more an attitude than anything else

We went on a field trip today, she and I. We dragged tables into the abandoned hallways, prowled empty classrooms and tugged chairs loose from the furniture tangles. I helped her haul the long bookcase into the hallway, close to the door. As we rested, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed the number.
"It's like they think I have nothing else to do," she muttered. I knew the annoyance in her tone was more for show than a true emotion; she is one of the most tranquil people I know, yet she is best known for being firm and getting what she needs.

A few minutes later, the truck backed in and out stepped two men, close to my father's age, maybe a little older. I liked them on sight. One of them had a shirt that read Danny over his left pocket and an excellent mustache; the other wore a camouflage baseball hat and a grey pullover sweatshirt. They both had the stocky figures, broad hands, and strong shoulders of manual laborers. Their faces were worn by weather, hard work, long hours, underappreciation. She greeted them, explained what she needed done, showed them where the furniture was. They groused, grumbled, made fun of each other, talked shit about the "bureaucrats" that put us all in this predicament. When they headed back to the truck to pull it under the overhang, she shot me a look.

"They're not very happy," she said, and I was surprised. Hadn't they sympathized with our situation, seen us as fellow victims in this whole thing? Hadn't they called us deah at least once each? Hadn't they watched our mouths as we spoke, nodded at the right moments, actually heard what we said? I'd thought they were in a pretty good mood, considering what we'd asked and the fact that they were moving furniture in an open truck during a rainstorm.

"They're not unhappy; they're just Mainers," I blurted. Her eyebrows rose.
"Is that it? Is that how it works?" I nodded, but didn't stay to discuss further. I could see the tailgate of the truck was dropped down. The shorter one had clambered into the truckbed and was dragging chairs to its edge. Danny wheeled past me with an armload; they both seemed not-surprised when I reached up my arms and took my own load.
"You all right?" the one in the truck asked, and I nodded.
"Ayuh." (It always looks contrived in text, but we all say it. For me, it slips out when I least expect it.)

We worked in silence, the four of us (she came out, too, despite her bad ankle), the only interaction the men's guffaws at each other's pinched fingers and bumped foreheads, and Danny's quick slide to let me pass him in the doorway. They didn't laugh when we groaned or ran into doorframes.

It was only once we'd returned to our building, they'd unloaded our furniture and taken away the old things, that I realized they knew I understood them. I walked into the door, and there they stood, eyes on me, hands on the new children's bookcase.
". . . and one, and two . . ." Danny was saying as I glanced over. As I met his gaze, his eyes twinkled and he nodded to his partner.
"Takin' it away," the one in grey sweatshirt told me, and they both grinned. I grinned back. They had nice smiles. Their teeth looked badly abused by chewing tobacco or years of smoking, but their faces were honest, not used for pretension or acting like. Of course, I loved them. I could have kissed them right there.

I think about it now. It makes sense. I know these faces, have known them since my first week of life. They've cooed at me, uncharacteristic in their sweetness as they peered down at me. These hands are the ones I've watched fix houses and cars, and move furniture, and build houses, for as long as I can remember. These voices, with their soft R and dropped endings, have lullabied me before I breathed. The names change; the situations are ever different. But when I see them, I know them. Our feet are planted in the same earth. I love them, and they love me. It sounds strange, it sounds crazy, but it's true. I will always love them, and, I think, they will always love me back.