The Carpenter & the Queen (10 page)

Paul felt his brain switching back into
carpenter mode, envisioning the cuts, pieces, and finishes he
needed to accomplish the task. He hadn’t thought he could ever do
this again, but everything was coming back much easier than he
thought it would.

“Have you thought what kind of wood you
want?” he asked.

“Not really. What do you suggest?”

“Probably pine. It’s a solid wood, fairly
inexpensive, and it looks good.”

“Let’s use that, then. Oh, and one more
project I want to show you.”

She led him into Sam’s room where the boy
sat on the floor, surrounded by green and silver army men, building
an indiscernible Lego structure. They stood in the door, and Sam
looked up, first at his mother, then to Paul. The boy’s face
changed to recognition and then suspicion. Paul smiled at the boy,
but Sam did not return it.

“I want a chair rail in here,” Claire told
Paul, “where the two colors meet. But I need to paint the moulding
before you put it up.”

Paul nodded. “Let’s see what size cuts you
need.”

“Sammy, honey,” Claire said, “do you mind if
we measure your walls for just a minute?”

Shrugging, Sam scooped his scattered Legos
and soldiers closer to himself so the two adults wouldn’t step on
them. Paul tiptoed through the room and measured the walls with
Claire holding the other side of the tape measure. He noticed a
framed picture of an army officer and a shadow box of uniform
patches and pins. A picture of Claire, Sam, and the same man hung
next to it. The family resemblance between Sam and his father was
easy to see, although Paul didn’t comment on it.

Back in the living room, Paul gave Claire an
estimate for the job, making it a little higher than he expected
because he wanted to be able to lower the price later if he could.
They agreed he would buy the wood within the next few days, drop
off the chair rail for her to paint, then install the rail the
following Sunday afternoon.

On the way home, Paul decided he wasn’t
going to tell his sisters about his new project. They would ask too
many questions and hound him to death about working for a woman,
especially after all their teasing at Christmas. Instead, he would
keep this to himself for a while and see where it led. Seeing
Claire and Sam in their home made them appear much more vulnerable
than they had before. He would have to proceed gently if he wanted
this relationship to grow.

11

Claire was working at her computer late
Thursday evening when the phone rang. “What are you doing?” Garrett
asked when she answered.

“Finishing up a logo. It’s due by
midnight.”

“Then I won’t keep you. I was just calling
to say I was coming tomorrow night for the weekend.”

Claire hesitated. She turned in her chair to
glance at the canvas on her easel. The sides and top were blocked
in with burnt umber, as was the wooden screen behind. She had hoped
to make further progress this weekend. She admired artists who
could turn out completed paintings after a few days of solid work,
but that wasn’t her style. She needed to work on the picture one
color at a time until all the major elements were blocked in. Then,
she would go back for days after, touching up the details and
fiddling with the shadows until she had reproduced the image in her
head onto the canvas. The process took time and did not handle
interruption well. That was why she painted at night when Sam was
in bed.

If Garrett came, he would completely disrupt
her creative process. Then, Paul was coming on Sunday afternoon.
But the strongest excuse of all arose so strongly that it surprised
her. She didn’t
want
Garrett to come.

“Oh, Garrett, this weekend isn’t really good
for me.”

“Oh.”

Claire cringed as she heard the surprise and
immediate defensiveness in his response.

“It’s just that I’m in the middle of several
things. I’ve got a carpenter coming on Sunday—“

“You hired a carpenter?”

“Yeah. For the entertainment center in the
living room I’ve been talking about.”

“Oh.” There was silence on the line. “Is he
reputable?”

Holding back her irritation, she responded,
“Of course. He’s giving me a really good price.”

“Remember you get what you pay for.”

Claire rubbed her temples with her free hand
and took a deep breath. “I’m painting again,” she added. “You know
. . . paintings.”

“That’s great.”

“I’m sorry, Garrett. It’s not that I don’t
want you. It’s just that, well—“

“You have plans. It’s fine. I’ve got plenty
to do here.”

“I appreciate all you do for me,
Garrett.”

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Maybe you can come next weekend?”

“Maybe. I’m glad you’re painting again. I’ll
talk to you later.”

Claire’s hand shook when she put down the
phone. Hurting someone’s feelings was never something she
enjoyed.

But this was her house. She had the right to
tell Garrett when he couldn’t visit.

She remembered years ago Grandma Thelma’s
insistence that the family leave her alone and let her do as she
wished. At the time, Claire hadn’t understood. She only knew her
mother’s reasoning that Grandma needed help. But now, Claire knew
why Grandma had wanted to be left alone. Too much help was just as
constraining as too much time alone.

* * * * *

Paul arrived Sunday afternoon to install the
chair rail in Sam’s room. When Claire answered the door, Paul noted
some white paint speckles on her face and her T-shirt. Her hair was
pulled back, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

“I’m painting my bedroom,” she explained. “I
have a tendency to get a little messy.”

Paul thought the paint speckles were
cute.

“I brought the moulding up from the garage,”
she said. “It’s in Sam’s room already. We pulled everything away
from the wall so it would be easier for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll get my tools out of the
truck.”

“Just let yourself back in. I need to keep
working. Holler if you need me.”

After retrieving his tools and shedding his
boots, he went into Sam’s room and sorted the pieces of moulding,
laying each near the wall on which it was to be mounted. Claire had
painted the pieces with a hammered silver paint that would look
nice next to the blue and green walls. He checked the miter joints
to see if he would need to make any adjustments with the saw in the
back of his truck, but everything looked okay. He was loading his
nail gun with finishing nails when out of the corner of his eye he
saw Sam standing in the doorway.

“Hey, there.”

Sam didn’t reply. He just leaned against the
door jamb and stared.

“Wanna help me?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

“I need someone to hold one end of the piece
while I nail it in. Can you do that?”

Sam moved into the room, eyeing the tool in
Paul’s hand. “What’s that?”

“A nail gun.”

“Is it like a real gun?”

“Kind of.”

“Have you ever shot a real gun?”

“A couple times.”

“My dad shot one lots of times.”

Paul motioned for Sam to pick up his end,
and they pressed it against the wall.

“That him in the picture?” Paul inclined his
head toward the photo that had been removed from the wall and now
lay on the bed.

Sam nodded. “He was in the army.”

Paul pulled out his level to check the
placement and had Sam lower his side.

“I’m going to be in the army, too,” Sam
volunteered.

“Oh yeah?” Paul glanced up and down the
moulding for one last check then held up the nail gun, careful to
keep his finger far from the trigger. “This is gonna be loud, so
get ready.”

Paul pressed the muzzle against the wood
then pressed the trigger. Sam jumped a little at the noise but kept
a steady hold on the wood.

“I’m gonna come down toward you,” Paul
warned. “When I get close, you’ll need to move.”

Sam watched intently as Paul put in two more
nails, then moved when Paul was ready to put in the final one. The
first board up, Paul, reached down for the next. He used to do this
kind of thing while kneeling, but since that wasn’t an option
anymore, he had to stand and bend, which felt awkward in the tight
space between the furniture at the center of the small room and the
wall. His back would go out if he had to do this for too long.

Sam held the opposite end of the next piece
as Paul checked the level and put in the first nail.

“Can I try that?” Sam pointed to the nail
gun.

“Better not. It’s pretty dangerous.”

Sam looked disappointed. “I’d be
careful.”

“I know. But I don’t think your mom would be
too happy with me.”

“She’s going to get me a BB gun this summer.
She promised.”

“Nice.”

“She said I have to wear glasses when I
shoot it. But I’m not gonna hurt myself.”

Paul paused to consider his response. “Maybe
not. But she’s the boss.”

“When do I get to be the boss?”

“If you get married, never.”

As soon as he said it, Paul wished he
hadn’t. That statement was a little too bitter for an eight year
old, especially the son of a woman he was interested in. He needed
to explain somehow, or at least soften the tone. So he added, “But
if you love her, you won’t care.”

Sam raised his eyebrows but did not question
the remark.

Once the chair rail was up, Paul had Sam
help him move all the furniture back where it all belonged, and
with Sam’s instructions, hung the pictures on their proper nails.
When they were finished, Paul gathered his tools, stacked them by
the door, then went to find Claire. She sat cross legged in her
bedroom, rolling white primer onto the lower half of walls covered
in cabbage-flower paper.

“Isn’t this stuff awful?” she commented when
she heard him knock on the open door. The windows were all open in
order to control the paint fumes, but they made the room chilly. “I
mean, who even likes these flowers when they’re real?”

Note to self
, Paul mused.
No
cabbage flowers . . . ever.

“No idea,” he said aloud. “Right out of the
eighties, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s in good shape, though. I thought
at first I’d take it off, but it’s stuck on there pretty good,
unlike that junk in Sam’s room. Took me two evenings to peel all
that off the wall.”

Her bed was piled with odds and ends she
must have pulled off her dresser, which was now covered with a drop
cloth spattered in white. Paul noticed some European flags, a
ceramic vase, a beer stein, and a collection of pewter castles.

“I’m thinking of going with a mint green
color,” Claire said. “Very modern and zen-like, don’t you
think?”

“Sure.” Paul had no idea if it was a good
color choice or not. “These all your travel souvenirs?”

“Yeah. Most of them.”

A figurine caught his particular interest,
and Paul moved in closer to examine it without picking it up. “Is
this a chess piece?”

“Yeah. Got it at a garage sale.”

“You don’t have the whole set?”

“No. I guess pieces were already missing, so
the guy was selling it off piecemeal. Always makes me sad, though,
to think of the set broken up.”

“It happens, though,” Paul said, thinking of
Linda.

Claire turned to look at him. “Yes,” she
said sadly. “It does.

On the way home, Paul reflected how much one
could learn about a person from seeing the inside of her house.
Claire loved Europe, castles, knights and queens. She also had an
affection for small things. Almost all her souvenirs were tiny,
close to doll-house size. From her paintings and from the way she
decorated, Claire loved color and light. But most importantly,
Claire had a piece of her heart missing just like he did, and Paul
desperately wished for a way to tell her that he understood.

12

March 2005

Claire had spent the day at home since Sam
had a fever and couldn’t go to school. He dozed on the couch most
of the afternoon while Claire worked on the computer then finished
her painting. Most of the work had been done at night, since she
imagined the mourning scene itself taking place in the darkness.
She had learned over the years to paint at the time of day best
suited to the painting itself. However, the final evaluation must
be done in natural light. Noting the time, she saw she needed to
fix supper and check on Sam again. He had been sleeping
thirty-minutes ago, but she wanted to be sure. Plus, Paul was
coming over tonight with the lower half of the shelving unit.

The shadow wasn’t quite right on the folds
of the woman’s dress. Claire mixed royal blue with burnt umber and
purple to get the shade she was looking for, then dabbed at the
dress, remixing her colors often. A few last strokes and a moment
of contemplation confirmed her decision. The painting was
finished.

She stepped back, allowing herself to feel
for the last time the grief that had consumed the last four years
of her life and bled out with every brush stroke on the canvas. For
most people, crying brought healing. For Claire, painting had
brought that healing in a way that tears had been unable to. She
knew now she had been foolish to wait so long to take up her
brushes again, but to be honest, she hadn’t wanted to let go of her
grief, at least, not until the last month or so. Holding on to the
past was much easier unless one saw the promise of the future.

Claire didn’t like to put her faith in what
wasn’t certain, but she had a lot of hopes, reluctant as she was to
assign a name to them, and she didn’t want her grief to make her
unavailable to any “happily ever after” that came along.

Satisfied that the painting was complete,
Claire washed her brushes in the upstairs bathroom sink and headed
down the stairs.