. Avery got his arm around my uncle’s waist and eased him over to the ladder. Once Uncle Francis felt his feet on the rungs, he started to move on his own.

Avery kept hold of his collar until I could get him.

“Damn it,” Avery said when he got down. “Why the hell didn’t you say you couldn’t handle heights?”

“I thought I could,” my uncle said.

“Now I gotta see who else is around.”

Avery went back to his truck and got on the phone. He had a cigarette going, his sunglasses up on his forehead, the dogs all fidgety. When he came back, he said, “I can’t use you any more today. All I got is the roof work. I can’t pay you anything.”

“I don’t expect you to,” my uncle replied.

On the way home, Uncle Francis was quiet at first, then he started talking about barns. He said the slopes weren’t nearly as bad as the pitch of that house.

“It’s the pitch I’m scared of,” he said.

Pulling into the driveway, we could see Aunt Betty in the window, arms folded. Uncle Francis got his stuff from the trunk. “Tell your aunt I’m putting my tools in the barn,” he said. “I won’t be a minute.”

He walked off, tool belt over his shoulder. After fifteen minutes, he still wasn’t back. My aunt and I went outside and saw him up on the barn roof. He skidded down on the heels of his boots to the ladder.

“I’m okay now. It’s the pitch, I’m telling you.”

“I don’t know what happened today,” he said back in the house. “I’m okay now. It’s the pitch, I’m telling you.”

Aunt Betty made us dinner. Uncle Francis sat at the kitchen table rolling hand-mades. He had a machine with a crank.

I stayed overnight again. When I got up in the morning, he was still sitting at the kitchen table, hands clamped to the chair, face all damp.

“I think it’s my heart,” he said.

My aunt got on the phone to Dr. Hurdy and he sent over the ambulance. They defibrillated Uncle Francis on the way to the hospital. He died around five the next morning.

According to Doc Hurdy, the attack weakened his heart so much, there wasn’t anything they could do. He’d been living hard for years. Being up on the roof didn’t help, but Uncle Francis was “predisposed” as Dr. Hurdy put it.

Aunt Betty sold the farm and moved in with Aunt Florence. They shared a place until Florence died. The house was too big for my aunt, so she moved into a senior’s home.

We sit and talk, looking across the road at this big field of sunflowers.

When I come to visit now, she’s usually outside on the porch, smoking one of her hand-mades. She kept Uncle Francis’s old rolling machine. We sit and talk, looking across the road at this big field of sunflowers. When they first bought the farm, Aunt Betty asked Uncle Francis if they could grow some.

“He said he’d try,” she says now. “Your uncle was like that.”

She takes a sip from one of those canned iced teas.

“We would’ve grown those sunflowers, too,” she said, “if Larkin hadn’t come along. Those Larkins were a miserable bunch, especially Budd. Imagine blaming Francis for that barn falling down. I could’ve pushed it over myself.”

The sun was just over the crest of the hill, lighting up those sunflowers, all of them turned towards the light.

“Who was that painter who did sunflowers?”

“They look nice over there, don’t they?” my aunt says. “Just like in a painting. Who was that painter who did sunflowers?”

I couldn’t remember. Maybe they all did.

“Well, they sure look nice, anyway,” she says.

I agreed with her. I agreed with everything she was saying.