The Carpenter Read online

  — Speedy, do you know what my parole officer would do if he knew I was here?

  — Well, you don’t see him nowhere, do you?

  — No, but.

  The Coca-Cola had come in a sleeve-glass with scoured sides. Speedy picked up a salt shaker from the other side of the booth and tapped salt into his draft.

  — And the music’s not half bad, said Speedy.

  — No. Christ. It’s not that.

  — We won’t stay real long. If I finish this beer and I haven’t seen my friends, we’ll get going, what do you say? There’s a topless place other side of Animosh.

  — Who are these friends of yours?

  — Just some ordinary old boys.

  They sat back, watched the musician for a few minutes. When they were eighteen or nineteen, Lee and Speedy and Terry Lachlan had broken into the office of a man who owned and operated a quarry southeast of town. The quarry-man was a European immigrant named Szabo, and it was rumoured that he was a Nazi war criminal on the run, but even that was a pretty thin pretense for robbing him. Rather, if Lee remembered correctly, they’d heard from Szabo’s son, who was not on good terms with his father, that the quarry-man kept a substantial amount of cash in a safe in his office. So Speedy, Lee and Terry Lachlan had gone at night, kicked the door open, found the safe, wheeled it out on a furniture dolly, loaded it into a borrowed pickup truck, and driven away. The whole affair had taken fifteen or twenty minutes, which Lee later figured was way too slow, had anyone been observing them and called the cops.

  As it was, the break-in went unreported, whether because Szabo was actually a Nazi war criminal fleeing justice, or, more likely, because the cash kept in the safe was income he hadn’t claimed the taxes on. Either way, after Lee and Speedy and Terry had finally pried the safe open, they found themselves each three hundred dollars richer. Lee didn’t think he’d done anything more serious before breaking into the quarry-man’s office. The stolen cars and counterfeit cigarettes all started after that.

  Now he needed to find or do something to take his mind off both the past, and where he was in the present. He thought maybe conversation would work. He turned his glass on the tabletop and said: Anyhow, what’ve you been doing? You got a trade?

  Speedy touched the burn on the side of his face: No. I’m on disability.

  — For what?

  — For awhile I had a bit in a welding shop. This one time I was cutting up a steel I-beam with a burning bar. You ever see one of them cocksuckers, a burning bar? They’ll burn through anything, Lee. Steel, concrete, any fucking thing just like that. Some of the slag got blown back on my face. But here’s the beauty, Lee. The foreman and the manager got their asses chewed because I wasn’t wearing a mask when I got burned. The court settled pretty sweet for me.

  — Jesus. You could of got blinded.

  — Sure, but I didn’t. Anyway it’s no trouble no more. I got some various business interests. I never liked having to answer to a buck or a foreman.

  When the conversation lapsed, Lee was aware of how unsettled he’d become. He could feel a pulse in his eyes. Speedy was about halfway through his draft. The musician wrapped up a song and told the room thanks.

  Then a big man was standing beside their table. His head was bald but he had a thick beard and he was wearing glasses that were an odd contrast to the rest of his appearance. The big man leaned his fists on the tabletop.

  — How’s she going, Maurice? said Speedy.

  Speedy and the big man shook hands.

  — This is my pal, Lee, said Speedy.

  — So this is Lee, said Maurice.

  They shook hands.

  — You say it like you know me, said Lee.

  — Speedy told me a little about you. All good things. You’re among friends. Come on, let’s go to the back. You want a beer, Lee?

  — I’m okay.

  Maurice led them to a passageway on the far side of the riser, past a door marked Ladies, a door marked Men, and finally to a knobless door at the back marked Offi e. He pushed the door open and led the way into a small room. Against one wall stood metal shelves bellied under the weight of potato sacks and tins of cooking oil and boxes of empty liquor bottles. Beer kegs were stacked in a corner and there were two windows set high in the wall. There was no desk but there was a Formica table and a mismatched collection of chairs. At the table a man was tapping a pen on a crossword puzzle torn from a newspaper. He didn’t have any particular look about him, but somehow he seemed at odds with the townies and the blue-collar hang-abouts out in the main room. Before him in a tumbler was a mixed drink, and when he saw them coming he smiled brightly.

  — Well. How are you, Speedy?

  Speedy said hello and introduced the man at the table as Colin Gilmore. He stood up to shake hands with Lee.

  — All is well, Lee, said Gilmore. Any friend of Speedy’s is a friend of mine. Speedy, what do you say you visit with Arlene, get your glass filled back up.

  Maurice let Speedy out and then he closed the door and leaned against the wall. Lee again felt the pulse in his eyes. He sat. Gilmore offered up a pack of Camel cigarettes. Lee withdrew one and Gilmore lit it for him.

  — I know Roland Poirier, said Gilmore. You’d remember Rollie, wouldn’t you?

  — Yeah, I knew Rollie, said Lee. But that’s a few … that’s more than a few years ago.

  — Rollie’s been having a hard time lately. He got in some trouble out in New Brunswick.

  — I heard something like that, said Lee. Gambling or cards or something.

  — Yes, cards, gambling. All the vices. But he put in a pretty good word for you. I said, Roland, when you were a guest of the Queen, did you know a fellow named Lee King? He did, he said. He said you helped him out when he had some trouble with a couple of boys inside. Also over a card game, I understand.

  — That’s twelve goddamn years ago.

  — Never mind how he can’t gamble for shit, Roland’s a good judge of character. He said you were a reliable kind of guy. Serious. That’s what I like in a friend.

  — In a friend, said Lee.

  — Speedy says you’re looking for work.

  — Well, Speedy told you wrong. I got a job.

  Something passed between Gilmore and Maurice, wherever Maurice was. Behind Lee.

  — Sure you do, said Gilmore. That isn’t to say you might not be enterprising.

  Lee wanted to turn around and look behind his chair. To see wherever that big man was. He remained looking straight-on, but not without effort.

  — Look, buck. Me and Speedy. I haven’t seen him in seventeen years.

  Gilmore was exuding sympathy, a joke shared between them. He said: Speedy’s a busybody, pal, you know? Right now he’s almost at his full potential. I say almost because Speedy has a set of skills that make up for everything else he got shortchanged. It’s not quite the same with you, Lee. You’re your own set of skills. From what Roland Poirier told me and, to be honest, from what I can see from meeting you.

  — I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  — I can make it clearer, said Gilmore.

  — Here’s the thing, buck. I got a job, I got a place, I got a girl on the go. Opportunity and all the rest of it, I don’t have any interest.

  Gilmore grinned a salesman’s grin. He sipped from his mixed drink.

  — I think I’ll get out of your way now, said Lee.

  He got out of the chair. Maurice hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the door. He had his glasses off and he was rubbing one of the lenses with a Kleenex.

  — Hope we’ll see you again, said Gilmore.

  — Sure, said Lee.

  Maurice put his glasses back on and opened the door. He said: Take care.

  — Yeah, said Lee. So long.

  In the passageway, Lee pitched the butt of the Camel cigarette to the floor. Speedy was at the bar talking to the bartender, that girl Arlene they’d been served by earlier. Lee saw Speedy turning to look at him as he went b
y but he crossed the floor and went into the vestibule. The doorman was telling a couple of kids that they couldn’t come in. There was a bank of pay telephones. Lee picked up a receiver and pushed a dime into the slot and dialed Helen’s number. It rang a dozen times before he put the receiver back in the cradle.

  Speedy had appeared in the vestibule, carrying a refilled glass of beer.

  — Lee, come on. Let’s go back inside and run us down a couple chicks.

  He reached out to take Lee by the sleeve. Lee shoved him hard against the wall. The doorman turned to see and the kids went wide-eyed.

  — Speedy, you dumb motherfucker.

  — Lee …

  Lee moved past the doorman. The kids made way for him and he hustled down the front steps. He didn’t know if Speedy was following him or not but he went quickly across the big parking lot. Some distance away, the lights of a rig were moving onto the pavement from the highway. A row of overnighted tractor-trailers stood like dormant beasts. Lee turned and Speedy had not come out of the roadhouse. The neon sign above was crude against the night sky.

  All that was past the trucks was a store with sundries and a counter of day-old doughnuts. Lee bought a cup of coffee and went back out. He made his way back up the highway, putting his thumb out whenever headlights appeared behind him, and about half a mile along, a man in a Buick stopped. The man said he didn’t mind giving a fella a lift, but that he had a twelve-inch length of iron pipe under his seat, if Lee was the kind of person who didn’t have the right idea of how far charity extends.

  Even after Lee was back in town, he didn’t uncoil. The windows at the Owl Cafe were dark. He went to the Corner Pocket and got a table and played a couple of games by himself. He’d been there about forty-five minutes when he put his cue down and went over to the counter and asked for a Coke. The barman popped open a can and filled up a glass for him.

  — Good to have you back again, said the barman.

  — Yeah.

  A man came up and returned a rack of balls, paid off his table. Lee drank the Coke and set the glass down.

  — Another?

  — Yes.

  The barman popped open the can. Lee pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead. His eyes were pulsing again. The glass was just half full when Lee told the barman to stop pouring. The barman looked at him.

  — I was thinking, said Lee. Maybe you could put a couple splashes of rye in there?

  Halloween came a week later, falling on a Friday. From street light to street light went the children in their costumes, carrying shopping bags full of take. Lee and Helen went to the liquor store and filled out a selection card and came out with a couple of bottles of whisky. Lee felt like a big man. He’d spent a few days fretting over Speedy and their trip to the roadhouse, but by the same token he was pleased with himself. Anybody who said he couldn’t go straight, well, they could fuck off, now more than ever.

  He and Helen walked along Princess Street. They passed one of the bottles between them, whisky mixed with cola, hidden inside a paper bag. Lee took a swig. If he could stand his ground with some serious men like Speedy’s friends, then he didn’t think he’d have any problem handling a drink a two. He felt like he was actually in control of what was happening around him, what was happening to him. And he was proud of that.

  Three kids in monster costumes went running past them. When Lee himself was a little kid, he’d dressed for Halloween as the Lone Ranger, year after year. A mask and a gun, which, thinking on it now, made him laugh. He’d been out to Barry and Donna’s house for supper the night before, and Barry had told him that he and Donna weren’t letting Luke and John go trick-or-treating for Halloween, because they didn’t think a festival celebrating the devil was something you wanted to have your kids take part in. Instead, they were going to a sleepover at Galilee Tabernacle, where each child came dressed as a biblical character and there was a contest for the best costume. Pete, who was also there for supper, suggested that the boys go to the sleepover dressed as Cain and Abel, with Abel murdered and the Mark of God on Cain’s forehead. Lee laughed, but Barry just changed the subject.

  Lee and Helen made their way back to Lee’s place. She made popcorn on the hot plate and he mixed them some drinks and they watched a Hitchcock film-The Birds-on his TV. As they sat together, he looked at her from time to time, wondering what she’d been like as a young child.

  Monday came and Lee was swinging his hammer. He was destroying the kitchen in a solitary island residence on Lake Kissinaw. The cupboards and counters were to be torn out. The bathrooms would go next. They would rip up the floor tiles and carpeting. The building and the island had sold for $60,000 to a man named Forsythe and his wife, who were said to live in New York State for most of the year. Clifton had gotten the bid for the renovations they wanted. Lee swung his hammer, caught the edge of a shelf, tore it out. A few feet away, Bud was working a crowbar on the kitchen counter.

  At seven-thirty that morning they’d left in Clifton’s barge from the public landing. Clifton called his watercraft a barge but it wasn’t much of one. It was a dented twenty-foot steel push-boat with a flat bottom. The drop-gate in the bow didn’t work properly and was welded shut. It took them half an hour to cross the lake. Salvaged planks had been retrofitted in the barge as seats, and it was Lee, Bud and a man Lee hadn’t met yet riding along. Clifton helmed the barge, which plodded along, weighed down with lumber, a covered stack of pine, and a portable Monarch cement mixer. Lee didn’t want the others to take notice of how he was hunched forward with his fists pursed together. Moving over open water was chilling him to the bone. A T-shirt and work-shirt underneath his jean jacket were not going to be enough against the weather much longer. He craved a cigarette.

  The barge tracked along a narrow hogback and then hooked into a calm back bay. The biggest island in the bay was sixty yards end to end, covered by white pines. The side of a boathouse was visible where the island tapered down to a rocky shore. Clifton guided them to a dock. On the shore, a material delivery had preceded them by a day or two: a couple of yards of gravel and three tons of Sakrete dry cement mix in forty-pound bags. Once they were tied up, Lee hopped out and got the blood moving in his limbs. He lit himself a cigarette and offered one to Bud, who shook his head and hustled past him onto dry land. Clifton mugged at Lee but didn’t say anything. A short path led past the boathouse to the cottage that Forsythe had purchased. It was a dejected storey-and-a-half structure, once whitewashed. A deck attached to the side of the house was severely out of level.

  Clifton looked at Lee, striding along the path beside him. He said: Forsythe’s wife said she dreamed about this place. What do you make of that, mister man?

  — Long as it keeps us going through the winter, boss, anybody can dream anything they want.

  Lee didn’t know why Clifton was asking for his judgment. And the man was roused, more than usual. It wasn’t half past eight before Clifton invoked words of God and idleness and loosed Bud and Lee on the kitchen.

  The new man who’d come out with them was named Wally. After one of the counters had been torn free of the kitchen wall, Wally appeared with a tape measure to take some measurements. He jotted numbers down on the exposed wallboard where the counter had been. Then he left the kitchen, taking Bud with him. Ten minutes later they came back from the barge with a table saw. Lee saw them setting it up in the living room.

  At lunchtime they sat around the fireplace. The flue whistled and moaned.

  — So you’re a cabinetmaker? said Lee.

  — That’s right, said Wally.

  — Lee’s a carpenter too, said Bud. He got his trade. He could do up some beauty cabinets. For sure.

  — Hot dog, said Wally. Where did you apprentice?

  They were looking at Lee.

  — Go on, Leland King, said Clifton. You shouldn’t hide nothing.

  — Say, never mind, said Wally.

  — Prison, said Lee.

  — Oh.

  — That’s
where I got my trade. Anyhow.

  — Tell me what you think, said Wally.

  He handed Lee a manila file folder. Inside was a set of plans for the kitchen. The cabinetry was all to be face-framed and constructed from the pine they’d brought.

  — It looks good, said Lee. What do they call it … modern.

  — If they stain the pine right it will come up nice.

  — Sure it will, said Lee.

  — Not quite like whacking together some desks, said Clifton.

  — I guess not.

  — Lee has come a real long way, Wally. Words and deeds and prayer, every day. Right, Lee?

  — Every day, said Lee.

  — We might even see you at Galilee Pentecostal one of these days, said Clifton. You too, Bud. Even you, Wally.

  Wally took the plans back from Lee. He said: My wife and I like the United Church just fine, thanks.

  Clifton was getting into it. His posture was erect: The United Church, that’s where-

  — Clifton, said Wally, I’m thinking about something my dad used to say. All things in moderation. Religion too. You go all you want to your church and I’ll go to mine. In the meantime we’ll talk about hockey.

  Wally stood up to stretch. He took a few strides across the living room floor and went outside through the kitchen door.

  Clifton shook his head.

  — A lot of guys just don’t want to hear the truth.

  By mid-week, a great deal of scrap material had been culled out of the house. They cast the fibreboard and wiring and pipes into a midden they had dug on the back of the island. All the scrap lumber was brought down to a rocky flat along the shore. They primed the scrap with gasoline and set it alight. Bud tended the fire. He poked it with a shovel and hopped around like some kind of one-man pagan ceremony. Lee remained in the house, either helping Wally feed pine through the table saw or keeping the sawdust swept up and the tools organized. His own tool belt stayed folded neatly in a corner where he could keep an eye on it. Even Clifton was working. He was in the bathroom, putting solder on the new copper pipes.