The Carpenter (13 page)

—Do you have a fucking problem with me?

—Lee, said Bud.

—Shut up.

But Sylvain just clicked his tongue against his teeth. He took on a slow smile. He reached out and clapped Lee on the arm: Mon frère, a long time I was worried about you. Now, I don’t worry.

He carried on towards his truck, laughing. Bud skirted around Lee and picked the carving knife up from the ground. Lee balled his hands into fists and squeezed them and then let them go slowly. He took a long breath and held it in the pit of his stomach and then released it. It had been a long time since the anger had taken hold of him like it just had. He tried not to think about that too much.

—Oh boy, said Bud. Oh boy. Okay. I guess we can do more work now.

—I’m going to have another smoke.

—It’s … you know, one an hour.

—I’m going to have another smoke. Do you want one?

He offered his pack and Bud took one.

When Sylvain came back from the truck he tipped Lee a wink as he passed them by, and then he yelled at the hired kid to quit screwing around.

That evening Lee took Helen to the Chateau Royale steakhouse on the other side of the town docks. As they went inside, she was smiling at him over her shoulder. His fingertips were in the small of her back. They were greeted with smells of searing meat, and
they were shown to a table towards the rear of the dining room. Helen looked at the table and looked at the back of the restaurant and she voiced a faint, thoughtful sound, as if something were on her mind. Whatever it was, she didn’t say it.

Lee hung his jean jacket on the back of his chair and sat down. The steakhouse’s red interior walls were hung with paintings of castles, pastoral scenes, bullfighters. Just above their table was a picture of a lone parapet on a hill.

—I’ve never been here, said Helen.

—Me neither. I walked by it a couple times. I thought it looked like a good place.

A waitress came and asked what they would have to drink. Helen asked for a white wine. Lee asked for a Coca-Cola. The waitress left them.

—You could have a glass of wine with me. White wine is like not drinking at all.

—That’s okay. I’ll stick with the cola.

—Look at where we are.

—Where we are?

—Look at where we’re sitting. I mean, really.

—This place is alright. It’s nice. They got all the right smells for me.

The waitress came with their drinks on a tray. Helen gestured for Lee to order first. He asked for a striploin well done and a baked potato. Helen ordered the surf ‘n’ turf. She winked at him, told him sometimes you just had to spoil yourself. They lit cigarettes after the waitress had gone again.

—How was work? said Helen.

—We put up insulation all day. I had to have a cold shower for the itch to go away.

She nodded, drank her wine.

—I saw a guy I knew, said Lee. A long time ago. Before I went up. He didn’t look much different. We talked a bit. I don’t know what he’s doing. Probably got hitched and had some kids.

—Do you wish that was you?

—What?

—Do you wish you’d gotten hitched and had a couple kids?

—I don’t know, said Lee. It’s an idea I never gave any thought to. Who’d want me as their old man?

—Parents, well, it takes a certain kind, doesn’t it. Look, Brown Eyes, if you’re meant to have a family, you will. Everything happens for a reason. Karma.

—My sister and her kids, I don’t know, it seems like a lot of craziness to have kids tearing around all the time. But I guess I don’t mind it, either. It’s kind of what you’re supposed to do. Some of the cons I was in with, they had their wives and their kids come to visit them and whatnot. It would have been good to have that … Anyhow, look, I’m not saying I’m dying to have a family. All I’m saying was I saw that guy. His life went one way and mine went the other.

The waitress came with their suppers on wooden cutting boards. Helen asked for another glass of wine. Lee broke open his potato and started to pile it onto the steak. He piled the vegetables on as well and drowned it all in A1 sauce.

—Oh, said Helen. Really.

He looked up at her. The cutting board before her was loaded with steamed vegetables, an eight-ounce steak, and four shrimp. She’d cut off a chunk of the steak and was holding it up for him to look at.

—Does that look rare to you?

—It’s pink, said Lee.

The waitress returned with Helen’s wine.

—This is not rare, said Helen. I asked for rare.

The waitress set the wine down.

—I’m real sorry about that. I’ll get it taken care of.

The waitress took Helen’s meal and went back in the direction of the kitchen. Lee sat for a moment and then put his knife and fork down.

—You may as well go ahead, said Helen. You must be hungry. Doesn’t look like they messed yours up too bad.

Lee started into his supper. He talked around mouthfuls of food: My sister and her husband said they want to meet you. They want to meet this gal I told them about.

—This gal, is that right? Anyway, I see you haven’t given up on the idea that somebody might try to snatch your food. Look at that, you’re halfway through already.

—I was hungry.

He felt her foot against his leg.

—I can see that. So do your sister and her husband drink? Or are they straight-arrows like you?

—Straight-arrows, huh. No, they don’t drink either. I thought I told you, he’s a pastor. He preaches at, what’s it called, Galilee Tabernacle.

When Helen’s supper came back she made the waitress wait till she’d checked the meat for rareness. Then she ordered another glass of wine.

She was barely starting her meal as Lee was finishing his.

—That was good, said Lee.

—You eat everything. You eat the fat.

—Hey, you take a look at what they fed me for seventeen years. You’d eat everything too. I’d eat that damn bone if I could. How’s yours?

—It’s alright. Annoying to have to take two tries, but anyway.

—Well, take your time.

Lee looked around the half-empty restaurant, looked at the picture of the parapet. He sipped his Coca-Cola.

—You never gave much thought to a family?

—Wasn’t what the universe had planned for me, said Helen.

—I see. Did you want dessert?

—Oh my God, no. I had a doughnut at lunch.

When Helen was finished the waitress came back to collect the cutting boards.

—Was there anything else I could get for you folks?

—I don’t think so, said Helen.

—I’m really sorry about that steak.

Helen looked up at her and smiled, said: Do you think I don’t know how this works, hun? You take people like me and my gent here and you sit us right back by the restrooms. I know how this works.

—Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.

—How about just getting us the cheque.

—Right away, said the waitress.

She returned with the bill and was gone again. Helen tapped out a cigarette. Lee took the bill and looked at it and hoped nothing showed on his face.

—You don’t understand, said Helen. It’s okay. I keep remembering how things are different for you—you haven’t had the chance to see how so many people treat each other disrespectfully and all that. You want to go straight to your place?

—What else did you have in mind?

—Getting out of this snob-hole for starters. Get a drink at the Shamrock maybe.

He clapped his hand down on the tabletop: I’m not going to have a goddamn drink!

—Okay, Brown Eyes, said Helen.

People were looking at them. Lee lowered his face, stared at the tablecloth.

—Look, should we get going?

—I have to powder my nose, said Helen. I hope you don’t leave her a tip.

She got up and headed to the ladies’ room. Lee attended to the bill with cash from his wallet, conscious as ever of how much money he was spending. Then he looked over. He had a straight line of sight down the rear passageway where the washrooms were located. Helen had her head halfway out of
the ladies’ room door. She was gesturing emphatically for Lee to come.

He got up from the table and headed her way, said: What’s the problem?

She pulled him in and closed the door. She was on him like a predator. Nails, teeth, tongue, taste of wine on her breath. The washroom was a space for individual use. Small and cramped, pink, the sink mounted to the wall. It smelled like cheap deodorizer.

—Somebody’s going to know we’re in here.

—I don’t care. I wouldn’t come back here. Snobs. Pricks.

She turned around and held the edge of the sink in one hand and balled her skirt up in her other hand. Her underpants were down around her ankles.

—Come on, said Helen.

—Bend over a little more.

—Careful where you stick that thing.

She reached around behind her and took firm hold of him and guided him in. She bent over farther and the angle was better. For a moment he did nothing. Then he grasped her shoulder. He took her roughly, one knee into the back of her leg as if he might trip her. He could see the sink threatening to come loose from the wall. Her nails pierced hard into the bare flesh at the tops of his legs. Afterwards, she preceded him out of the washroom, recomposing her hair as she went. He was certain all eyes in the dining room would be on them, but no one paid them any attention. He gathered his jacket from the back of the chair.

Outside all she said was: I’ll sleep tonight.

She took his arm and they walked down the street. At one point she stumbled on the curb and dropped her purse. He squatted down to retrieve it and there in the street light he saw a drop of semen on her cowboy boot, like a crude pearl inlaid in the synthetic leather.

I
t was one of the few evenings Pete spent at home. He was sitting on his bed reading a paperback but he was unable to concentrate on it. His thoughts kept finding their way back to Emily. The last time he’d seen her was the morning after the party two weeks ago. He thought of Billy disappearing with her into a bedroom somewhere.

—Shit, said Pete.

—I heard that.

Pete’s half-brother Luke was at the door.

—You heard that? said Pete. Well, if you snitch on me I’ll cut your head off and hang it from the wall as a warning to other snitches. Come in. Close the door. What do you want?

—What’s a Jew?

—What’s a Jew? You know what a Jew is.

—Jesus was a Jew. But the other Jews killed him. We learned about how all the Jews are guilty of it.

—Look, said Pete. You know that store in town where we bought your sneakers? Remember the guy that worked there?

Mr. Gold?

—Yes. He had glasses.

—That’s right. Anyway, Mr. Gold’s a Jew.

—He is?

—Yes. Mr. Gold. Do you think Mr. Gold personally killed Jesus?

—I don’t know.

—Yes you do. You’re not using your head, Luke. What do you really think? Did Mr. Gold at the shoe store personally kill Jesus?

—No. But Mrs. Adams said all the Jews are guilty of it. Pete sat back in his chair. A nasty feeling went through him.

—Mrs. Adams, said Pete.

—My Sunday School teacher.

—When did Mrs. Adams become your Sunday School teacher?

—When we started this year.

—Well, Luke, it’s possible that your Sunday School teacher is full of shit. You have to be careful. Not all grown-ups are right just because they’re grown-ups. Or because they’re Sunday School teachers. Would God give you a brain if he didn’t want you to use it?

—No …

—No is right.

The boy loafed about, frowning at the carpet and at Pete when it seemed Pete was looking elsewhere.

—What’s on your mind, Luke? Really?

—How come Uncle Lee went to jail?

Pete straightened up: Well, Uncle Lee did a pretty bad thing.

—What did he do?

—I don’t know for sure, but it was really bad.

—Peter …

—You want to know, Luke, because you’re eight and when you’re eight you want to know everything. But—and you’re going to be mad at me saying this—you’re too young to know, Luke. I don’t even know. But it was a really long time ago and Uncle Lee’s different now.

—He’s a good guy?

—Yes. Is there anything else on your mind?

—No.

—Good. Now get out or I’ll sell you to the gypsies. I wouldn’t even get two bucks but I’ll sell you anyway.

Luke slouched out of the bedroom. Pete sat on his bed and chewed through another ten pages of the paperback. By nine-thirty the house was quiet. Pete rose from the bed and opened his wallet and counted out twenty-five dollars in rent money. He went out of his bedroom. His grandmother was in her chair in the living room, beside the radio. She often listened to evangelical cassettes that she got through the tabernacle library but now she was asleep.

Barry was in his office with his study bible open on his desk. He had a yellow legal pad he wrote his sermons on. Pete could see Barry’s tight handscript, almost glyphic, words and sentences, bible references written in bold. Pete tapped the door frame.

—Peter, said Barry.

Pete gave him that week’s twenty-five dollars. Barry took the money and counted it and put it in a little strongbox inside his desk.

—I’m grateful as always, said Barry.

—What’s the sermon about? said Pete.

—Think of your Romans. 12:16. That we should not think of high things but of keeping company with the humble. It’s the kind of thing that makes me think of Lee.

—You think Lee thinks of high things?

—What? Oh no. I think Lee is a lesson in how we ought to interact with each other as servants of Christ. Serving Lee has helped me learn a great deal.

—Serving Lee.

—Was there anything else, Peter? I’ve got a lot of work to do.

—One thing. Mrs. Adams. She teaches Sunday School.

Barry pressed his hands together: Sheila Adams, yes. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

—Do you … I mean … Did she get some kind of training before she got to be a Sunday School teacher?

—Peter, would you speak plain?

—Oh, ask Luke. I’m going to bed.

The next day was quiet at the Texaco. At half past three, Pete stocked up the jugs of washer fluid on the service island. Duane was in town for a doctor’s appointment.