The Woodworker

by Westlake, Samantha

  “Just fine? You’re calling me for a ride home!”

  “Because my car isn’t here!” I shouted back, hoping he wouldn’t pull on that thread.

  He did, of course. “And how much gas is in your car? Speaking of crappy rides, when’s the last time you got a new one?”

  “Mine works just fine, gets me to the art fairs and your shop. That’s all I need it to do.” I didn’t mention the weird grinding sound that started coming out of the engine whenever I shifted it into gear.

  Niall sighed, but didn’t keep digging. For a few minutes, the only sound in the truck’s cabin was the stuttering growl of its engine as Niall revved it around corners and up and down the Davis streets.

  “Your pieces do sell well,” Niall finally said, his eyes remaining on the road.

  I glanced at him suspiciously before answering, not sure what new tactic he was adopting. “Yeah, I know. I need to keep bringing new ones to your shop to replace the inventory. So?”

  “You could get some more recognition if you entered a competition.”

  I pulled a grimace. “You know how I feel about competitions. I hate being judged for my art. Judge me for anything else-“

  “And I do,” Niall couldn’t resist interjecting.

  “-but not for my art. No. Never a competition.”

  He sighed. “Okay, what about expanding?”

  Not what I’d been expecting. “What do you mean?”

  “Selling in more places.” Niall made a vague gesture in the air. “You could launch an online shop, mail out pieces to anyone who wants one around the world, things like that.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” I commented. “And there’s no guarantee that it will work.”

  “Well, yeah, but wouldn’t a few sales be better than none? It just seems like an easy step for you to take, if you’re not going to build your fame through competitions.”

  “Only if I was interested in doing it. And come on, Niall, you know me. I don’t know the first thing about building a website or handling all that online crap.” I grinned at him. “If I’m on the internet, I bet you can guess what I’m looking up.”

  He pulled a face. “Come on, man, don’t be gross.”

  “Don’t be so uptight, then.” I breathed a little easier as we pulled off the highway, the shuddering of the truck easing off a bit as we slowed down to more reasonable speed. Nearly back to my house, where I could crawl back into bed, sleep for a few hours, and then get ready for the upcoming art fair tomorrow, the next thing on my schedule.

  I could tell from the tone of the silence in the truck, however, that Niall wasn’t quite ready to let this go. I waited, trying to drink my coffee as slowly as possible to ensure that I’d have a full mouth when he asked whatever other question he had on his mind, could buy myself another few seconds before giving an answer. Each second brought me closer to my house, to getting away from the whole hassle of responsibilities and dealing with other people and their desires for me.

  “You’ve got another bedroom, don’t you?” Niall asked, just as I was hoping that maybe we’d make it the rest of the way to my house without any more discussion.

  “Yeah... so?” I wasn’t sure where this was headed.

  “Have you ever thought about renting it out?”

  “What, like finding a roommate?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be that long-term,” he said. “There’s this website, called AirBnB-“

  I groaned. “Come on, man, not again with the website stuff!”

  “It’s not like that,” he corrected. “It’s like an online bulletin board, where you can post your bedroom and get offers from people interested in staying there, just for a weekend or for a short trip to here.”

  “Still seems weird,” I frowned. “The idea of having strangers living in my house. Seems like it will put a damper on my hobby.”

  “Woodworking?”

  I smirked as I dropped the punchline. “Nah, I’m talking about my other hobby – walking around the house naked.”

  Niall punched me in the arm, but he was laughing as he did so. “Seriously, it’s worth considering. You’re not doing anything with that second bedroom, and you could rent it out to someone to have a good bit of cash coming in.”

  “Why are you so concerned with my finances all of a sudden?” I asked him.

  For a second, it looked like he was about to say something different, but he changed his mind at the last moment. “No reason – I’m just worried that, if something changes, you won’t have enough to recover.”

  “Like what? What sort of change?”

  “What if people stop wanting to buy wood carvings and designs?” Niall challenged. “Or someone else comes on the market, making the same stuff as you but way cheaper, and you can’t compete? Don’t you worry about not having any savings?”

  We’d reached the street with my house, and Niall eased carefully on the brake to slow the truck as we approached. I reached out to pat him on the shoulder.

  “Remember the fable about the ant and the grasshopper?” I said, reaching for the door handle. “I’m the grasshopper – not wasting my day slaving away over work, but instead just relaxing, having fun, enjoying life.”

  He frowned. “Isn’t the whole moral of the story that the grasshopper is the idiot? The ant works hard and saves enough food to get through the winter, while the grasshopper ends up starving and dying?”

  “They’re insects, Niall. They both die during the winter.” I grinned at him, opened the door, and hopped out of the truck before he could muster a retort. “Look, I’ll talk to you soon, probably when I have to bring another batch of my work over to the art gallery. Thanks for the ride!”

  He looked after me with an expression that mixed frustration and caring as I headed up the steps to my house, pulled my key out of my pocket and unlocked the door.

  Inside the front room of my house, I took a deep breath and felt much of the stress of the morning ease out of my shoulders and back. Finishing the last few sips of my coffee, I moved through my living room, with the comfortable, broken-in leather couches, and into the kitchen, paneled in warm wood to contrast the coolness of the brushed stainless steel appliances. I chucked the cup into the garbage, cracked open the freezer on my family-size refrigerator, and grabbed a chilled gel pad that I kept for this exact purpose.

  Back out in my living room, I dropped heavily onto the sofa, kicking off my shoes and putting my feet up. I leaned back against the padded arm of the sofa, dropped the gel pad across my forehead, and closed my eyes in bliss at the cool, damp touch. I instantly felt my hangover-induced headache start to recede.

  I had plenty of beer in my fridge, as well, but I left that for later. I knew that beer and power tools didn’t mix.

  After a half hour of relaxing, feeling the cooling pad grow slowly warmer and more fluid as the ice inside melted, I hauled my ass up from the sofa. Dropping the pad back in the freezer, I stepped out into my garage, flipped on the lights, took a deep breath.

  I loved the smell of sawdust, always had, ever since I was a kid. Standing in the workshop that I’d created inside the garage, surrounded by hunks of wood and various machines and tools, I felt the last bit of anxiety from this morning fade away.

  Reaching out, I picked up a nice chunk of cherry, a mature piece with good grain showing. The hunk of wood was irregular, but turning it over, I could almost imagine the tall, delicately fluted bowl inside, just waiting for me to rasp away the surrounding wood and let its true beauty emerge.

  I fitted the piece into my lathe, got it spinning and began gently, carefully cutting away pieces of the wooden block using a heavy chisel. As my hands moved over the spinning, tumbling block of wood, my mind wandered back to Niall’s comments.

  I loved Niall like a brother, considered him to be my best friend. The man had a couple years on me, but those years came with plenty of experience, and I generally trusted what he had to offer.

  But renting out my room? Inviting some s
tranger into my house, the one place that I considered to be my personal, private sanctuary? My fortress of solitude, as Superman might say?

  I could use the money, sure. I liked to proclaim my financial independence, proudly brag about how I’d paid off the mortgage on my house. Niall, however, knew the truth that didn’t usually show its ugly head during my boasting. I hadn’t paid off a great home through hard work and savings; I’d received an inheritance from my father’s passing, used the money to purchase the shittiest house I could afford, and put hours of blood, sweat, and tears into ripping out all the mold, all the damage, and rebuilding it practically from the frame back up. I’d ended up with a home that I loved, but it cost me every cent of that one-time gain. If something awful happened to my house, I wouldn’t have any other savings or cushion to fall back on.

  The bowl slowly took shape. I switched to a finer chisel, working on some of the details. I’d need to mill out the interior, and this piece would need a lot of sanding if I really wanted to show off the beautiful cherry grain. It would probably keep me occupied for the next few hours – and then, as the polish and resin on the finished piece dried, I could load up my truck to get ready for the art fair tomorrow.

  Maybe I could entertain the thought of letting someone rent my room – but only if I got along with the guy. And no seeking out some stranger online, despite what Niall claimed about how it would be so easy.

  My mind wandered over the possibilities, as my hands expertly worked the wood, transforming it from a raw chunk of lumber into something of fine beauty. This was my one gift. I didn’t want to be a landlord, or work anywhere that required a suit and tie.

  I just wanted to be left alone to create, with a well-stocked liquor cabinet in my house, and maybe the occasional willing young woman in my bed.

  Sounded like a perfect life to me.

  Chapter Six

  Eileen

  * * *

  “Don’t worry,” I told my pale, rather worried looking reflection in the mirror. “You’ve got everything under control. This is fine.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the crack that ran down one side of the mirror. It looked like some sort of mold was growing out of the crack, and I didn’t want to even consider any thoughts of spores or poison that might emanate from it. “Everything,” I repeated, “is going to be fine.”

  I wished that I could make myself believe those brave words.

  This past week had been nothing but frustrations and disappointments, each chasing and nipping at the heels of the previous. First, I had to get in contact with my insurance company, explain to them that my house burned down, deal with a million hurdles (no, I didn’t have my policy number, as the documents burned up in the fire. No, I didn’t have an address where they could send the mail, because my house burned down. Could I provide documentation of all the valuables in the house? No, because the HOUSE BURNED TO THE DAMN GROUND!). Eventually, I managed to get a case agent on the phone who seemed to have some idea of what he was doing, and he promised to get the paperwork started and the ball rolling on reimbursing me.

  How long it would take, however? The agent cautioned me to not get my hopes up for a quick resolution. “I don’t want to give bad news, but I also don’t want to give you any false hope,” he cautioned me over the phone. “Let me get the papers started, see if we’re waiting on anything else, and then I’ll call you back with some idea of a timeline.”

  By this point, I’d used all my energy on yelling at people over the phone, and I couldn’t muster even a faint protest. “Fine,” I gave in, letting the phone slip away from my ear.

  I could have bought myself plenty of time with my severance check from Integrated Technologies – but there, too, the tragedy of my house burning down introduced additional problems. The implacable HR lady insisted that she needed a current address to mail my severance check, and refused to simply alert me when it was ready so I could pick it up from the office. Eventually, out of other options, I gave her Lisa’s address.

  Speaking of Lisa... I glanced down at my phone to see the time. Fifteen minutes before I was meeting her downtown, at the weekly Sacramento farmer’s market. The cheap motel where I’d managed to get a room for a few nights with much of my rapidly dwindling bank account balance was far away from everything, but Sacramento didn’t have too much traffic at this time. I could make it over there with a few minutes to spare.

  I took one last look around the little hotel room. It wasn’t like I needed to make sure that my valuables were tucked away, I considered to myself with a touch of sarcasm. I’d stopped at the local Target and picked up a few basic shirts and another pair of jeans, but my entire wardrobe still fit comfortably in a pair of shopping bags. I needed to get my hands on a computer if I wanted to recreate my resume and start applying for new jobs, but that would currently cut far too deeply into my limited remaining funds.

  I locked the room, double-checked the door, sighed as the cheap wood rattled loosely in the frame, but gave up on trying to do anything else to safeguard my room. I headed over to my car, climbed behind the wheel, and took a deep breath.

  “Just be positive and keep things under control,” I said aloud, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “Lisa’s not going to judge me. She can help. Just be open, but positive. Open, but positive.”

  I started the car, drove over to find a spot at the farmer’s market so I could meet Lisa.

  She was ten minutes late, as I’d half expected, but there was no missing her when she arrived. She appeared with a blast of her straight black hair flapping in all directions, looking somehow simultaneously harried, half-exhausted, and exuberantly full of life.

  “Ellie!” she exclaimed as soon as she spotted me, her loud voice making several other patrons of the farmer’s market jump and look around. She dashed forward, throwing her arms around me and squeezing tight enough to drive most of the air out of my lungs. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, but so glad that you’re okay!”

  “Hi, Lisa,” I wheezed out, fighting to extricate myself from her hug. “Good to see you, too.”

  Finally, I managed to pry myself free, cognizant of the stares from other attendees of the farmer’s market around us. “You’re looking good, as usual,” I said, once I’d managed to grab a full lungful of fresh air.

  She smiled back at me, making an unsuccessful attempt to smooth her hair back down. When I’d first met her in the corporate world, Lisa had been almost boyishly slim, but she’d filled out in the years since then. Despite her Asian features, she spoke with no trace of an accent, thanks to being born to immigrant parents in San Francisco. For a few years, she and I bounced from friends to enemies and back again, fighting for the same rungs on the corporate ladder.

  Lisa, however, gave up the climb upon meeting her future husband, a comfortable mid-level executive named Stanley. They’d always seemed to be the oddest of couples, Lisa focused and determined and driven while Stanley contentedly drifted along in the slow line, more relaxed than any executive had a right to act, but they both brought out the best in each other. Next thing I knew, Lisa had dropped completely out of the corporate world, giving up her tailored pantsuits for motherhood, floral prints, and a new job as manager of her growing household.

  Clad now in a loose sweater and a pair of high-waisted jeans, Lisa beamed back at me. The blouse had a couple stains that hadn’t totally washed out, and the high-waisted pants were out of style, but she still made them look great. She carried a canvas tote bag over one shoulder and examined me with a mixture of love and concern.

  “How are things for you? Are you doing okay?” she asked. “You got everything all figured out by now?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Still struggling to just keep my head above water.”

  “Well, tell me about it as I get some shopping done.” She held out her arm to me. I slipped mine through her elbow, let her lead me into the farmer’s market.

  As we walked down the rows of stalls, Lisa casting a critic
al eye over the rows of fruits and vegetables, I did my best to fill her in on the last few days without sounding too desperate. I explained the struggles with getting either my former company or my insurance to pay out on the money they owed me, and how, in the meantime, even the cheap motel I’d picked was eating its way through my savings.

  “You could always come stay with me,” Lisa said, picking up a tomato and turning it over in her hands, looking for blemishes.

  I shook my head. “No, I really can’t impose that much. I’d never be able to pay you back for it.”

  “Is this organic?”

  “I don’t know,” I started, before I realized that she was directing the question to the farmer standing behind the table of his produce.

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Everything here is.”

  “Anyway,” I continued after a second’s pause, “It’s all feeling like I’m running in circles. I need an address to get my payouts, but I can’t get an address without money. I feel trapped – and it doesn’t help that all this hit so suddenly, and that I don’t have any of the documentation or papers I’d normally look at for help. I don’t have a computer for making a resume, don’t even have any clothes to wear to a job interview!” I reached up to rub my forehead. “It just all feels suddenly hopeless, Lisa.”

  “Oh, don’t say that!” She turned back to me, and I took a half-step back in suspicion that she was going to try and squeeze me again. “Come on, Ellie, you’re the best person I know at figuring out problems. Remember why I picked you as my maid of honor? How nothing went wrong at all for my entire wedding – or at least, that’s what I thought?”

  “I did have to put out quite a few fires,” I admitted, feeling warmed by her words despite myself. “But this just all seems overwhelming.”

  “Well, take it step by step. Isn’t that what you always tell me? What’s the first thing that you need?”

  We’d gone a few stalls deeper into the farmer’s market, moving past the farmers selling fruits and vegetables, into the artists’ alley, where various crafty folks peddled their homemade creations, everything from pots to carvings to paintings to knitted socks and scarves. I paused, running my fingertips over an ornately worked wooden carving of a deer, captured in the moment just before it fled from a threat.