The Carpenter

There wasn’t much else to the story. Judy had left a note on the dashboard of the car. All it said was I’m sorrey amp; I love you. Ellie. Eleanor answered questions for the police and went through Judy’s personal effects. She received cards in the mail. The women at the bank brought casseroles. If Eleanor never had another casserole again, she said, she’d be happy.

Stan walked with Eleanor back to where she’d parked at the Owl Cafe. She was driving Tommy’s car. She’d gotten rid of the car Judy died in.

— What will you do now, Stan?

— I don’t know, Ellie. First, I’ll have a word with a couple friends of mine.

— Maybe there’s nothing to know. Really. Maybe you shouldn’t even trouble yourself.

— It’s no trouble for an old guy with nothing much to do.

She opened her car door and said: Thanks for hearing me out, Stan.

— No. Thank you.

— I loved my dad, said Eleanor. I loved my dad, but he was wrong about you.

In the morning, Clifton took Lee with him to pick up building materials. The heavy labour at the cottage where they were working was wrapping up, Clifton said. He didn’t know how much longer he’d need Bud or Lee on the site. Lee nodded, frowning.

— You’re not losing heart, are you? said Clifton.

— I guess I liked the way things were going out at the big place.

— You’re just supposed to keep heart as always. Think about your Matthew. If you have faith as small as this mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, move from there to there, and it will be so. 17:20.

— Faith I got, Mr. Murray. A job is what I need to keep.

— Well, it so happens that I got the bid for another place. We’ll be starting there soon enough, and I’ll have enough work for you and Bud straight to Christmas if we’re lucky.

Lee looked at Clifton. He was driving his truck very fast, weaving between other vehicles on the road. He was perched forward on the seat. Lee had never spent so much time alone with him.

At a little after nine o’clock, they pulled into the parking lot in front of Heron Lumber.

— I’ll go in and give them the order, said Clifton. You go on into the yard and I’ll meet you there.

Lee got out of the truck and went into the lumberyard adjacent to the store, lighting a smoke as he went. October was cold if you were just standing around. A kid in a Heron Lumber shirt came by and asked Lee if he was waiting on anything. Lee had just opened his mouth to answer when he heard his name being shouted. He looked, expecting to see Clifton. Instead, a wiry man was briskly coming his way. The man’s hair had thinned and he had a burn-scar on the side of his face. He shouted Lee’s name again.

— Speedy, said Lee. I’ll be damned.

Speedy Simmons stopped short and scrubbed his hand across the front of his chinos and then offered it for Lee to shake. He said: Jesus Christ. I was in the parking lot and I thought that’s Leland goddamn King. You’ve got grey hair, but. Hey, I didn’t even know you were getting out. How long you been home?

— Six weeks or so, said Lee.

— Say, Lee, good for you.

Speedy was a face from the distant past. They’d run with the same crowd when they were teenagers, had spent a night or two sharing the drunk tank. Now they made small talk for five minutes. Lee told him about his place downtown and about working for Clifton Murray. It wasn’t clear where Speedy was working. He’d been at Heron Lumber to buy tools, he said, when he saw Lee in the parking lot. Then Clifton’s truck appeared behind them. Clifton leaned out the driver-side window, looked at Lee and clapped his hand against the door.

— I better get going, said Lee.

Speedy offered his hand again. He said: You bet, Lee. Say, it was really something to see you. I’ll come look you up sometime soon, we’ll play a game of pool or euchre or what-have-you.

Clifton fretted over an invoice while Lee loaded materials into the back of the truck. Among the materials was a selection of oak and maple with which the kitchen cabinets were going to be made. Lee ran his hands over the wood. He could picture the cabinets as they took shape and came together. He knew that feeling of satisfaction.

When they were loaded, they got back into the truck and drove out of the lumberyard. Clifton was in a talkative mood: There’s a tailor I got to stop at quick. Next month, my niece is getting married. A wedding in November-some of the gals say it’s nice, some can’t figure it out. I don’t know. This is my brother Irving’s daughter. Were you ever married?

— No.

— Oh.

A few minutes later Clifton broke the quiet again: So you know a thing or two about cabinetmaking?

— Say again? said Lee.

— Isn’t that what you told me?

— Yes, that’s true. When I was living in the St. Leonard’s house in the city I was working at a shop that built office furniture. All the woodworking stuff, that was mine to do. I built a lot of desks-

— Desks aren’t the same as cabinets. And what was this Saint-Saint who?

— St. Leonard’s Society. They ran the halfway house where I was living.

— St. Leonard. Was this some kind of Catholic outfit?

— It wasn’t Catholic. It was just named for him. For Saint Leonard. If I remember right, he was a guy from the old times, a monk, like, who freed a number of prisoners and took them to live with him out in the woods away from people. Taught them things and so forth, taught them how to be productive.

— Hmm. Long as you keep in mind the real way to salvation.

— I do, boss. Every day.

They drove in silence for some minutes more, until Clifton abruptly said: But I’ll admit, mister man, you are a hard worker.

That afternoon, Bud was lively. He wanted to know had Lee seen the Maple Leafs kick the heck out of Buffalo the night before. They were cutting and packing fibreglass insulation into the exterior walls. Lee’s skin was itchy. He and Bud both had bandanas wrapped over their mouths and noses. His eyes were stinging.

He turned back from the wall to cut a new piece of insulation. Clifton had given them a kitchen carving knife to use. The fibreglass dulled the blade quickly and they had to sharpen the knife frequently.

— You want to watch a game, you let me know, said Bud. We’ll go to my friend’s place. He’s got a big colour TV.

Lee nodded. He was thinking about Speedy Simmons, thinking about the old days. His youth, what there was of it. There was Speedy, there was Jim Robichaud, Terry Lachlan, some others. None of them came from much, and nobody in town thought they had much ahead of them either. They battled constantly with kids of better means. At age twenty or twenty-one, Jim Robichaud had the idea that they should start an outlaw motorcycle club-he’d seen The Wild One a few too many times-but none of them, as far as Lee knew, ever actually ended up with a bike. Not in those days, anyway, even if they tried to dress the part. But there were lots of good times with those boys. They worked what straight jobs they could get, not ever really worrying about whether or not they kept the job for long, and whenever money was really scarce, they stole cars for a man two towns away who bought them at a good premium, or they moved crates of stolen liquor and counterfeit cigarettes for some people Speedy knew. They drank hard and fought hard and looked out for each other, and anyone who wasn’t a cop did not fuck with them. For the most part.

— Smoke? said Bud. It’s the hour.

— Yeah. Good idea.

They went outside and pulled their bandanas down and lit their cigarettes. Lee leaned against the wall and set to sharpening the knife they were using to cut the insulation. They watched Sylvain. He had begun work on a path that would lead down to the lake. He was crouched on a bed of gravel, eyeballing a string-line down the centre of the path. He’d brought on a kid from town to work with him. The kid was moving the string in slight increments side to side.

Bud puffed out smoke. He said: That insulation makes me feel like I got the clap. But all over instead of just