My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“The bracket is warped about an eighth of an inch,” Christopher said, his rumble steady and quiet. “You don’t need a new pin. You just need to shim the lower hinge.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass screw and a thin strip of cedar wood he must have kept from his old shop. He positioned the wood behind the metal bracket to align the holes.
“Hold that side,” Christopher told him.
My father hesitated, then put his thick, grease-stained thumb against the warm metal of the casing. He held it firm while Christopher slowly turned the brass screw into the wood shim, securing the bracket.
“That should hold for the rest of the season,” Christopher said, stepping back.
My father released his grip, and the heavy green door stayed perfectly in place, flush against the frame. He looked at the brass screw, then at his own dirty hands, but he did not say thank you.
“There is some solvent on the shelf,” my father said, pointing toward the back wall.
“I have some at home,” Christopher said.
