The Carpenter & the Queen (6 page)

But not tonight. Tonight he had to wear a
tie and try to fit in with Linda’s friends. At eight o’clock, Paul,
wearing his blue sport coat and a red tie, knocked on Linda’s door.
He planned to leave his car in her driveway and the two of them
take a taxi to the gallery. When she opened the door, her svelte
figure clad in a little black dress and high heels awed him. A
tantalizing smell of spicy perfume surrounded her. She drew him in,
kissing him until he couldn’t remember his own name.

“You look great,” he said finally.

She smiled coyly. “Thanks. Let’s get you
dressed, now.”

“I am dressed.”

“Like a flag. I got something better.”

She pointed to a tuxedo hanging over the
closet door. “I’ve always wanted to see how you’d look in one of
these.”

Paul changed begrudgingly, mostly because he
wanted Linda to be happy. He looked like a fool. His ruddy face
seemed out of place above the new ensemble. His rough hands,
complete with a blackened left forefinger, hung awkwardly below the
sleeves. He did not belong with the black-tie crowd.

On the taxi ride, Linda talked the whole
way, briefing him on who would be there, the artist, the artist’s
work, and other information she thought he should know. He didn’t
hear a word of it. She had lost him after the second sentence. To
be fair, he was the one who had decided to tune her out, but it was
so much easier to smile and nod (he instinctively knew the places
such responses were required of him) and mentally zone out.

He found her talking attractive. Of course,
the way she looked when she talked was even more attractive. But
the most important thing was that when Linda was talking, Paul
didn’t have to say anything. So many times in his life Paul had
lost out on something because he didn’t have the words. Marriage
would change that. When words were needed, Linda would step in.
Finally, he had found someone who would compensate for his many
deficiencies.

The party was what he expected—high-brow art
types talking over his head. He remembered what his mother used to
say, “Better to keep your mouth closed and have people think you a
fool than to open it and have people know it.” It was good advice.
So he smiled, shook hands when Linda introduced him, and said,
“Pleased to meet you.” Then he let Linda talk.

After Paul had met what felt like every
person in the room, Linda touched his shoulder.

“I’ve got to close a deal over here. Can you
do without me for a minute?”

“Go do your thing,” Paul said with a
lopsided grin. “I’ll stay here and hold up a wall or
something.”

This was one of his only jokes.

When she was swallowed by the crowd, Paul
edged his way out of the main crush and roamed through one of the
smaller rooms off to the side. The centerpiece of the room was a
marble column with a piece of sheet metal suspended in front of it
and thirteen small circular mirrors glued to the surface of the
metal. According to the sign, it was named,
Slicing Heart Willow
Tree.

Weird.

The other sculptures were also modern and
just as odd. Paul continued roaming around the room, dismissing the
“mounds of garbage,” as he thought of them, until he came to a
small display of plaster casts of body parts.
Very strange
.
But what most caught his attention were the wooden shelves the
pieces sat on. Maple, he decided, but the miter joints didn’t meet
up exactly. The stain was uneven, and the polyurethane was streaked
and at a ninety-degree angle to the grain. Shoddy workmanship if he
ever saw it.

“There you are,” Linda said, entering the
room. “I see you’ve found the adult section of the display.”

Paul looked at the sculpture in front of
him, and realizing what body part it represented, blushed.

“Don’t be embarrassed, darling. It’s art,
after all.”

“I was looking at the shelf.”

“Right.”

“Really. It’s very poor quality. Look.”

Paul pointed out the imperfections he had
seen then looked to Linda for her response.

“You are the only one here who would notice
that.” She didn’t sound pleased.

“Why would someone want to buy a $600
plaster . . . thing . . . when it’s displayed on a shelf made by
someone in Taiwan?” Paul was surprised at his own vehemence.
“Packaging should count.”

“It does,” Linda agreed. “That’s why you’re
in the tuxedo.”

She kissed him, and Paul allowed himself to
forget shelves, packaging, and sculptures. Linda herself was the
only piece of art he really needed.

On the taxi ride home, Linda didn’t talk
much. Paul kept his arm around her and knew tomorrow he would do as
Linda wanted and buy her the ring.

7

February 2005, Lindberg, Michigan

Paul wasn’t surprised when he woke up to see
more snow in the drive. His leg had ached all day yesterday as the
front moved in. He hated February. Miserable month. March was
better. It usually brought a warm spell, enough to whet his
appetite for summer before the snow returned intermittently until
late April or early May. He frowned into his cereal bowl, as if it
were somehow responsible for Midwest winters. After eating, he
slipped into the garage from the entrance off the kitchen and
turned on the propane heater to warm up the room before he started
work.

His house, the only one on this block at the
edge of the town’s official limits, was tiny, just two bedrooms,
one bath, and an attached garage. The yard was easy to keep up, the
driveway short so he didn’t have to shovel much. Inside, the place
was clean but sparse. He had invested all his money in his tools
and the generator in the backyard, the one luxury he allowed
himself, given the frequent power outages he had experienced in his
three years’ living there. While his neighbors whined about the
utility company, he flipped a switch in the garage and had full
power and heat. Paul had spent too many years working outside in
all kinds of weather to now be at its mercy indoors as well.

He kept his computer in the spare bedroom
with his packaging supplies set up on several boards laid across
the arms of a futon. He put great care into how his product looked
when the customer opened the box. Presentation was one valuable
thing he had learned from Linda. Each chess set he made was packed
inside a folding wooden box which, when opened and the hollow part
turned under, revealed the game board with its inlay of mahogany
and oak. The inside of the box was carefully padded with a layer of
foam, divided by foam strips to form the separate compartments.
Then, he covered the foam with black stain Beth had helped him buy
at a discount fabric store. A sheet of cardstock printed with the
game instructions lay over the top of one side, allowing the box to
fold closed while still keeping the pieces in place. Yes, Paul was
as proud of the packaging as he was of his pieces.

He settled into the desk to check his email,
propping his leg on a padded stool he kept close by for that
purpose. There was a PayPal notification for the standard chess
set. He glanced at his watch. He could package it up and have it
sent out today. Fast shipping always got him high ratings, along
with the quality of his product, of course.

Three other new messages awaited him. His
brother-in-law Richard had forwarded another email of off-color
jokes. Nora had sent a link to a new Internet dating site a friend
of hers heard about. Paul closed both messages without
replying.

Making ornamental chess pieces for coffee
tables was not exactly a life-changing profession. Paul missed
carpentry’s practicality. However, he had no intentions of going
back. Still, working online and never seeing his customers robbed
him of his work’s greatest pleasure—watching people enjoy what he
had made. He liked it when they rubbed their hands across the
shelves or cabinets, admiring the finish, the grain, the symmetry.
This was something Linda had never understood. He wished that just
once in their marriage she had admired the china hutch he had built
for her more than she did the expensive china inside. Simple things
could be more beautiful than the complicated.

Paul tried to shake off memories of Linda as
he opened his last email. The subject line triggered his
philosophical nature: “Can you replace a missing queen?”

In a chess game, once a player’s queen was
captured, his chances of winning were severely limited, although
not altogether stymied. But regardless of one’s experience, the
loss of this valuable piece could cripple game strategy. He opened
the email and read.

Dear Mr. Sawyer:

When I was a boy, my grandfather
had a hand-carved, wooden Robin Hood chess set. Many years have
passed, and now the set is mine. The Sheriff of Nottingham’s side
is complete, but the outlaw side has lost its queen. Your website
mentions you do some custom work. Could you give me a quote for
creating a replacement? I don’t remember what the original queen
looked like, only that she was Maid Marian. I’ve attached photos of
the other pieces for you to see. Can you help me?

Paul opened the photos and studied them,
frowning in thought. The set would require a degree of carving that
he occasionally played around with but had never marketed. This was
no simple matter of turning a dowel and adding a little decorative
work at the top. This was a sculpture out of wood. Paul swallowed
hard.

The set was exquisite and would be difficult
to match. The customer had included a photo of the sheriff’s
queen—a witch with detailed and grotesque features and clothing.
The Maid Marian piece would have to match this witch in
craftsmanship but surpass her in beauty.

Paul rubbed his chin in consideration. He
had to start with a design of some kind, but the customer’s photos
gave him nothing to go on. It was too bad the man didn’t want
another witch. Paul could imagine plenty of those, most of them
variations of Linda. She had been angry a lot, there at the end,
and when she yelled, Paul had thought of her as a queen of the
underworld, an evil spirit who raped his soul.

He caught himself, as he always did when
thinking of Linda. She hadn’t gotten that way by herself. Women,
when left alone, turned hard and crusty, like paint when the lid
was left off. All those long nights, especially at the hospital,
when she had nothing left to say and he had four years’ worth of
thoughts he could have shared but didn’t.

Well, time to get to work. He would do some
research and see what he came up with. As he wrapped up the set
that was going out that day, he considered what he could use for
inspiration for the piece. A regular web surfer, he knew many sites
displaying chess sets. He also owned a whole shelf of reference
books. But Paul already knew he wouldn’t find his answer there.
This job would require new resources, and the logical place to
start was the library. It was right next door to the post office,
so it wouldn’t be out of his way. He would stop there after mailing
the package, that is, if he could get away.

Paul dreaded going to the post office,
mostly because of Mona the postmistress. Most people in a small
town claimed they liked the idea of walking into a bank or post
office and having the people there greet them by name. Paul had
enjoyed this as well when he moved to Lindberg three years ago, he
remembered ruefully. Mona had questioned him closely when he first
signed up for his post office box, and now, she knew everything
about him—at least, as much as anyone in town knew, and Paul
guessed what people in town knew came from Mona. She wasn’t one to
keep information to herself.

He didn’t dislike her. He didn’t think she
was unattractive either. She just wasn’t his type. Maybe she would
be called out on special assignment today, and Irma, the stooped
little old lady who filled in sometimes, would be there. Irma
didn’t talk much because her hearing was so bad she had to shout to
hear herself. Any communication she could understand had to be
shouted as well. Paul could hear just fine, but since he didn’t
talk much, he and Irma were always able to settle business quickly,
if not quietly.

He drove his pickup along the dirt roads
that dissected Michigan’s lower peninsula into squares, just like a
board, and Paul pondered if his own methodical and average
movements weren’t closer to that of a pawn than to some nobler
piece. He steered his pickup through snow drifts on his way into
town. Everything happened slowly in this small town. That was part
of the reason he had moved here. Silence. Reflection. Distance. He
could study life without having to play it.

He pulled in front of the post office,
parked, then limped inside, his package under his arm.

An older gentleman was at the counter,
buying a money order. Mona’s voice screeched as she tried to make
herself heard. Paul avoided eye contact and went to a side table to
fill out the priority mail slip.

Far too soon, the old man was finished, and
Mona caught sight of Paul.

“Another delivery today?”

Giving a closed-lipped smile in response to
the obvious question, he set the box and the accompanying slip on
the counter and pulled out his wallet to pay.

“More snow coming,” Mona said.

He nodded.

“I was thinking about you today.” She gave
him a flirtatious look as she set the package in the canvas bin
behind her. “Francine put out the fliers for more booths at the
Corn Festival. I thought you might want to take out a booth this
year for your chess sets.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I had another idea, too.” Mona smirked,
happy with herself. “There’s a craft fair every August in Canadian
Lakes. You ought to check that out, too. Have you been up that
way?”

“A few times.”

“You might need help running your booth,
too,” Mona suggested. “I’m great with people and I wouldn’t mind
giving you a hand, if you need it. Sometimes things get slow, and
it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”