The Carpenter Read online

  Over at the stack of shingles, the gofer Clifton had indicated saw Lee coming. He flopped the bundle off his shoulder back onto the stack and he swaggered over to meet Lee halfway.

  — I’m Bud, said the gofer.

  — Hi, Bud. I’m Lee.

  — I got to get these f-ing shingles up on the roof.

  — I know. I’m here to help.

  — F-ing A. Let’s do this.

  Bud had a small beer gut and lean muscles in his arms. He re-hoisted his bundle and carried it over to the building. An extendable ladder stood against the facer board along the edge of the roof. Lee looked around. He saw a big man gassing up the BobCat. Coming from inside the building were the hollow sounds of hammer-falls. Lee held his tool belt in his hands, considering it. Then he hid it between the top and bottom boarding of the skid beneath the stack of shingles.

  He’d never done any kind of roof work. He lifted a bundle of shingles onto his shoulder and set out across the site. The mud sucked at his boots. He regarded the ladder dubiously. Overhead, Bud had disappeared onto the roof. Lee was nervous to climb the ladder with the shingles weighing heavily on his shoulder, but no other way was obvious, and Clifton was watching him, so he put his boots on the bottom rung and started up. The ladder flexed at the middle. He didn’t like that much. Then Bud reappeared at the facer board to help him over the top and direct him to where he could lay the bundle across the peak of the roof. The roof was broad and pale, naked plywood, smooth enough that if the pitch were deeper it would be dangerous. Lee didn’t care for it. He’d never even envied the guards in the penitentiary towers.

  As the morning went on, bundle after bundle of shingles scraped Lee’s shoulders raw. At one point, coming across the yard, he cut into the path of the BobCat. He heard the engine shift into neutral. The big man driving it leaned out of the housing and yelled: Anytime you want to get out of the way, okay?

  Lee set his eyes forward and took another bundle up the ladder. Bud was there again, helping him over the top. Lee put the shingles down and stretched.

  — Smoke break time, said Bud. You want a smoke?

  — I’d have one, yeah.

  Bud offered Lee a cigarette.

  — Clifton doesn’t like smoking, said Bud. He doesn’t like drinking. Rick Flynn came to work hungover too many times and Clifton sacked him. You ask me, Clifton probably doesn’t even like sex.

  — Well, he’s the boss. Long as he’s got work for me, he doesn’t have to like anything.

  Lee passed smoke through his nose. Everything looked huge. The roof, the lake, the property around the building. The sky. The leaves on the trees had just started to change colour, but even this early contrast was vivid to his eyes. A flock of geese was traversing the sky out over the lake. All of this space, the colours, the autumn scent on the air. He closed his eyes and told himself the walls and bars were gone.

  — Where you from, anyways? said Bud. Around here?

  — I grew up here, yeah. Actually, when I was a kid I remember all this was just a bay. Me and a couple buddies used to catch steelhead out of season down here. There were some cabins out this way-you could rent them and whatnot-but there weren’t any big motherfuckers like this one.

  Bud darted a glance around and said: Clifton doesn’t like swearing.

  — Right. I forgot.

  Bud grinned lewdly. He lowered his voice and said: Here’s a good one. So the dick says to the rubber, Cover me, I’m going in!

  — What?

  — Oh. I mean, what does the dick say to the rubber? I frigged it up.

  Bud shook his head briskly, as if to clear it of the frigged-up joke. Lee chuckled dryly. They finished their cigarettes and got back to the shingles.

  When they broke for lunch, Lee went over to the skid to verify that his tool belt was still hidden. It irritated him to think of the dirt collecting on it. He then joined Bud and the others, who’d assembled themselves near the trucks and were sitting on building materials while they ate. Clifton wasn’t around. Bud said he’d gone into town to see why a delivery was held up. Lee sat down and opened the lunch pail that Donna had packed. It contained a ham sandwich, an apple, a Thermos of tea, cookies wrapped in cellophane. He realized he had no idea what he would have eaten otherwise, and how he’d thought he could go the whole day on breakfast alone.

  There were three men, not counting Clifton or Lee or Bud. Two of them looked much alike, brothers perhaps, maybe father and son. One of them was the man Jeff, whom Lee had seen tying his bootlace. He and his look-alike had a battery-powered radio sitting between them, and they had it set to a country station. Both of them were nodding to the music. Across from them, the BobCat driver was a big French guy. He was eating a chicken drumstick. If any of them knew who Lee was, they gave no sign of it. There wasn’t much talk at all. Lee ate his lunch in minutes. Then he massaged his shoulder where the shingles had scraped it.

  — Okay, said the French guy. You can move the shingles pretty good. But that don’t mean you’re strong or fast.

  — What do you mean by that, said Lee.

  The French guy grinned at him and said: I mean nobody wants all the good men to be held up because of the slow guy.

  Did she mention my name, sang the radio. Lee stood up. He closed his lunch pail.

  — I’m just here to work. I won’t hold none of you up.

  He carried off his lunch pail and found a tree at the edge of the property to urinate against. He was just bringing out his cigarettes when he saw a truck arriving, and then Clifton getting out.

  Clifton clapped his hands and called out: Let’s go, boys. We can’t do it all in seven days, but we can try!

  By two o’clock, Lee and Bud had moved most of the shingles up to the roof. They’d spaced them across the peak to distribute the weight. Then they heard someone hail them from below. They went over to the edge of the roof. Bud stood right at the drop, scratching his ass, and Lee hung back a few feet. It was the French guy calling to them.

  They went down the ladder. The guy directed them to spread gravel into the driveway from the big mound of crush. Clifton was over measuring the foundation. He didn’t seem to take any issue with this other man giving orders. Wordlessly, Bud went to fetch a wheelbarrow and shovels.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon at the gravel. Lee wasn’t aware quitting time had come until he looked around and saw the others packing up. Bud had gone off to piss somewhere.

  Clifton waved to Lee and said: That’s a day, mister man.

  Bud and Lee stowed the shovels and the wheelbarrow against the wall of the building. The shadows had grown long and blue. Lee recovered his tool belt from under the skid and put it over his shoulder. He picked up his lunch pail and went to where the men were congregating at the trucks. Nobody had anything to say about the work that had been done that day, and to look at the building and the yard around it-other than the shingles having been moved-it was hard to see any difference since morning. Lee figured maybe with a project this big, you didn’t see changes in the short term. You worked a day and then you worked the day after that, and only slowly did it all come together.

  He cleared his throat and said: Could any of you give me a lift into town?

  — Could always hitchhike, said the French guy.

  — I suppose you don’t have a vehicle, said Clifton.

  Clifton scratched his neck. The two men who looked alike were over by their truck. The French guy was annotating his day’s hours in a pocket notebook. All at once Lee felt helpless. Clifton squinted at him and looked like he was about to say something, but then Bud appeared, zipping up his fly.

  He said: I’m goin’ to town. You want a lift?

  That evening, Lee was very sore. He’d stopped at the variety store downstairs to buy himself some provisions, and when he came upstairs, he packed himself a lunch in the lunch pail.

  He could not remember when he’d last packed a lunch. For a time he’d lived in a halfway house in the city, working in a furnitur
e shop, and he’d eaten every day from a truck that came around and sold submarine sandwiches. But this wasn’t bad, packing a lunch. This was good. This seemed like the kind of thing you did when you had only yourself to look after and answer to.

  Around eight o’clock there was a knock at his door. Mr. Yoon was in the hallway.

  — How are you, said the landlord, flatly.

  — I’m good, said Lee. Tired out. You know.

  — You weren’t here today.

  — I was working. First day.

  Mr. Yoon nodded and said: Is everything working here?

  — Everything’s working good.

  — Okay.

  After a moment Mr. Yoon nodded and left. Lee closed the door.

  He got his tool belt and went back to the window, rubbing his sore shoulder. He sat there, watching the street. Indian summer evening-folks coming and going at the A amp;P across the way, a couple of high school kids acting like hoods on the street corner, boats out on the lake. While Lee watched, he cleaned the dirt from the tool-belt pouches and the hammer.

  Bud had said he could drive him the next day as well, would pick him up in the morning. There was that. And it was good to be sore from a day of work, even if he couldn’t see the progress at Clifton’s job site the way he could see how a desk went together. It was good to not have much to think about at all.

  Business was slow on Friday evening at the Texaco service station where Pete worked. The Texaco was on the highway bypass northeast of town. The sky above was turning dark and the night was going to be cool. Pete was sitting in a lawn chair, leaning back against the wall of the booth between the pumps, with a Louis L’Amour paperback-one of his Luke Short stories-open on his lap. A Ford Fairlane pulled in and drove over the bell-line and stopped at the pumps. Pete’s co-worker Duane was at the edge of the parking lot, engrossed in conversation with a shift worker from the chemical factory, so Pete put his book down and got up from the chair.

  He went over to the Ford. A thin old man, bald-headed, got out of the car and stretched and regarded Pete wearily.

  — What’ll it be, mister? said Pete.

  — The unleaded, please. You folks have a washroom?

  — Yes. Just go in the store and ask Caroline-she’s at the cash-out-for the key.

  The old man went into the store. Pete lifted the nozzle off the pump and pushed it into the Ford’s gas tank. The smell of gasoline rose on the air.

  — Working hard?

  Pete was startled. He turned and saw a man of about forty who’d evidently been in the Ford’s passenger seat. The man standing there did not appear to be all put-together. He had a wide grin and vacant eyes and sweatpants drawn high over his waist. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it didn’t fully hide the edges of a scar near the top of his forehead. He was nodding his head in perpetual agreement.

  — What can I say, said Pete. I’m keeping busy.

  The man’s head bobbed up and down. He laughed.

  — And you? said Pete. Plans for the weekend?

  — Oh, not me! I take it easy.

  The old man reappeared from the washroom.

  — For godsake, Simon. Get in the car.

  Simon shuffled back to the passenger seat. Over his shoulder he told Pete not to work too hard.

  — I’m sorry, said the old man. Sometimes he wanders away. It’s frustrating.

  — It’s no trouble.

  The old man didn’t say anything. By way of something to break the quiet, Pete asked him if his car was the ‘79 Fairlane.

  The old man blinked. He smiled, said: Yes, this is the ‘79. I was always a Ford man. I used to run a dealership. Do you have a car?

  — I have a ‘73 Honda coupe I bought from my stepdad’s friend. It gets me around. But I always wanted a Mustang.

  The tank finished filling. Pete hung the nozzle on the pump.

  — It’ll be ten dollars.

  The old man paid by credit card. As Pete took an imprint of the card, he caught sight of the man’s name: Arthur Grady. Pete brought out a receipt and Arthur Grady signed it. He didn’t leave immediately. He ran his hand along the roof of his car.

  — I had a son who really loved the Thunderbird. The Bullet Bird, they called it. I bought him a 1961 brand new, the two-door with the hardtop and the 390. It was one of five I ever sold and I sold it to myself and I gave it to him when he turned eighteen. He’d made the first-round draft pick, see, and I didn’t care what that car would set me back.

  — How long did he have it?

  — Not six months.

  — Oh …

  Arthur Grady flexed his mouth. He looked at the bypass and said: My son isn’t with us any more. Anyhow, I apologize for taking up your time.

  He got into the Fairlane. He pulled his door shut and started the ignition, but then he slid his window down and gestured to Pete. There was a smell of cigar smoke and leather upholstery. Simon, in the passenger seat, was fiddling with the radio. Without looking, the old man gently pushed Simon’s hand away from the buttons.

  — This is for you, said the old man.

  He gave Pete a one-dollar tip. Pete thanked him. Arthur Grady slid his window up and started his car and drove back onto the bypass.

  One by one the lights over the pumps came on. Duane had come back and was tapping Skoal tobacco out of a tin he kept in his pocket. He plugged the tobacco under his lip. He did this expertly, one-handed.

  — Pete, man, I’m proud of you. You actually worked today.

  Pete brushed past Duane and went into the store. At the cash-out, Caroline was working on a crossword puzzle. She smiled when she saw him. He brought her Arthur Grady’s receipt and she put it in the ledger and then asked Pete if he wanted his paycheque. They went into the office. Caroline owned and managed the Texaco, and her office was small and neatly kept. She did not allow smoking. A geranium was potted on the windowsill. Caroline dug into the filing cabinet.

  — That old man, said Pete. You know him?

  — What old man?

  — The bald guy that came in to get the key for the washroom.

  — Him? I’ve seen him around, I think. Maybe. But I don’t know him. Why?

  — Just … kind of weird. Looked at me funny. Told me about his dead son.

  — You’ll hear all kinds of personal crap from people. Last week a woman in the store got real personal with me about her divorce. All the legal details and so forth. Sometimes people just need other people to hear them. Even if it’s just a stranger. You know?

  Following his shift at the Texaco, Pete changed and got into his Honda. He picked up his friend Billy at a low-rise apartment building where Billy’s older brother lived. Billy had a two-four of Labatt, which he toted around to the back of the car and put in the trunk. Then he came to the passenger side and got in.

  — How’s it hanging, Pete, said Billy. What time is it?

  — It’s seven, said Pete. A little after. What’s the plan?

  — We’re going to church.

  It must have been how Pete was looking at him. Billy grinned. He said: Music recital.

  — What are you talking about?

  — The girl I told you about, said Billy. Emily. She plays the piano.

  Billy played piano across the dashboard.

  — So we’re going to church, said Pete. Jesus. I thought after I quit all that craziness at my stepdad’s church that I wouldn’t have to go any more.

  — I’m being supportive is what I’m doing. It’s what you have to do to keep the good ones.

  — Okay … But if these people start talking in tongues, I’m leaving.

  Pete had never been inside the United Church before. They parked across the street and they smoked a little bit of dope first. Then they went through a set of heavy oak doors and up a carpeted stairway into the church entryway. Pete was uncomfortably conscious of the hush around him. They found their way into the sanctuary and wandered between the empty pews. He did not quite know what to conclude about where he was.
Galilee Pentecostal Tabernacle, where Barry preached, was an entirely modern building. The sanctuary at Galilee was almost like a concert hall or theatre. Here, in the church, the sanctuary was dimly lit and old-fashioned. It felt rigid, somehow.

  Before long, a tight-browed woman in a beige pantsuit appeared behind them, wanting to know were they looking for somebody. They told her they’d come for the music recital. Billy added that they weren’t there to steal bibles or anything. She gave them a doubtful look but she led them out of the sanctuary, past some offices, and finally to a banquet hall in the basement. There were four dozen classroom chairs arranged in the hall, facing a riser where a microphone and a piano and a music stand were arranged. Billy poked Pete in the ribs and pointed at the piano. Around them, most of the seats were already taken up. Families. Pete saw a mother holding a wad of Kleenex to her child’s nose.

  He and Billy took two of the seats at the rear.

  — So where is she? said Pete.

  — I don’t know, she’s here somewhere. She’s small, man.

  The woman in the pantsuit stepped onto the riser. She tapped the microphone and the scattered conversations around the hall went quiet. She said she was happy to welcome them to the September recital. The young musicians they were about to hear were all just really terrific. The three adjudicators were members of the regional board of the Christian Musicians Association, whose mission, for those who didn’t know, is service to the Lord through good deeds, good words and musical talent. After the introductory remarks, an elderly woman in thick orthopaedic shoes came onto the riser and sat at the piano.

  — So that’s your girl, said Pete.

  A man a few seats up turned around and looked at them over the top of his glasses.

  The first performer was a girl of about fourteen. To the pianist’s accompaniment, she played the flute-six or seven minutes of what they had been told was a concertino. She was very good. Next up was an adolescent boy who was indelicately carrying a violin and a bow. He was trembling and grinning frantically. The old pianist led him in with a slow piece. Pete thought he remembered it from the term of music class that he’d taken, but he couldn’t recollect the name. Something by Bach or Mozart or some other long-dead composer. The boy drew the bow across the violin strings and a dreadful squeal of sound came forth.