Twenty-Six
Craig
With safety muffs on, the thundering whine of the table saw was just a hungry roar.
The tactile feel of the grayed cedar was dulled by the work gloves.
But as I carefully pushed the distressed wood into the saw and the spinning circular blade entered the wood, a rasping shimmer caressed the tips of my fingers.
The sensation cut through the leather gloves and played out across my skin.
Three long strokes and I had the pieces I needed.
The fresh cuts were bright and smooth, a jarring contrast to the open grain of the distressed wood.
The new surfaces were easier to work with, less fragile, but also less interesting.
Done right, the fresh cuts would be concealed, allowing the calm beauty of the weathered wood to settle the eye.
Turning off the table saw I powered up the router and used a square bit to cut a recess for the picture itself.
I could have gotten the same result from lowering the saw blade height, but it had been a long time since I’d had the luxury of a full shop, and it was nice to use the right tool for the job.
From the router I moved to the miter chop saw and cut the joining angles and then a few minutes with a brad nailer and the whole frame was assembled.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I rested my feet from the concrete floor and fitted a cardboard backing to the frame.
A professional shop would have cut a piece of glass to fit as well, but anything beyond wood was farther than I could go.
Assembled, I also recognized that a hard flat piece of glass would rob the picture of its physical allure, sealing the drawing behind a protective sterile cover.
It was better this way. If Rilee tossed it out the next day it didn’t matter, I'd enjoyed building it.
Though I hoped she liked it. I thought it suited her decor.
I wanted to be fresh for the evening so I went to the grocery store before noon. I’d need the afternoon to make sure my legs and back weren’t bound up from my morning efforts. While puzzling the value of a cabernet over a pinot noir my phone range. It was my voc-counselor.
“Do you have time to come in today?”
Standing in front of the overwhelmingly diverse wine display I desperately wanted to be somewhere else but adding another outing to my plate today would wipe me out. “Not really. Is it an emergency?”
Her sigh crackled across the mobile phone speaker. “No. I was just returning your call from yesterday. About the position. Are you sitting?”
No, I was not, but leaning against a shopping cart would have to do. Did she expect me to fall down with joy? Maybe despair? I fell down when my back sent a zing down my leg after a sharp turn or bad cough, I didn’t fall over from emotion. “I’m sitting,” I lied, leaning against the cart.
“You didn’t get an interview.”
“How do you know?” They hadn’t called me, and unless they hired right away it was still just a few weeks after closing.
“Because one of my other clients got the job.”
The words punched me in the gut and a nearby shopper turned at my gasp. My knees shook and my elbows ached from the strain of holding myself up on the cart. “Your other client got the job. How many people did you tell about the position?”
“Craig.” She didn’t say Mr. Green, it was Craig, as if using my first name signaled some kind of relationship of trust. “It’s my job to give employment leads to injured workers. If I have a lead, I pass it on.”
Of course she did. It was her job. I was just her job. For some reason I’d deluded myself into thinking that even with her lackadaisical mannerisms she’d been on my side. But she’d always been on her own side, just doing what it took to get a paycheck. I was just a client.
“And someone else got the job.”
“Yeah.”
“And that someone is a client of yours. That’s why you know.”
“Yes. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but yes.”
So nice to know she was breaking the rules for me. “Well then. Thank you for calling. I guess I know now.” I clicked the phone off before she could say something else. Without reading the label I grabbed a dark bottle with a white label and put it in my cart.
As the checker rang me up, I realized I was a broke down mopey guy buying a bottle of wine, and nothing else.
I must have looked like I felt because I wasn’t carded.
For a moment I thought about going back for a second bottle in case I finished this one this afternoon.
But on the drive home, on the drive back to Kathy and Lukas’s house I corrected myself, I decided it was better to be sober when I saw Rilee.
Though I felt like a walking drunk already.
There was nothing on television unless you counted hallmark movies, black and white cop shows, and C–span. Since when did MTV and VH1 stop showing music videos? Even QVC was doing some kind of fundraising special. I could definitely have used a sharp knife or blender demonstration about now.
Kathy sent me a text that they would all be late and asked me to pull out a pound of burger to thaw.
“And good luck,” with a heart emoji. If she hadn’t texted, I probably would have been late.
Instead, I had just enough time to shower, shave, and fret about which clean shirt to wear.
A blue one. It looked like rain so I put the picture in a paper grocery bag, rolled the top closed, and grabbed the wine, also in a paper bag.
For a moment I weighed carrying the bags in separate hands, but with the overcast sky I reached for my cane and gripped both bags tight in my right.
At this rate a stiff wind would knock me over if I didn’t have my third leg.
A few angry splatters fell across the windshield as I turned on to Rilee’s street and I parked out front at the curb, not in the back where I’d been before.
It was a neat tight place. The neighborhood was full of similar houses, railroad housing, all built on the same efficient plans but modified over the decades.
An extra bedroom here, a garage there, one even had a second story.
Rilee’s looked mostly original though it now sported a small entry porch.
The paint was fresh, the windows newish with working shutters, and the clapboard siding was tight without curling edges.
The place was cared for, which is not always a given with these older homes.
My knuckles smarted in the evening cold, but my knock on the front door echoed well.
The click of the lock and the soft jangling sucking sound of the glassed-in screen door shifting sent my heart pounding as she opened the door. Back lit by the interior light I felt more than saw Rilee’s smile, felt it into my aching toes.
“Hey,” she said, her hand pressed against the glass. My ears were cold in the wet air, but with her fleece jacket on I was warm inside and out. Which was good because she stood there a moment, just looking, before opening the entry door. “Come on in.”
Inside, there was the awkward moment of what to do with full hands, the paper bag, my coat, the cane. Lots of “oh let me” and “where do I?” The cane I leaned against the door frame, the coat found a place in a nearby closet on a solid wooden hanger.
“I brought this,” I handed the wine over, sliding it free of the wino style bag. Something flashed across Rilee’s face. Panic set in and I tried to recall, did she not drink? Or was this a really crappy bottle?
She recovered and leaned up to give me a peck on the cheek.
“That’s nice. I didn’t say to bring anything but thank you.
” Holding the bottle in two hands she started for the other room.
“We are having fish, so I hope you don’t mind if I save this for another day.
” Turning back and as if in explanation she added, “Cabernet is a bit much for pan seared fish, but I have a chardonnay we can pour.” The knot in my belly loosened.
It was just the wrong wine, I could live with that.
The main front room was bright and airy, painted white, with touches of wood furniture. A blue couch hugged a painted wood paneled wall and a low coffee table sat in front of it. A pair of big awkward books were stacked on the table, partially obscuring a ring on the table’s blond finish.
“Come on in,” Rilee called from the other room.
I left the paper bag with the picture on the floor by the coffee table and drifted toward her.
The house was about efficiency, but little bits of whimsy had been built in, a low bookcase in a half wall and some scroll work on the floorboards to draw the eye.
Moving out of the front room took me through a transition.
To the left was a windowless hall with cupboards built into the walls and a bathroom at the end, in front of me was a large open-floored kitchen with a square table set against one wall.
Stepping out of the front room was a journey past the curated face of the residence and into its living space.
The kitchen air was damp with the smell of pasta. Standing at the stove Rilee glanced over her shoulder, grinning, and my knees shook. Dreamlike, her hair flowed over her opposite shoulder and I grabbed onto the wall to stay upright as the vertigo shook me.
“I am just putting the fish in, if you don’t mind putting on the silverware.” She said the words with an ease and familiarity, as if I’d been standing nearby for years.
“I can do that,” I stammered.
Something crackled in the pan as Rilee spoke, her back still to me.
“I’m glad you came.” She wore a dark skirt with a black and gray striped shirt, the sleeves pushed up to just below her elbows.
The straps of an apron tied in a bow perched at the small of her back.
Right where my hand would be resting if we’d been dancing.