Matt Lennox - The Carpenter

— Yeah, said Pete. We can do that.

— You work hard, Pete. It’ll be a shame.

She made motions to signify that their business was concluded, but he stayed.

— Was there something else, Pete?

— I just wondered if I could use the phone for a second.

— Yeah, of course you can.

She left him to it. He called home and was mildly surprised that it was Barry who answered.

— Peter?

— Hi, Barry.

— Peter, it’s good to hear your voice. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I thought about Colossians, and how it says if anyone has a quarrel against anyone else, as Christ forgave so should we. I’ve been thinking about that.

— Oh yeah?

— There’s an open door here for you, Brother Pete. You know that. Your mother-

— Barry, I know. Look. I’ll be home tonight.

He’d been out on one of his town walkabouts. He’d stopped at the Brewers’ Retail and picked up a case of beer and he’d bought smokes as well and had come up the stairs with the beer under his arm. He put his key into the lock only to find his door already open.

Gilmore was sitting on the corner of the pullout, watching the television. He looked up, smiled.

— Lee. Don’t block up the doorway, pal.

Lee heard his toilet flushing. Maurice came out of the bathroom. Lee took measured steps into the kitchenette. He set the beer on the counter.

— How did you get in here?

— You left your door unlocked, said Maurice. You don’t remember?

Lee closed the door.

— Did the landlord see you?

— That old slant? said Maurice. He didn’t see nothing. And yeah, I could drink a beer.

Lee took a beer out of the box and gave it to Maurice. Maurice took it and prised up the ring-tab with his finger. The sound of the can opening was clear even over the TV. Maurice drank and Lee watched his throat move.

Lee tried to be casual. He went over and took hold of the swivel chair at the window. He moved it forward as if he might sit across from Gilmore-but he didn’t sit, not yet.

— I get the feeling you didn’t just come to say hello.

— The time’s come, Lee, said Gilmore.

— What time?

— We talked about opportunities.

— I told you.

— Sure you did. But it’s in your voice, Lee. In the way you say it. I can hear it as plain as anything. Look around. You think you fit?

— Are you making rent this month? said Maurice.

— What business is it of yours?

Gilmore leaned forward, elbows on his knees: We’re your friends, Lee. We’re the people who know what a solid guy you are.

Lee squeezed his hands together. He breathed: So what is it? What are you talking about?

Gilmore leaned back. He smiled at Maurice, Maurice who was looking at Lee. And Gilmore told him what the business was. Not the specifics, but enough.

He did not say which bank it was exactly. Not how they’d studied it, but how long they had studied it, which was several months. Watching, waiting. It would be done overnight. No requirement, he said, for ugliness. No requirement to stick hardware in anybody’s face. No requirement to rush the job. He spoke of all the cash being turned around this time of year, laid up in deposits from stores. When? Christmas Eve. The day after is a holiday. Won’t anybody have an idea about it till we’ve been and gone. Forty-eight hours will have passed.

— Jesus, said Lee. I have no idea about any of this. I was never a bank man.

— And you don’t need to be. All you’ve got to be is the six. All you’ve got to do is keep your eyes open and keep your cool. What you’re good at. We’ll do the heavy lifting.

The take would be more and more than enough. There’d be no requirement for ugliness. And you will eat the labour of your hands.

— Why? said Lee. Why now?

— Because the time has come. I’ve been sitting on my ass in this town since March and now the time has come. One night of work. That’s all.

— And what, you just came around thinking I’d agree?

— You already agreed, Lee. You’ve been in agreement for a long time. All the time you spend walking the streets. Doing nothing for anybody. What that is, is you throwing your lot in. You know it.

Lee sat down at last. His hands formed patterns on the tops of his thighs. He thought about the air in the room and how it moved and was recycled man to man. He watched Maurice cross the floor and stand by the window, lift the dirty blinds, glance down at the street. The fading daylight was ashen.

— One night of work, said Gilmore.

Lee looked at them, one to the next. He looked at them for a long time. Then it was in the motion of his head, however slight. All things came to that.

Gilmore leaned forward again.

— Say it.

— Say what.

— Say the words, pal.

— You want me to say it?

— Call me old-fashioned but there’s a certain thing about a verbal contract.

He flexed his hands. He could feel his pulse right down to the balls of his feet.

— Fuck it, said Lee. Everything. Yes.

— Good to hear, pal.

Gilmore offered a handshake. Maurice gave Lee a phone number on a scrap of paper.

— Call us tomorrow.

Lee nodded. He put the scrap of paper into his billfold, next to the business card with Stan Maitland’s number on it. That encounter seemed to have happened to a different man altogether.

— It’s good, said Gilmore. How you’ve thrown your lot in. Soon you’ll find yourself a man of means. Give that some thought.

— The rest will happen fast, said Maurice.

His visitors did not remain for much longer. It was better that they did not linger. It would introduce doubt and they must have known it. As surely as they’d known what his response would be.

He went to the hospital, up to the Amiens Wing. He was making his way down the corridor, conscious of his steps, conscious that things were happening, when the older of the two little boys ran down the hallway ahead, coming from the direction of the washrooms. The boy did not see Lee. The boy ran through the door of Irene’s room.

Lee came to the door. It was open six inches or so. He looked through the narrow space. Donna and Barry and the two boys. Irene wearing a respirator. He watched them and he remained unseen. After a moment he turned and left.

Back at his apartment, he looked at the model kits he’d bought for the boys. The purchase was pre-emptive on his part, the invitation having never come, but he hadn’t wanted to be caught empty-handed.

Not that it mattered now. He thought about stuffing the two bombers into the garbage can, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He left them where they sat, and he got himself a drink and sat down to watch television.

But then he saw something that he had overlooked. The mark on the wall, some weeks old, from when he’d launched the beer can against it. He wetted a rag and scoured the mark. The scuff came out but an indentation remained.

He was tired, heavy in the bones. He’d walked to the hospital and back. This made him weary, but it wasn’t the only thing.

Because Gilmore was right. All other considerations aside, Lee was tired because he was greatly relieved. Relieved to let go of these motions he’d been forcing himself through. Relieved to see that thing-that thing he couldn’t name-stepping out of the dark once again, taking shape, letting him know he hadn’t been forgotten.

It was clear now. Everything was clear.

DECEMBER 1980 TO MAY 1981

On the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, there was a light snowfall. In the shallows of the lake the reeds were clenched by thin black ice. Stan went about his ablutions and put on his suit. When he entered the kitchen, he heard scratching on the back door. He opened it and Cassius came in. The dog’s fur was crisp and cold. He padded over to the woodstove.