Michelangelo's Shoulder Part 4

"Mother's birthday."

"We used to talk about them a lot--animals and birds. Walk in the woods, talk."

"Tucker, does she know about these?"

"Nope."

"But she should see them!"

"She'd like them, you think?"

"Of course she would. They're beautiful."

"I'm not much for writing,"

"I could mail them to her if you'd like." He looked at the carvings, rubbed his chin, and inclined his head. A _why not_ expression crossed his face. He pulled a twenty dollar bill from a scarred black wallet.

"Tucker, for heavens sake!" He insisted that she take it.

"Ask her, if she don't mind--I might take a ride down, say h.e.l.lo.

Probably get a train down there." He looked at Charlie.

"Amtrak," Charlie said. "Or you could fly."

"I like trains."

They finished lunch and put the box of carvings on the back seat of the car. "I'll wrap tissue paper around them so they don't get banged up. I'll mail them tomorrow," Margery said. "Tucker, thank you so much for lunch. It was so good to see you."

"I thought I'd be seeing you again one of these days," Tucker said.

"We'll keep in touch," Margery said.

"Take care of yourself," Charlie said. "You want a ride back?"

"I'll walk."

They drove away slowly as Tucker and Sally watched. Tucker lifted one hand in farewell.

"You just never know, do you?" Charlie said.

"Tucker Smollett," Margery said. "Good old Tucker."

Halfway back to Portland, Charlie looked over at Margery and asked about her husband. "He cared for me," she said. "He just cared more for someone else."

"d.a.m.n shame," Charlie said. Margery brushed the fingers of one hand through the back of her hair. Charlie thought she was going to say more, but she didn't. At the ferry, he helped her with the box and said goodbye.

The next morning was again bright and sunny. Charlie returned to the bench near the ferry and sat, savoring his coffee, croissant, and the salty air. His brother Orson came to mind. Orson was a pain in the a.s.s, but he had a point--sometimes you have to make a move.

Two men wearing similar clothes--pressed jeans, T-s.h.i.+rts, white running shoes, and sungla.s.ses--walked up and took benches closer to the water.

One was older, softer, beginning to put on weight. He sat with his elbows on his knees, looking across the harbor. The other, fitter one, stretched full length on his bench, arms out flat behind his head, and stared into the sky. Neither looked happy. They remained unmoving, as though they were waiting for a delivery.

That is not the way, Charlie thought. He stood, dropped the empty bag and cup into a trash can, and walked in the direction of the unknown furled inside him.

Coming To

"I made a box. It was about so big." The speaker spread his hands on the counter. "By about so wide." He indicated the other dimension, one palm by his stomach, the other out by a napkin holder.

The outer hand rose over a plate of eggs. "About so high."

A smaller man at the next stool nodded, lifting his coffee mug. "About so high."

About so high, Will repeated to himself.

"Made it for my daughter."

"For your daughter."

Made it for his daughter. Will joined the chorus. He couldn't see the box, but he could hear it.

"Took me some s.h.i.+plap--nice and dry. Made her tight. No cracks."

"No sir."

No way.

It was four o'clock in the morning. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish glow over wooden booths, plastic covered stools, the grill, and a double doored refrigerator. A waitress leaned against the wall by a kitchen door and lit a cigarette.

The man's voice rose and fell. There was a question of hinging. To hinge or not. Maybe a plain top with a handle? A hinge, but--you didn't want the top just flopping around. "I got me some light bra.s.s chain, put about fifteen inches on each side, inside, running to the underside of the top. Little screw in each end. Not going to pull out _those_ hinges."

The other man shook his head.

"I sanded her up good--you know--finished it nice."

The waitress bent forward and tapped her cigarette on an ashtray hidden behind the counter. "You want more coffee, Herbert?"

"Don't believe I will." Herbert turned to his friend. "What do you say?"

"Don't get paid for sitting."

They left and the waitress cleared their places, sweeping a tip into her pocket. She turned toward Will. "More coffee?"

He pushed his mug forward. "Thanks." He could see the box now. It was solid. It had a quiet glow.

"Long night?"