The Carpenter Read online

  The frigid wind was blowing harder, chopping the water. Whitecaps peaked around them. Lee looked back around and immediately he saw sheets of water coming in over the transom in the aft. Two or three inches of water were sloshing around his boots. A horrible feeling filled him. The barge slugged forward, water sluicing in on all sides. Lee dove onto the Sakrete bags. He took them up one at a time and threw them overboard, desperate to lighten the weight they were carrying, Clifton be goddamned. The bags were monstrously heavy. He stood with legs spread wide, trying to keep his balance, casting the Sakrete bags into the dark waves.

  Bud shouted something. He pointed. A curtain of falling snow was sweeping across the whitecaps. They could see it closing in.

  Lee lifted and threw as quickly as he could, feeling the strain in his forearms. Something pulled in his midsection. Half a dozen bags remained and then the snowfall was on them. It blanked out the shore in all directions, leaving them in a white netherworld. Lee threw the second-last and then the last bags overboard and stood mute until the barge lurched and he was thrown against the mixer. His shoulder blades smashed painfully into the rim of the drum.

  A light resolved out of the snowfall to their front. Bud was bent at the console, his lips pulled back from his teeth and his hands clamped on the steering wheel. He angled the barge towards the light. The silhouettes of conifers began to take shape. It was Echo Point and they were coming up on it fast, no longer so weighted. The west face of the point was bare rock where the waves smashed up and sprayed apart.

  Bud heaved the wheel hard right and Lee fell back into the cement mixer, feeling it shift against the tethers they’d tied it down with. Neither of them had seen the marker bouncing in the waves, marking a shoal. Bud had turned them right on top of it. The propeller and hull barked against rock, and the impact was tremendous. Lee cartwheeled overboard. The cold of the water struck his head like a hammer blow and there was water in his nose and his mouth and he was looking stupidly into the black. He could not determine up from down but his boots were drawing him in one particular direction. He pulled the opposite way.

  When he broke through the surface of the lake there was no feeling in his hands or in his face. He could hear the motor revving some distance away through the eddying snow. He thrashed about, calling for Bud. Lee’s boots were touching the shoal below. He saw a grey beach south of the point, not far away at all, where the water was sheltered almost to stillness. The barge was raking towards the sand, propelled at an oblique angle by the damaged motor. He couldn’t see Bud.

  Lee swam for it, clawing the water until he struck on sand. He hauled himself up onto the beach. He was shaking all over. He got to his knees, fell sideways, got back up. Up on the point was the profile of a building. A single window-light. Lee heard a dog barking. Sixty feet away in the other direction was the barge, resting partway out of the water. He could make out one upthrust leg of the mixer.

  He moved haltingly down the sand, holding his hands in his armpits. He was frigid to the core. He called Bud’s name. He sloshed back out into the water to the depth of his knees and laid his unfeeling hands on the gunnels.

  — Oh, Bud. Oh come on, man.

  There were eight inches of water in the bottom of the barge. Bud was face down beside the console, pinned beneath the drum of the mixer.

  — Bud, you dumb motherfucker.

  The dog barked again. Lee looked back and saw a man and a dog resolving out of the snowfall. Lee leaned over the gunnels and jabbed the kill-switch on the console. He reached down and took hold of one of the legs of the mixer. He could not feel it and it wouldn’t move and Bud did not move beneath it.

  Emily was napping in her grandfather’s house when the storm came up. She had come out in the early afternoon to help him stack firewood. For the last week there’d been some tension at home, something that had happened between Grandpa and her dad, but nobody was talking about it. In any case, the old man needed help around the house and was being too headstrong to ask, so Emily had come out on her own.

  They’d stacked wood all morning. After a late lunch, with a fire in the woodstove and the house warm and dry, she’d gone into the front room, closed the door and lain down on the couch and fallen asleep. When she woke, it was near dark through the windows and the snow was blowing sideways on the wind.

  Something had woken her. Maybe the dog barking. She sat up and stretched. There were photographs of her grandmother’s cousins, Margaret, Bette, Ida. She could remember her grandmother naming them. Telling their histories. Next to the cousins was a photograph of Great-aunt Rose, who was still alive, whom Emily and her mother would visit this year before Christmas.

  The piano was in the front room. Emily remembered her grandmother placing her hands-she wasn’t yet five years old. C chord, D major, E major. Doesn’t that go together nice? The foot tapped along. Grandmother smelled like lavender. In her absence, the room smelled like dust.

  There were books of music stacked on top of the piano. One was a United Church hymnal. On top of the stack was Erik Satie. Grandmother had liked Satie best. She said how he didn’t have so much to say in his music and what he did say was pretty simple. When you thought about that, wasn’t that good? More with less.

  Emily held her hands above the keys for a moment and then she began to play. She played Satie and the snow fell against the window.

  The piano music came from somewhere in the old man’s house, muted through the walls but plainly audible. Before the piano, there had been the sound of the old man’s voice speaking on the telephone on the other side of the kitchen. Then the old man had gone back outside.

  Lee was hunched in front of the woodstove, clad in dry clothes the old man had given him. They were too big for his frame but too short for his arms and legs. He was wrapped in a wool blanket and the old man had had him put on a dry toque and clean wool socks. Lee listened to the piano. The tune was not anything he’d ever heard.

  Stan came back into the kitchen, Cassius following. The dog was agitated and whiny until Stan stayed him with a gentle hand on his head. Stan took off his jacket and his gloves. Then he paused, listening to the music. He spoke quietly: She’s awake, then. My granddaughter was having a nap. If she’s up, I’d just as soon let her be. I don’t want to upset her.

  Stan had brewed a pot of tea before he’d made the telephone call and gone back outside. He filled two mugs. He mixed three spoonfuls of sugar into the one he brought over to Lee. Stan sat down.

  — There’s an ambulance on the way. It may take a little time to get out here. There’ve been a couple car accidents in town with the snow … I brought your friend up and covered him. There’s nothing more I can do. I am sorry.

  Lee nodded. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  — I told him we should leave the job site. I wanted to go before it got dark.

  — Never mind that, said Stan. This isn’t anything you can hold yourself to.

  — It was my idea to leave.

  — Maybe, said Stan. And there’s nothing I can say but it was an accident. My name is Stan Maitland, by the way.

  — I’m Lee.

  Stan nodded. Even if Lee had been paying attention, Stan gave nothing away just then.

  — What were you boys doing? said Stan.

  — We were working. Bud was under the house making it level. I was in the kitchen doing the carpentry.

  — Carpentry, said Stan.

  — Doors, windows, joining. Cabinets. It’s my trade.

  — I was never much of a carpenter myself. About every time I swing a hammer it’s my thumb I hit.

  — What do you do? said Lee.

  — Not much of anything any more. I try to keep this place from falling down.

  — How long have you lived here?

  — On and off my whole life. It was my brother’s house for awhile. My dad built it. That’s almost a hundred years ago. I lived here with my wife until she passed on.

  Lee lifted his tea and drank. For once he did not want
a cigarette at all.

  — It’s real sugary, he said.

  — You’ll need the extra kick to help you get warmed up.

  Stan guessed Lee was at least mildly hypothermic, as well as in shock. Cassius lay down under the table. Neither Stan nor Lee took conscious note that the piano music had quit.

  — It’s a business about getting old, said Stan. You start to wonder how long anything you leave behind will last after you’re gone. Like a house, say. Probably not all that long.

  — It doesn’t matter. You go when you go and nothing you leave behind matters no more.

  — I suppose maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s even some comfort in that.

  — Sometimes it stops mattering even before you go.

  — Well, I don’t think it’s any good if a man ever gets to that point.

  Lee gathered the blanket around himself. He couldn’t seem to think straight, couldn’t set his mind to the events of the last hour. He liked Bud, Bud was okay. Now Bud was gone, but how could that be? He’d never been so confused in his life.

  — Here’s something I want to know, said Lee.

  — Yes?

  — If everything I ever done, if this is what it brought me to, is it maybe that I never had a choice in it?

  — I don’t know, said Stan. Do you think so?

  — No. I don’t think so. No matter how I try, I can’t see how that would be so.

  After Emily finished with the piano she went out of the front room and through the hallway. The door to the kitchen was closed. She used the washroom on the ground floor and when she was in there she could hear Grandpa talking to somebody in the kitchen. Their voices were pitched low. She couldn’t make out the words.

  The washroom had a small window looking down through the trees to the little beach below the point. She was drying her hands when she noticed the barge out on the sand.

  She came out of the washroom and almost went into the kitchen. Then, as she thought again of the barge, curiosity got the better of her. She got a blue afghan off the couch in the living room and wrapped it around herself and put on her shoes and slipped out the front door. She followed the path down through the trees. The snowfall was slowing down and the twilight was strange. The dark water against the beach was calm but out past the point she could see the whitecaps. In the grey sand was a confusing mix of tracks. Something looked to have been dragged. She went and looked in the barge. She looked at the water in the bottom. She saw how the toppled-over cement mixer had been moved aside. Snow collected on her hair and eyelashes.

  — I remember you, said Stan.

  — Do you.

  — Yes. In truth I do. I was a cop for many years.

  Lee didn’t say anything. Stan had given him a leftover grilled-cheese sandwich to eat and he’d managed a few bites of it.

  — I’d heard that you’d come back, said Stan. I don’t know if you remember or not, but I was the man who drove you down to the provincial jail. You weren’t all that old-

  — I was twenty-two.

  — Yes. Well. I was old then but you weren’t. I thought about that at the time.

  — I was old enough.

  — How long has it been?

  — You mean how long did I do? Seventeen years.

  — It’s a long time, said Stan.

  — The Crown wanted to hang me.

  They were quiet for a full minute. Stan at the table, Lee as close to the woodstove as he could get. Just then the mud-room door opened and Cassius stood up. Emily came in from outside, wrapped in the afghan, with snow in her hair.

  — Emily, said Stan.

  — Grandpa. There’s a man down by the basement door. He’s under a tarp and he’s-I think he’s deceased, Grandpa.

  She was so factual about it. Deceased, she’d said. She was concerned but not panicking. She looked like it was out of the range of what she could figure out. Cassius went over to her and she knelt down and embraced him.

  — There was a bad accident, said Stan.

  The man in the rocking chair, this man she did not recognize, who was wearing a toque and was draped in a blanket, whose posture and absurd appearance was telling her what Grandpa was not, this hard-looking man, she could see his hands shaking.

  — Goddammit it, said Lee. I just can’t get warm. Not at all.

  The weather cleared by late evening. Pete went in through the emergency doors of the hospital. He was hungover, still wearing the work clothes he’d slept in. The emergency room was sparsely filled. A woman was holding a towel against a cut on her forehead. She looked annoyed more than anything else. A boy with his father was coughing steadily. Pete went up to an orderly at a desk.

  — Can I help you.

  — I got a call from my mom.

  — You got a call from your mom.

  — My uncle was in some kind of a work accident. They brought him here. Leland King is his name.

  — Yes, said the orderly. Wait here, please.

  The orderly made a call. Pete sat down. The woman with the cut sighed loudly. Then a cop came into the emergency room and spoke to the orderly. The orderly gestured at Pete. The cop came over and Pete stood up.

  — To confirm, said the cop. This is your uncle you’re here about.

  — Yes, Officer.

  There was something unreadable on the cop’s face. He said: Your uncle. Leland King. He was in a work-related accident this afternoon. He’s banged up. Has mild hypothermia. They’re going to keep him here overnight.

  — Jesus, said Pete. Can I see him?

  — You want to see him?

  — Why wouldn’t I?

  The cop shrugged.

  — Well, you can’t see him, said the cop. The doctor said he’s resting now. He’s okay, your uncle. But the other guy …

  — The other guy. Bud?

  — What a situation they got themselves into. Of course, Leland King is the one to turn out okay. Funny how that goes.

  The cop was almost grinning. He turned around and went back into the interior of the hospital. Pete watched him go. Then he went over to the orderly.

  — Listen, can you tell me anything?

  — I can’t let out any information other than to say they just want to keep him here under observation.

  — Is there a phone I can use?

  — Pete?

  He turned from the orderly’s booth and Emily was standing there. He tried to make sense of her.

  — Emily.

  — I had no idea he’s your uncle. I just heard your name from one of the constables. It happened near my grandfather’s place. Oh my God, Pete. Your uncle’s friend died.

  — Jesus Christ. This keeps getting worse.

  Emily laced her fingers together and looked at the floor. When she looked at him she smiled wearily, said: My grandfather took care of most of it. I’m just tired at this point. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired. The only thing I can think about is going to bed. Is that pretty terrible?

  — No. I don’t think so.

  — It’s good to see you, Pete.

  — You too. Under the circumstances and all. I haven’t seen you in awhile.

  A white-haired man, broad-shouldered despite his age, came into the emergency room. He was carrying a wool jacket. Emily introduced Pete to Stan. Stan nodded.

  — Your uncle’s going to be fine. You don’t need to worry.

  — So I hear.

  Stan put his arm around Emily’s shoulders. She folded against him and yawned.

  — I’ll take you home, said Stan. And you, Pete? Do you need a lift anywhere?

  — No, I have a car here. I was going to see my uncle but they said to come back tomorrow.

  — He’ll be alright.

  Stan told Emily he would be in the truck and he shook Peter’s hand again and left. Emily hung back a moment.

  — I have to go, Pete.

  — I know.

  — It would be nice to see you again soon.

  Emily went out and Pete watched
her go. Then the woman with the cut on her forehead called out that at some point she was going to need some goddamn assistance. Nobody was listening.

  THREE

  NOVEMBER TO DECEMBER 1980

  The accident on Lake Kissinaw was big news for the remainder of November. There was a police investigation and then a Ministry of Labour inquest. Stan’s and Lee’s names were kept out of the paper but for a few days all you would see were pictures of Bud and his despairing widow. He was not buried. He was cremated and his ashes were spread at a campground he’d gone to every May long weekend for the last ten years.

  Lee did not go to the memorial. He’d been very fond of Bud, but the thought of people, almost all of whom would be strangers, standing together, looking at him, whispering his name, knowing that it was he who’d been with Bud at the last moment, was too much to bear. He went up to the poolroom instead, and had a few drinks and shot a few games, and then went home and watched the hockey game on his TV.

  By early December, six inches of snow had come to stay. Lee came into the hospital through the visitors’ entrance and went directly into a smoking area encased in glass. He nodded to an old man in a wheelchair who was smoking through a tracheotomy. Lacklustre Christmas garlands hung from the walls. Lee lit a cigarette.

  Two hospital volunteers were sitting at a desk near the elevators. They were both old, a woman and a man, she with white-blue hair and he with liver spots on his bald head.

  — I’m here to see Irene King, said Lee.

  They peered at him. The woman painstakingly consulted a list of patients in a three-ring binder. She said: She’s in room 3B. Amiens Wing.

  — I know where she’s at. I’ve been here a few times since she got here.