Francis looked over at the pile of lumber on the garage floor. Most of the boards were warped. He wanted to lie down next to them, see if his body would also twist and split on the humid concrete.
He expected to hear the big engine of the 4x4 pulling up in his driveway at any moment. His father-in-law liked to call it The Truck. One day, he thought, one day he would explain to Big Bill that a truck was a truck and a 4x4 was a 4x4.
He got down on one knee and pressed his left hand on the concrete. Francis would show him the drawings, the blue-prints for the bookcase, and then he’d have him touch the garage floor. See how cold and clammy it is? It really wasn’t his fault. The boards twisted in the humidity. Look at the drawings, he’d tell him. Everything was worked out. With his hand still on the floor, he splayed his fingers. Besides, look at my hands, he thought, I’m a pencil-pusher. But Big Bill probably wouldn’t accept any of the excuses. He’d laugh at the ruined wood, and then promise his daughter the bookshelf her husband couldn’t build. He had all the tools, after all, a beautiful workshop at home -- the know-how -- but mostly he had the hands, huge, powerful hands. He was coming to salvage whichever board was still good, and when the bookshelf was done, his daughter would display the craftsmanship prominently in the house, somewhere obvious.
Francis leaned forward on his left hand, the fingers still splayed. If only she hadn’t told her father about the bookshelf. Stay out of the garage ‘till I’m done, he remembered saying when he was still feeling cocky.
Picking up the hammer in his right hand, Francis took a deep breath. Just to make sure he wouldn’t miss, he pictured Big Bill’s smug face. Bastard, he thought, and then swung the hammer.
As he rolled on the floor trying to stifle his agony, Francis realized there hadn’t been a cracking sound, no snapping of twigs, which meant he’d held back. He thought about hitting it again, but it was too late. He already knew how painful it would be.
***
His wife was somewhere in the house calling his name. He listened for a moment, and then went upstairs. He could hear her moving about. Why did she always do that? Why did she have to clean the whole house whenever someone was coming over? They weren’t going to serve tea in the bedroom.
“Did you call me, love?” he asked quietly, trying desperately to control his breathing.
She was putting the laundry away. She was wasting time, which meant he would have to pitch in to get everything ready downstairs.
She answered him without looking away from the pile of socks. “Are you done in the garage? I could use some help.”
If he mentioned his hand now, she would be angry with him. “Just tell me where to go.”
He could help by emptying the dishwasher. That was a start. And then he could pass the vacuum over the living room rug. He agreed with everything she said just so he could leave quickly and pull his hand out of his pocket.
***
When the big engine roared in the driveway, Francis watched his wife running down the stairs, her breasts like pompoms.
“They’re here. They’re here,” she called out.
He didn’t bother hiding his hand from her this time. His whole left side was numb by now. The arm was just hanging there, weighted down by a heavy purple mass.
She almost fell near the bottom of the stairs. She clutched at the newel post and then stared at his hand, a look of pain in her eyes. When her legs buckled, Francis felt instantly comforted. It was him, then. It was all him.
“Go,” he barked, wishing this could all be over with her reaction.
***
His wife was stuck on the porch. He walked by her, his injured hand at his back. You shouldn’t have told your father, he wanted to say, feeling cocky again, but the doors of the 4x4 slammed shut, forcing him forward. “Mum,” he said to the older woman who brushed by him on the walkway.
Things were going to change now, he thought as he put out his one good hand. Big Bill snatched it out of the air and squeezed hard. Francis tried not to squirm, but the sound of snapping twigs was deafening.
He expected to hear the big engine of the 4x4 pulling up in his driveway at any moment. His father-in-law liked to call it The Truck. One day, he thought, one day he would explain to Big Bill that a truck was a truck and a 4x4 was a 4x4.
He got down on one knee and pressed his left hand on the concrete. Francis would show him the drawings, the blue-prints for the bookcase, and then he’d have him touch the garage floor. See how cold and clammy it is? It really wasn’t his fault. The boards twisted in the humidity. Look at the drawings, he’d tell him. Everything was worked out. With his hand still on the floor, he splayed his fingers. Besides, look at my hands, he thought, I’m a pencil-pusher. But Big Bill probably wouldn’t accept any of the excuses. He’d laugh at the ruined wood, and then promise his daughter the bookshelf her husband couldn’t build. He had all the tools, after all, a beautiful workshop at home -- the know-how -- but mostly he had the hands, huge, powerful hands. He was coming to salvage whichever board was still good, and when the bookshelf was done, his daughter would display the craftsmanship prominently in the house, somewhere obvious.
Francis leaned forward on his left hand, the fingers still splayed. If only she hadn’t told her father about the bookshelf. Stay out of the garage ‘till I’m done, he remembered saying when he was still feeling cocky.
Picking up the hammer in his right hand, Francis took a deep breath. Just to make sure he wouldn’t miss, he pictured Big Bill’s smug face. Bastard, he thought, and then swung the hammer.
As he rolled on the floor trying to stifle his agony, Francis realized there hadn’t been a cracking sound, no snapping of twigs, which meant he’d held back. He thought about hitting it again, but it was too late. He already knew how painful it would be.
***
His wife was somewhere in the house calling his name. He listened for a moment, and then went upstairs. He could hear her moving about. Why did she always do that? Why did she have to clean the whole house whenever someone was coming over? They weren’t going to serve tea in the bedroom.
“Did you call me, love?” he asked quietly, trying desperately to control his breathing.
She was putting the laundry away. She was wasting time, which meant he would have to pitch in to get everything ready downstairs.
She answered him without looking away from the pile of socks. “Are you done in the garage? I could use some help.”
If he mentioned his hand now, she would be angry with him. “Just tell me where to go.”
He could help by emptying the dishwasher. That was a start. And then he could pass the vacuum over the living room rug. He agreed with everything she said just so he could leave quickly and pull his hand out of his pocket.
***
When the big engine roared in the driveway, Francis watched his wife running down the stairs, her breasts like pompoms.
“They’re here. They’re here,” she called out.
He didn’t bother hiding his hand from her this time. His whole left side was numb by now. The arm was just hanging there, weighted down by a heavy purple mass.
She almost fell near the bottom of the stairs. She clutched at the newel post and then stared at his hand, a look of pain in her eyes. When her legs buckled, Francis felt instantly comforted. It was him, then. It was all him.
“Go,” he barked, wishing this could all be over with her reaction.
***
His wife was stuck on the porch. He walked by her, his injured hand at his back. You shouldn’t have told your father, he wanted to say, feeling cocky again, but the doors of the 4x4 slammed shut, forcing him forward. “Mum,” he said to the older woman who brushed by him on the walkway.
Things were going to change now, he thought as he put out his one good hand. Big Bill snatched it out of the air and squeezed hard. Francis tried not to squirm, but the sound of snapping twigs was deafening.
About the Author
