Matt Lennox - The Carpenter

— Lee, goddammit. You got to move quicker.

Behind him Maurice was crouched on the other side of the hole.

Lee grabbed the first bag. Whatever it was packed with was dense and irregular and heavy. He pushed it through the hole. Maurice pulled it out of the way. Lee pushed the second bag to him. He went back for the last bag and then he looked over his shoulder. Maurice had his shotgun butt-down on the floor with the barrel canted forward through the hole.

— How about you get that gun out of the hole, said Lee.

— What? How about you hurry the fuck up.

— Maybe I don’t like how you have that thing pointed.

— This isn’t a goddamn game.

— I know.

But Maurice moved the shotgun out of the hole.

Lee hauled the third duffle over and pushed it through. He followed it as quickly as he could. All was dark except where the two flashlights lanced about like phantoms.

Maurice spoke close to Lee’s ear: This is not a goddamn fucking game, Lee.

Lee hoisted a bag up over each shoulder. He could feel Maurice watching him. He switched off the flashlight and went back the way he’d come. The door was a faint outline up ahead and he was conscious of how much of his back was exposed to the man behind him. But he got outside without incident. Nothing had changed in the parking lot.

Maurice came out. He had the shotgun in his right hand and the last duffle bag in his left. The back door of the bank closed evenly in its frame, so that its breach would not be readily apparent. They crossed the parking lot towards the van. The engine started. In the haze of the brake lights he saw Gilmore hop out to open the back of the van. He and Maurice dropped the bags into the space behind the seat. The tool bag and the burning-bar rig were already packed under the drop cloth. They closed the doors. Maurice went ahead of Gilmore and got in the back seat. The van started to move forward.

That was it. All it had ever been.

Lee stood dumbly, watching them leave.

Then the van stopped. The back door opened, Maurice’s face hung halfway out: Get in, Lee, get in the fucking front. What are you waiting for?

Lee jogged up and opened the passenger door and got in. He hadn’t even closed the door before they were moving again. Lee looked up once and in the rear-view mirror he could see Gilmore and Maurice in the back. Maurice with the shotgun on his lap.

— What did you think? said Speedy. We were leaving you back there?

— Speedy, said Maurice. Shut the fuck up till we get back.

Lee said nothing. He took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. He had three cigarettes remaining.

Pete woke up and saw by Emily’s alarm clock that it was five o’clock in the morning. He pulled himself away from her warm body. When he’d finished dressing, she stirred and took his hand. She put it to her breast and he felt the nipple harden.

— Pete? Can I see you maybe this afternoon or tomorrow?

— I’d like that.

— Me too.

He made his way back up through the house and slipped out noiselessly. The sky had cleared and the stars were profuse. The branches creaked on the maples above and the snow underfoot hadn’t been disturbed. He stole down the street to his car and let it heat up as he brushed off his windshield. He got into the driver’s seat. He could still smell Emily on his fingers. He drew in the scent deeply.

He took the long way through downtown. The heater pumped out heat and the radio was on. It was well before dawn yet. He felt better. He passed the dark front of the National Trust and passed the Shamrock Hotel. He laughed a little. The few days he’d spent in the hotel seemed a long time ago.

He drove up Harris Avenue. He was coming to the intersection where the Union Street bridge crossed over the river and carried on to the highway bypass. The light turned red. He slowed down and stopped. He yawned. The radio told him to have a happy holiday and Pete drummed on the steering wheel.

Then he saw the van pass in front of his car, the van with the mended side-view mirror and the crack on the windshield. The van had the right-of-way at the intersection and it turned onto the bridge up ahead. Pete watched a cigarette butt come sparking out from the passenger-side window, over the guardrail, and down onto the frozen river.

They passed a handful of other vehicles on their way back to Indian Lake. Headlights appeared, bore down on them, and passed. When they arrived at the property, the lights were on in the Airstream. Speedy brought the van to a stop next to the shed. Arlene’s hatchback was parked a few feet ahead.

They opened the van and got out. The door of the Airstream was open now and in the warm light they could see Arlene in silhouette, holding a robe around herself. She raised a hand.

— Do you think I’m glad to see you or what?

— Get your ass back in the bedroom, said Gilmore. I got something to give you.

— Oh, big talk.

Gilmore feigned a charge at the Airstream and Arlene scampered back inside, pulling the door shut behind her. Gilmore came back to the van.

— How about a cigarette, Lee.

In the dark, any man was just a shape bearing faint edges of ambient light. It was a moment before Lee said anything. His voice was pitched low: One of mine?

— Well, who else is the chain-smoker here? Tell you what, I’ll buy you a deck or two in Montreal.

Lee offered his pack and Gilmore took one of the last three.

— I could go with one, said Speedy.

Lee gave Speedy his second-last and then took the last for himself. The cigarettes were lit and the smoke smelled good in the cold air.

There was work to do yet. Lee smoked half of his cigarette and then butted it on the side of the van. He put the remaining half back in his pack. He could not put any trust in words so he submitted to what he was told to do. They moved the tool bag and the burning-bar rig back into the locker in the corner of the shed. The five duffle bags they’d hauled out of the vault were moved through the doorway of the Airstream into a small galley. Arlene was leaning on the wall. Her robe was silk with Chinese dragons patterned on it, frayed about the hem. She smiled as she watched them carry in the take. Lee had no idea what it amounted to.

They went out and stood by the van. The airplane was to arrive before eight o’clock. Gilmore had spoken to his friend the day before and all was well, but if the plane did not arrive by nine, they would go north in the van. In the meantime that meant waiting.

Gilmore disappeared into the Airstream.

— You two can wait here, said Maurice. The van or the shed. There’s no reason to go wandering around the property nowhere.

Speedy laughed: I don’t know where the fuck we’d go.

Lee took out the remnants of his last cigarette and lit it.

— Lee? said Maurice. Lee exhaled smoke.

— Lee, did you go deaf or something?

— I heard you, said Lee.

He opened the passenger door of the van and sat down. He looked at what was revealed by the starlight, looked at Maurice and Speedy moving into the shed. His last cigarette did not last long. He rolled down the window and pitched out the butt. If he closed his eyes he could see the van moving away in front of him.

He wondered if in times to come he might question whether things could have followed another direction. A short while later he shut his eyes.

The old dream: the concrete dark of the basement, the sight and sound of the coal furnace. The cripple with the spadeshovel. Only this time the cripple had a newer old face. Joe Holmes. The blood poured out of his side where he’d been stabbed with the screwdriver. He had the caretaker’s limp. You see how clear it is, don’t you? Don’t you see how clear it is?