The Carpenter Read online

  — Billy said you quit school, said Nancy.

  — Yeah, said Pete. Last May.

  — The system doesn’t trust guys like Pete, said Billy.

  Nancy shook her head. She said how wild that was, Pete quitting school. Pete happened to catch Emily’s eye. Her expression was mild and neutral, but all the same he reached up and scratched the back of his neck. He said: I was thinking I might go to community college at some point. I don’t know.

  He didn’t say anything about his plans to head out west.

  They had the rest of the pizza and sent for the bill. Nancy’s folks were away for the weekend and she was having friends over to her house that night. She and Emily got up to go to the washroom and Billy winked at Pete as soon as they were alone.

  — She’s nice, said Pete.

  — Sure she is. You bet.

  The bill came and Billy burrowed about for his wallet until Pete put the cash down. The girls returned. Nancy came back and slipped into the booth beside Pete.

  — Are you going to come to my house? I think you should.

  — She thinks you should, Pete, said Emily.

  Pete might have guessed there’d be trouble if he and Billy went to Nancy’s house, school loyalty being what it was. By eleven o’clock, there were twenty people at the party, all of them from Heron Heights. Shortly after eleven a small group of guys arrived. They were all solidly built athletes. The biggest of them was six feet tall, and it wasn’t so much that he was good-looking-he just had presence in the room. When he took off his jacket, he was wearing a Heron Heights varsity lacrosse T-shirt underneath. The air got tense.

  Until that point it wasn’t a bad scene. The house was nice-much bigger than the house where Pete lived-and there was lots to drink. He didn’t know any of these people, except for Billy and Nancy and Emily, and he was grateful just to take it all in. He spent a lot more time in Nancy’s company than he’d predicted he would, given how it usually seemed to go for him when it came to girls. He’d noticed a picture of her on the wall: an ice rink, a figure-skating pose for the camera, a glittery outfit, thick stage makeup. He asked her about the picture and saw how she lit up. They sat on a couch in the living room and she told him how she volunteered as a coach when she wasn’t training, how she’d gone to the nationals, was going again this spring. As she talked, Pete looked around. There were no crosses on the wall, and there was none of the medical equipment needed to keep an old woman alive. Nancy touched his leg. She asked him if he wanted another drink.

  After a few more beers, Billy sat on the living room carpet with Nancy’s father’s Yamaha acoustic. He took requests. People sang. They opened the window and a joint made its way around. Emily sat beside Billy. She wasn’t singing but she was watching Billy, smiling.

  That was when the lacrosse player and his boys arrived. They came into the house bearing a couple cases of beer.

  — Oh, said Nancy. I didn’t know if you guys were coming.

  — We got back from the tournament and heard you were having people over.

  — Come in, then.

  The athlete and his boys stood between the front door and the kitchen.

  — Hey, Emily, said the lacrosse player.

  Emily looked up at him. The guy smiled.

  Pete guessed that the latecomers would put themselves in the living room, but they didn’t. They disappeared elsewhere in the house a few minutes after they’d come in. A short while later Billy took a break from the guitar. He stood up and helped Emily to her feet. He weaved over and whacked Pete’s arm.

  — I’ve got to piss.

  — No sense keeping it all bottled up, said Pete.

  Billy went on his way. Emily approached.

  — Are you having a good time, Pete?

  — Sure, your friends are fun.

  — Don’t pay any attention to those guys who just got here. The big guy, his name is Roger. I think he’s finding it hard to move on from certain things.

  — It’s okay.

  Then Emily was gone. Her perfume hung behind her. Pete went to the washroom. When he was coming out he happened to look down the hallway. He saw Emily leaning against the wall, Billy in front of her. Laughing, both of them, her with her hand to her mouth.

  Pete went down the hallway away from them. Then someone hailed him from a small den. It was the lacrosse player and his boys and a couple of girls. They were sitting around drinking, shoes propped up on a coffee table. Pete stepped into the den. They looked at him.

  — So who are you, anyways?

  — I’m Pete. I’m a friend of Nancy’s.

  The athlete put out his lower lip. He said: Pete, Pete. Pete Pete Pete. Okay.

  Just then Pete heard the guitar strike up in the living room again. He heard voices starting to sing along.

  — I’m going to have to talk to Emily, said the lacrosse player.

  — I know you, said one of the others. You work at the gas station on the bypass.

  The boys in the den laughed.

  — I’m going to get a beer, said Pete.

  He was trying to think of something to say, some sharp retort, but he couldn’t think of anything. He was sweating under his shirt. As he turned away from the doorway into the den, he heard the lacrosse player saying: What the fuck is she doing with these …

  Pete went into the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. Two girls were talking at the table. Liquor bottles stood on the counter and paper cups oozed bad mixes. Pete opened a beer and went back into the living room. Nancy was standing near the kitchen entryway. She smiled when she saw him. She was sweating a little bit and it gave a high clear edge to her perfume. Everybody was singing the chorus to “Hey Jude” while Billy played, and Emily was sitting beside him again. They came to the end of the song and Billy plucked a final note from the strings.

  — You guys are great, said Billy.

  But then the lacrosse player and one of his friends appeared at the edge of the crowd.

  — Hey, Emily, said the athlete. I want to talk to you for a couple minutes.

  Emily gave him a serene look, told him no thanks. He made an O-shape with his mouth. Under other circumstances, it might have looked funny.

  — I want to talk to you.

  — I don’t feel like talking right now, Roger.

  — Emily.

  — Hey, man, said Billy. She doesn’t feel like talking right now.

  — Who asked you, asshole?

  The situation got ugly in seconds. Pete found himself standing side by side with Billy in the middle of the living room. In some ways, he had already been resigned to it. Voices were rising, challenging, protesting. Billy and Roger were almost nose to nose, trading brisk shoves to each other’s chest. Then Roger’s friend came on the run. He leapt over the couch and landed in front of Pete and gave him a push. Pete stumbled on an ottoman behind him and went over backwards. He hit the floor with the ottoman between his knees, his vision wheeling sickeningly.

  A sharp whistle cut through the noise. Emily had her fingers in her mouth. She took them out and said: This is so goddamn stupid.

  Beside Emily, Nancy nodded fervently. Her eyes were wide. She looked a little frantic, while Emily looked stern and composed and beautiful.

  Roger and Billy had hold of each other’s collar. Billy also had hold of the boy who’d pushed Pete over. Pete concentrated on the ceiling and then he sat up. His face felt hot and his head was spinning.

  — What are you going to do, Emily? said Roger. Call your dad?

  Emily lifted her hands: How did I know you’d say that. Really. How did I know.

  — This is all bullshit, said Roger. You know we’re only kidding around.

  He and Billy warily unlatched and stepped back. Roger offered a tentative smile and a handshake. He came over past Billy and pulled Pete up.

  — All good, right, Pete?

  He put out his hand and Pete shook it.

  Then Roger and his friends got their jackets and their beer. They took
their time leaving, hanging around the front yard, talking, looking at the house. Finally, they got into a wood-panelled station wagon and drove away.

  — Here, Pete.

  Billy had brought him another beer. Pete opened it and Billy slung an arm around him.

  — What kind of bullshit was that? You okay?

  — I’m fine.

  Peter drank the beer quickly. He went into the washroom. The toilet seat stood upright and dry vomit scum caked the bowl. Pete gripped the sides of the counter, breathing slow. He balled his fist and drove it into the wall. Once, twice, three times, until the knuckles were stinging and the skin was broken. He stayed in the washroom for a long time, letting the anger and the humiliation subside. Then he held a hand towel under a stream of cold water. He cleaned his knuckles with it and tossed the towel into the bathtub.

  He came back into the living room. Nancy was on the couch. She got up and blundered forward and put her hands on his arms.

  — I am so sorry about those guys.

  — If Billy and me knew we’d cause you any problems we probably wouldn’t have come.

  — No, you’re more fun than them. I am so sorry.

  Pete looked around. The house had mostly emptied and only four or five people remained. All around were cups and beer bottles and small spills. The pictures on the wall hung askew. He did not see Billy or Emily. His earlier anger was gone, and in its place was a bitter taste of jealousy. He tried to shake it away, wondering what was happening to him. He said: Your living room is a goddamn mess.

  — I know, said Nancy. But whatever. I’ll make my little brother clean it up tomorrow. Come on.

  — Where are we going?

  — Just to talk, you know. Come on.

  Nancy took him into her bedroom and closed the door behind them and turned on a bedside lamp. The room was many shades of pink and there were clothes strewn about and there was a rack of figure-skating trophies. Over the bed was a poster of Michael Jackson, and in the corner, she had a television. But then she had the light out again and she was groping at him and then he groped back and tasted the liquor in her mouth and the sweat on her breasts and her stomach. She sucked her breath in.

  — I don’t want you to think I do this all the time …

  — I know, said Pete.

  It didn’t go very far. She was shirtless by the time they got into the bed, but after a few minutes of rolling around she seemed to slow down. Then she stopped responding entirely. He said her name. He touched her shoulder. She had passed out. Pete settled down beside her. It took him a little while to come down, to stop thinking about falling over the ottoman, to stop thinking of other things. He listened to the sounds of the house. He was listening for Billy and Emily and not hearing them.

  In the early morning, Pete dressed in his work clothes. The light from outside was grey and cold. His knuckles were sore from striking the wall and his head hurt. He looked at Nancy. She was a stranger. She was snoring and was still wearing her jeans. Pete picked up her hand and put it down again. She did not stir. He shoved the clothes he’d worn the night before into his backpack.

  He moved through the house. No one was around. He had no idea what room Billy and Emily might have ended up in, and he gritted his teeth against the idea of going door to door to find them. In the living room, he could smell burned carpet and spilled beer. It made his gorge rise. He went out the front door and down to his car and got his work jacket out of the trunk. It was a lined canvas jacket with his name stitched at the breast. He put it on and rubbed his hands together. He got into the car and started it. It was then that he saw Emily out on the front porch. She was wearing a cable-knit sweater and she had a steaming mug between her hands. She saw him and gave a little wave. He got out of the car and shuffled back to the porch.

  — I was in the kitchen making tea, said Emily. I usually don’t sleep the whole night through. But I would have a nap every single afternoon if I could. Where are you going?

  He found himself looking at Emily’s hair, looking for it to be askew, but it hung as dark and straight as the first time he’d seen her. At some point, she’d washed off her makeup, what little she had seemed to be wearing the night before, and though there were darker spots under her eyes, even in the early morning light she remained almost too pretty to look at.

  — Well, some of us can’t sleep at night because they have a guilty conscience, said Pete. And some of us can’t sleep because they have to go to work.

  — Guilty conscience?

  — I’m teasing you.

  — I know you are. You work at the gas station on the bypass, right?

  — Yeah, that’s right.

  — How long have you been doing that?

  — Since May.

  — And what else? said Emily.

  — What else what?

  — What else anything, Pete. What’s your story?

  — Oh, said Pete. I don’t know. There’s not much to it. I was born in North Bay. We lived there until I was eight or so, then we moved back here, because this is my mom’s hometown, this is where she grew up. She’s married to a pastor now. I never met my dad.

  — My mom teaches grade two, said Emily. My dad is a cop.

  — And you play the piano better than anyone I ever heard.

  — Thank you. My grandmother taught me. She could play like you wouldn’t believe.

  — My grandma lives with us, said Pete.

  He did not mention anything about his grandmother’s illness. For a moment he had a clear idea of how his story must sound to someone like Emily-his grandmother was dying, his uncle was an ex-con, he’d never met his father, and, as for himself, he was a dropout who worked at a gas station. Emily, meanwhile, had it good, and came from good people. At best, he thought, she might tolerate someone like him, as long as she was seeing his friend.

  And yet, he was conscious of how he felt, standing here with her, watching her sip her tea. He said: Do you think you’ll go with Billy again?

  She shrugged. The mug was in front of her mouth.

  — You never know. If he continues to be a gentleman, maybe I’ll go with him again.

  Pete rubbed the back of his neck: Yeah, Billy’s a good guy.

  — He’s very good-looking, said Emily. He’s got beautiful hair. And my dad would absolutely hate him.

  — I see.

  — Maybe you can see Nancy again. We could go out, the four of us. That would be fun.

  He agreed lamely that they should all meet again. Then he went down the steps and got in his car, wondering what it was like to have a place where you fit in.

  He pulled onto the street and watched Emily in his rear-view mirror until he’d turned the corner and lost sight of her.

  Stan had a bad night. When he slept he dreamed he was awake but was unable to move. And when he was awake he lay looking around. All the ordinary features of the bedroom had new dimensions in the darkness. In the morning his whole body ached. He put on a track suit in preparation for his exercises.

  Cassius was sitting by the woodstove when Stan came down. The last two nights had been cold enough to warrant a small fire in the stove, which Stan had kept because it was as old as the house itself and because it appealed to him in a way that electric heat did not. Stan scratched the dog between the ears and they went outside. Edna’s garden was choked with weeds. The flowers were all dead. Stan and Cassius went down the embankment to the basement door under the house. Inside the basement, Stan kept a workbench and a selection of tools. Across from that was the exposed bedrock on which the house was built, coming up in one place to the bottoms of the joists. There was space for storage, extra siding, shingles, storm shutters, life jackets and fishing rods, a paint-spattered wooden ladder. In the opposite corner, an Everlast heavy-bag hung from the overhead beam.

  He turned on an FM radio he kept on the workbench, tuned it to the news. He wrapped his hands and knuckles, aching as they were, and he put on a pair of old sixteen-ounce training gloves he’d had
for many years. He shadowboxed for a few minutes and then he worked on the heavy-bag. In his youth, before his long tenure as a cop, he’d had four years as a professional boxer. His record was twenty-two fights, with seventeen wins, twelve of those by knockout. He’d been known as a good stylist and an outfighter, classing as a light heavyweight at a hundred and seventy pounds.

  Stan had come back to exercising daily around the time he turned fifty and his doctor had given him some warnings about his blood pressure. So he’d quit smoking-which Edna had never cared for anyway-and had brought the fighting exercises back into his life. His knees and hips wouldn’t let him use the jump rope much any more, but he could still work combinations on the heavy-bag. It used to be his cross, thrown with his right hand, that would win him a fight, if the victory was to be by knockout. Stan would strike his opponent’s body until the guy let his hands and elbows down, and then he’d propel the cross from his hips and abdominals straight into the guy’s jaw or temple.

  After four three-minute rounds he stopped punching the bag to listen to the news. His sweatshirt was damp right through and he felt older than ever. Cassius lay with his muzzle between his forepaws. As a puppy it had upset him to watch Stan work on the bag and he would bark and snap until Stan would have to get Edna to call Cassius out to her. Now the dog only watched through half-lidded eyes. Stan steadied the bag. The news broadcast finished. He stood looking out the yellowed window-glass over the workbench, down past the cedar trees to the western shore of the point, which endured the worst of the weather when the prevailing winds blew.

  He had a list of chores he needed to attend to. The outboard motor needed servicing. The toilet was making erratic sounds. He went at the chores in a distracted fashion. After lunch, he set a ladder against the side of the house and climbed up to clean the eavestroughs. The sun was warm on his face and the colours of the leaves were vivid against the sky. Somewhere, the sound of a chainsaw was buzzing through the trees.

  He had been at this for twenty minutes when he heard the dog barking and a vehicle in the turnaround. He looked down and saw Dick Shannon coming to the base of the ladder. Dick was uniformed, carrying his cap in one hand.