by Terri Kraus
Your eyes can fool you, he told himself. But if you compare it with something you know, a true piece, then you can be sure.
All but two of the pieces possessed some slight curvature or bend. Oliver knew he could use extra nails and perhaps get every piece to lay flat, but that wouldn’t be right. Eventually, the curve, that built-in warp, would pull away from the wall or leave a gap around the mirror. By then, changes would be too late. He couldn’t leave it as it was.
Like I left my signature on a flawed, bad piece of work. I can’t do that. I’d never be able to live with myself. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but I don’t like leaving an error in a place like that where everyone can see it.
So, alone in the church, he set out to remedy the situation.
Here he was, at three in the morning, facing a trimless mirror and a stack of a more substantial style of trim piled in the middle of the room. Oliver wouldn’t charge Samantha for the time or the materials. This had been his decision. She might not have even noticed, but he did. The plan called for a two-inch surround, a stock profile, for the trim. The finished product would be fine, but not special. When plans were drawn, when it was only paper and pencil and T-square, the relationship of pattern to surface to wood to paint to geography in the room—none of that was real. Instead, the room was imaginary. Now that the dimensions were here, now that there was a reality to the bar and the lighting and the way the mirror reflected the colors from the stained-glass windows, Oliver could see the original specifications for the trim were woefully insufficient. Two inches of wood was lost in juxtaposition to the massive full-wall reflective surface of the mirror.
The lumberyard in Aspinwall, not the Home Depot just down the road that supplied most of their needs, had the perfect trim in stock. It had been delivered late Friday. The trim, the remainder from a high-end custom job, had been milled for the private residence of an investment banker and was nearly as thick as both of Oliver’s outspread hands, thumbs touching. It was done in hardwood, not pine, and would be stained dark later, but he was anxious to have it installed before anyone else arrived. He did not want to explain his need to see this changed, nor try to defend his design decision.
I’m not sure I could explain it. I just know that it looks better this way. It has to be this way. Right is right, and truth is truth.
Instead of using the screaming electric miter saw, Oliver carefully measured three times, then cut the wood slowly with a Japanese-style saw, cutting on the pull stroke, rather than the push. The blade was narrow, almost delicate, and each cut could be the thickness of a heavy sheet of paper.
The rasp and hiss of the saw filled the silent room. Robert the Dog looked up, almost as if the human-powered saw was such an unusual sound that he needed clarification of the source.
Oliver maneuvered the long board to above the mirror, one side resting on the top of a ladder, Oliver holding the other. He gently tapped at his edge with the cushioned handle of his hammer, nudging it into place. Once the position was perfect, he pulled a thin, glistening finish nail from his pouch and gently tapped it into place, catching a stud beneath the plaster. He hurried to the other side and did the same at the far end. He removed the ladder and stepped back a few feet, then a few feet farther.
Absolutely perfect, he told himself. It’s what that space required. An honest frame around this reflection.
With deliberate patience, he cut the remaining three pieces and tapped them into place in the same manner. On the bottom rail, he was forced to make two rectangular notches in the trim to allow access to electrical outlets, and as much as he didn’t enjoy cutting into the long expanse of wood, moving the outlets would require a return visit of the electricians and a return of the city inspector, all adding too much to the cost and completion time.
Once we stain this, no one will see the slight imperfection.
He went back to the trim, tapping in a long finish nail at each stud. He liked to nail by hand, not with a nail gun; the pneumatic sniffing sound felt too machinelike to Oliver. He liked the tap-tap-tap sound of metal on metal. He liked using a nail punch to personally countersink each nail, a tiny, perfect round hole that hid the nail under a small encasement of stainable wood putty.
He looked at his cell phone. 6:30. Not bad. Not a bad morning’s work.
Barth sat at a table almost in the dark, in front of the Coffee Tree Roasters. The air was still chilled, almost too chilled to sit outside, but it was an empty table and Barth was wearing his down jacket—normally too heavy for spring, but not too heavy for this dark spring morning, he had decided. He fussed with the plastic lid on his cardboard coffee cup, muttering to himself as he tried to get the lid properly sealed.
“Can’t they design these blasted things so normal people can use them?”
After a few more tries, he managed to snap the lid into place, then remembered he hadn’t added sugar to the coffee yet.
“Blast.”
He stared at the cup, now with the lid, and the four sugar packets on the table, staring back at him, mocking him.
“I’ll drink it without,” he said to himself after thinking about and immediately rejecting the possibility of pouring the sugar into the slit in the top of the lid.
“Better for me without,” he harrumphed.
He heard his name being called out, not middle-of-the-day loud, but six-thirty-in-the-morning loud, and looked up.
Oliver and Robert the Dog were striding toward him—Robert with a grin, and Oliver wearing a baseball hat with a tool company emblem on the front. He waved.
“Sit down,” Barth insisted. “I’ll take care of Robert. Get your coffee and whatever.”
Oliver returned with coffee and a paper bag, too full for one person. “He likes scones now,” Oliver explained, as if the full bag required a defense.
“That’s why Rascal is at home. He’s fatter now than ever. I guess I’m too soft of a touch.”
Oliver grinned. “Maybe. But what good is having a pet if you can’t spoil him a little? I know all about keeping them healthy—and yourself—but if I had nothing but rice cakes to eat for breakfast the rest of my life, why get up in time for breakfast?”
“You are a scholar after my own heart,” Barth agreed as he bit into his cinnamon Danish, drenched in icing.
The two sat, eating, drinking in silence, until Oliver spoke. “Barth, how are you at tough theological questions?”
Barth rubbed his hands together not to warm them, but to rid them of excess cinnamon and Danish crumbs. “Depends. If you’re willing to take my word on things, then I’m pretty good. Like asking a carpenter for advice on how to … I don’t know, build a bookcase. They can give you all sorts of pointers that sound good, but then if they walk away, you’re on your own …” Barth let his words fade off. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
“Yes. It does. You have to put it into practice. That’s what you’re saying. See if the advice is applicable. I understand what you mean.”
Robert sidled up closer to Oliver and almost put a paw on his leg in supplication, something that the dog never did, but the scones were that good. Barth knew firsthand.
“Okay. Okay. Here’s another bite.” Oliver put the paper bag on the table. “Barth, this question … it’s about suicide—if it’s an unpardonable sin. I asked my pastor, but I came away more confused than before. What do you think? What happens in that situation?”
Barth didn’t show his alarm at the question. He calmly sipped his coffee. “There are people on both sides of that question.”
“I know that, but what if the person is a believer? Christian all their life, but struggling. You know, overwhelmed by things … that sort of scenario. Life just got too much to bear. But without a doubt loved God to the last moment.”
“What did your pastor have to say about it?” Barth asked.
“I want to know what you think.”
“Oliver, I don’t claim to have all the answers, but I would say that once we’re saved, there’s no sin we can commit here on earth that Christ’s death didn’t take care of. The atonement was complete. He can forgive anything. We’re most likely all going to die with some unconfessed sin. And God knows the heart. Knows what’s going on inside a person—if they’re mentally ill or whatever. Our God is a big God. His ways are perfect. He is love and justice in perfect balance. Some people … well, I don’t know anyone personally who has taken their own life. I guess I’m sheltered. But maybe they’re not in their right mind at that moment. Maybe they can’t help where they are. God never says that if that happens, then you’re out. The Bible only talks about one sin that is unforgivable—and that’s apostasy.”
“I’ve heard that as well. Means what? Turning away from God?”
“Sort of,” Barth said, “but more than that. Like actively campaigning against God. But there are those people, like my Presbyterian friends, who say that once God elects you, there ain’t … isn’t … anything you can do to escape from His calling. And they believe a person who campaigns against God was never a believer in the first place.”
“So that’s the unpardonable sin? Not suicide?”
“I don’t know of a passage in the Bible that speaks to it directly, although the Old Testament records a half-dozen suicides—King Saul and Samson among them. While they weren’t commended for the act, I don’t see where they were condemned for it. Of course, God isn’t for people taking their own lives, you know. The Bible says He is the one who numbers our days. And even if He decides that suicide is a sin, it’s still not one that His power can’t forgive in one of His own. So I’d say that if a person lived for the Lord, then fell into that kind of a serious mental state, I’ve got to believe God would understand and find a place for them in heaven.”
Oliver sighed.
“That make sense?” Barth asked.
“It does. That’s what I thought too.”
Barth let a moment pass. He wanted to ask Oliver if he really understood, but saw sadness in the younger man’s eyes so remained silent. He wanted to put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder but didn’t, knowing the touch would say as much as a thousand words but invite a lot more questions as well—questions that Oliver may not be ready yet to answer.
“That’s good then,” Barth said and took the final unsweetened sip from his coffee, now nearly cold.
If Oliver had been surprised or uncomfortable when Samantha showed up that morning, carrying her usual heavy load of coffees and treats, he didn’t show an inkling of those reactions. If he had thought that their previous conversation would keep Samantha away from the jobsite, he was mistaken. And if anyone had been particularly observant that morning, they might have seen a flicker of something else in his eyes, as well as in Samantha’s—a flicker of acknowledgment, perhaps. Or perhaps something more akin to uncertainty, of the awareness of a quandary that existed between the two of them.
But neither Taller, nor any of the Pratt brothers, nor the pair of Hispanic painters, noticed anything amiss. Everyone was cordial, even if a bit restrained and subdued, this being the first morning of the workweek. People asked about weekend activities, and the Pirates game on Sunday, and whether or not traffic was heavy that day.
As Samantha readied herself to depart, she placed her hand on Oliver’s shoulder and gently turned him toward herself. “Cameron Willis will be here this afternoon. I was planning on being here to show her around, but I have a doctor’s appointment that I simply cannot change. Some doctors are bigger prima donnas than … well … carpenters, and Cameron is only in Pittsburgh for this afternoon. Would you be a dear and show her around? I know she already has a lot of footage from before. She won’t have a crew or anything with her. Maybe just a still photographer—she didn’t say for sure. But whatever—you could be the host, couldn’t you?”
Even though Oliver had only met Cameron a few times, he liked her. He felt as if he’d known her for years. He decided that was what made for a good TV host.
“Sure. I’ll be here.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Oliver. You’re an angel.”
“Mr. Barnett, this is simply a grand transformation. I can hardly believe it’s the same place—other than the windows.”
“Not Mr. Barnett. Oliver.”
“Sorry. Oliver. I knew that.”
Cameron Willis held a clipboard to her chest. Her dark hair, now cut short, was tucked behind her ears, as if a backdrop, highlighting her tiny diamond stud earrings. A pair of glasses hung around her neck on a thin gold chain. She wore a simple white blouse and dark slacks. The blouse looked expensive, Oliver thought, and then wondered why he would have noticed.
“I’m sorry Samantha can’t be here. But I’ll try to answer any questions you have,” he offered.
The two of them walked to the back room, formerly the pastor’s study and now designated as the private dining area. Robert the Dog padded alongside, his snout rubbing against Cameron’s leg every second step or so.
“Robert!” Oliver called out, almost sharply.
“It’s okay, Oliver,” Cameron replied. “We are now the proud owners of a golden lab puppy. Chance always wanted a dog growing up, and Riley is thrilled as well. So I’m used to dogs. And Robert is very well behaved—compared to Titus, the baby monster we have at home.”
“Well, not everyone appreciates a dog who thinks he’s part human.”
Robert stopped and stared up at Oliver with an aggravated, peeved look.
“The details you’ve put in the work are so striking,” Cameron said. “Like the wonderful molding around that big mirror there. Was that a custom piece of work?”
“Sort of. I mean, it had been. But it was left over from someone else’s job. I saw it at a mill shop and knew it would be perfect.”
Cameron took a pen, attached to the clipboard. “So this wasn’t on the plan? Samantha or the architect didn’t specify that particular style?”
The ice grew thin, Oliver thought, and he mentally stammered a bit, trying to answer her question truthfully without appearing pretentious or arrogant or autocratic. “Sort of, I guess. I … we had installed trim there the way it was specified on the plan. But it didn’t look right. So I changed it. A sort of upgrade … but I don’t plan on charging Samantha for it. Sometimes a builder has to do that. Make it right, not just to plan.”
Cameron offered a knowing look. “I understand that completely. My husband is a builder too. He’s always trying to make things authentic. Costs him money sometimes. But that’s who he is, and it makes him happy. Maybe not happy, but satisfied.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t have left it the way it was. This way, everyone is happy, even if they don’t know why. Even if it costs me something, it’s worth it.”
“Show me the kitchen and the downstairs, Oliver. If that’s okay with you, I mean. I’m just taking notes now so when the film crew comes back, they’ll have an idea of what to shoot. You would think after all this time together, they would know—but it’s like they are all construction-deaf. They would take pictures of piles of scrap lumber if I left them to their own accord, I bet. More artistic.”
In the basement, Cameron’s arrival was met with silence and stares. All three Pratt brothers had declared their awe of Cameron Willis during her first visit, and her second, and now, even though it was the third visit, they were no less mute and slack-jawed than the first one.
Cameron, always the consummate professional, greeted each one by name, shaking hands, not even looking to see if they were dirty or clean hands, not caring, and asking each Pratt brother in succession about his role on the job and what they enjoyed most about the project.
She didn’t get much information from any of them, just a lot of mumbled words, all exp
ressing the same sentiment, “Whatever Oliver wants us to do, we do. It’s all good.”
“You trimmed out the basement ceiling with crown molding,” Cameron said.
“It needed it,” the eldest Pratt replied, then looked away, as if embarrassed that she noticed that small detail. “It only took a few hours or so. And the trim was inexpensive. Figured the waitstaff would be down here a lot.”
“But you didn’t have to do this,” Cameron said, her tone soft and inviting.
The youngest Pratt spoke up. “He’s like that, Ms. Willis. He’s just a nice guy. Makes sure others have a right, honest place to work.”
“And what’s the plan for this nice large space?” Cameron asked as she walked into the former Fellowship Hall.
“No plan. It will be used for storage, most likely, for now.”
“That’s a shame, with all the beautiful windows it has. It would make a great banquet venue.”
Paula unstrapped Bridget from her carseat and hefted her up, leaning her daughter against her left shoulder. She bent at the knees and grabbed the white plastic bag with a few things she had picked up at the drugstore.
Bridget’s getting big, Paula thought. I don’t think I’ll be able to lift her like this much longer.
Inside, Bridget fussed a bit as Paula removed her jacket and shoes.
“Barney is on, Bridget. You want Mommy to watch Barney with you?”
Paula never liked the purple dinosaur, but Bridget seemed to enjoy it. So the two of them sat on the couch, watching, the child clapping occasionally in time to the music and swaying back and forth, giggling and talking back to the TV, using words that Paula could only slightly decipher.
From time to time, Paula looked over to the counter, to the white plastic bag, and told herself that she would have to put the few items away.