“The Magic Mountain—I don’t suppose you read it in the original.” Grace shook her head. “So much gets lost in translation.” She pursed her lips and stared at Grace for the longest time before proceeding. “The main character, Hans Castorp, visits a friend at a TB sanatorium. He falls sick and ends up a patient himself.”
“Yes, I remember,” Grace replied. “The boy remains at the mountain until he is well enough to leave.” She was getting used to Mrs. Shapiro’s scattershot tendency to talk in free associations. One disjointed thought melded into the next with little or no forewarning. But there was a method to the madness. Conversations careened in a dozen random directions, ricocheting off her nimble mind, but, whatever it might be, the cagey woman never lost sight of the central theme.
“The book’s ending is left intentionally vague. Not your typical bildungsroman, where a hundred loose ends are neatly tied up and everyone ecstatically happy.”
“But you didn’t call me here to discuss German literature,” Grace observed.
“I see no ring on your finger. You’re divorced?”
“A year now.”
“Seeing anyone special?”
Outside an inch of snow blanketed the ground. “I’m not in the market for romance at this stage in my life.”
“That’s too bad.” The old woman waited a discrete interval before continuing. “You remind me of Hans Castorp.”
Grace laughed. “We’re discussing a fictional character from a previous century who, coincidentally, happens to be a man not woman. It’s just a beautiful story.”
Mrs. Shapiro shrugged off the remark. “At the Zauberberg, The Magic Mountain, many patients were terminally ill. They got no second chance at life. Don’t become one of them.”
Grace rose. “It’s getting late and I have to be up early.”
“But you can’t leave just yet,” Mrs. Shapiro protested, half rising from the chair. “We haven’t even discussed the reason I called you here.”
******
Grace was so distracted on the ride home that she almost missed the hulking figure lurking behind the bushes at the far end of the driveway. She flicked the high beams on to get a better view and Dwight Goober, like some nocturnal predator, slid away behind the foliage.
She entered the house. “Why are all the lights off?”
Upstairs in the bedroom, Angie was huddled on a rocking chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. She threw her arms around her mother and burst into tears. “Dwight’s been out there for over an hour now. He knew you were gone because there was no car in the driveway.”
Grace gently held her daughter at arm’s length. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To have a little one-on-one with the Village Idiot.” Grace rushed down the stairs and out the front door. Eight inches of powdery snow now covered the ground with the temperature bottoming out in the low twenties. No one in their right mind would be milling about on a night like this. No one in their right mind. Grace had no game plan, no idea what she was going to do. Dwight was standing under a streetlight on the opposite side of the street.
“Go home, Dwight.” The boy just looked at her with an oily smirk and shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, a percolating mass of primal flesh. “It’s ten o’clock at night and there’s school tomorrow.”
“School but no curfew for minors,” Dwight shot back in a gravelly voice, “and you can’t do shit.” Dwight’s face was all blotchy, an unsavory mishmash of acne and freckles. Never a particularly attractive youth, the teenage years had been particularly unkind.
In response to increased crime, homeowners in Brandenburg wanted a curfew for teens, but the ACLU got involved and squelched the petition before it ever came to vote. Kids - good kids, that is - worked or participated in late night activities. Why punish them? The pending legislation raised too many complications. You couldn’t trample on people’s basic freedoms, even if the people included neighborhood bullies, drug addicts, hoodlums and thugs.
“There’s school tomorrow, and the day after that, too,” Dwight was enjoying the repartee. It was a sadistic game. This is what he lived for. Other kids played on the varsity football team or acted in the tri-region musical theater. They collected stamps or skated or took gymnastic lessons or joined 4-H club. Dwight Goober hid behind bushes and terrorized the Bovey street neighborhood.
“Want a smoke?” He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lit a cigarette with a butane lighter. Inhaling deeply, he luxuriated in the smoke, then crumbled the empty box in his fist and tossed it over his shoulder.
A light went on across the street and a neighbor’s head emerged in the open doorway. Grace felt a surge of confidence, but just as quickly, the light was extinguished and - Thump! - the door slammed shut.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Dwight knelt down as a small beagle sidled up to them, huffing and puffing in the frigid air. The neighbor had only let his dog out to pee. “That mean Mrs. Paulson doesn’t like, Dwighty, but you sure do.” The dog‘s tail was whipping the air in frenzied joy. Dwight scratched the dog behind the ear. “Her stupid bitch of a daughter ain’t got no use for me neither so you’re my only girl friend—the love of my freakin’ life.” Flicking his cigarette up into the air, he grabbed the dog forcefully by both ears and planted a sloppy kiss on its snout. The beagle broke away and, with its stiffened tail tucked firmly between its hind legs, ran off down the street, yelping like a banshee.
“Where are your friends, Dwight?” There were plenty of kids Dwight’s age in the area, but the incorrigible oaf had no friends. Well, that wasn’t really true. There was a kid off of Lancaster Boulevard that he chummed around with, but he was locked up at the juvenile training center for a string of robberies. The other teens kept a wide berth. They knew what Dwight Goober was capable of.
“I got plenty of friends.” He picked at a scab on his chin. “But maybe your daughter, Angie, might want to come out here and spend some quality time with me.”
Grace could feel the control slipping away. As soon as he mentioned her daughter, the hoodlum gained the unfair advantage. “Goodnight, Dwight. There may not be any curfew, but if you’re not gone in five minute’s I’m calling the police.” She went back in the house.
Grace turned all the lights on in the lower level, an act of defiance. Climbing the stairs, she went into the second floor bathroom and peered out the window. Dwight hadn’t moved a fraction of an inch since her ultimatum. Five minutes later she called the police. “I want to report a rather large youth loitering on my street.”
“Address please.” The officer sounded bored. Grace gave him the particulars. “There’s a patrol car in the area. I’ll send him right over.”
“Thank you.” Grace turned back to the window. Dwight Goober was nowhere to be seen.
******
Ruth Shapiro hadn’t invited Grace over so she could play matchmaker.
The previous week, Angie stopped by the middle school after classes to see Carl. She wanted him to teach her how to make elegant boxes like Lois Keenan Ventura’s. Carl said no. She was too young. Power tools were dangerous. More to the point, since everything from the four-inch belt sander to the Delta drill press belonged to Mrs. Shapiro, it wasn’t his decision to make.
The next day Angie returned. “Teach me how to make boxes like that lady woodworker from Pennsylvania.” Carl, who was spreading rock salt on the front walkway, told her to go home. The issue was non-negotiable. Out of the question. A no-brainer. On the third visit, Carl threw his hands up in the air and growled, “I’ll ask Mrs. Shapiro. Depending on what she says, you would still need your mother’s permission.”
Grace cornered her daughter after supper. “I met with Mrs. Shapiro.”
Angie eyed her uncertainly. “I figured as much.”
Grace ran her tongue over her lips. “Okay. Go make boxes with Carl. Just don’t cut your lovely fingers off.”
Angie threw her arms around her moth
er’s neck. “I was so sure you would -”
“Perhaps you could make me a nice chest with a separate compartment for my chains.” She held her daughter close and nuzzled her neck. “A light wood like maple or white oak would be nice.”
What Grace conveniently forgot to mention was that, before leaving Mrs. Shapiro’s home on the snowy evening, she had reached her decision, and it was non-negotiable. Angie would not, under any circumstances, be spending time with Carl Solomon churning out woodchips and endless piles of sawdust. But halfway home, she had a change of heart. It wasn’t anything thought through in a logical, coherent fashion. Curiously, Mrs. Shapiro remained totally neutral and hadn’t tried to influence Grace one way or the other. No, it wasn’t anything quite so obvious. Maybe it was the rarified air at the summit of the Magic Mountain where young people languished, their most precious dreams fading away unfulfilled. Grace decided, just this once, to put her cogitating mind on hold and let some other, ephemeral organ run the show.
******
In the morning, Grace left the house a half hour earlier and drove up Lexington Boulevard to the police station. She entered a small vestibule but there was no one to talk to. A sign on the wall next to a black phone said:
SPEAK INTO THE HANDSET TO RECEIVE ASSISTANCE.
Grace lifted the phone. “Hello? I need to speak to someone.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“No, not at all. It’s a personal matter.”
The phone went dead and a burly patrolman with a red face and moustache opened the door a crack. “What’s this in regards to?”
“A teenager on my street is causing problems.”
The officer brought her into a room in the rear of the station and closed the door. She told him about Dwight Goober. “Yah, I know the kid,” The officer said. “Been to his house a half dozen times or more.”
“Maybe you could talk to his parents about -”
“Mother,” the officer cut her short. “There’s no father in the picture. Just the old lady and, in answer to your question, talking won’t do a damn bit of good. The woman’s a screamer. Any time there’s a complaint against her beloved Dwighty, Mrs. Goober, starts hollering like a locked-ward lunatic.” He shook his head and pressed his lips together in a disagreeable fashion. “There’s no reasoning with that woman.”
“The kid’s prowling outside my house at ten o’clock at night.”
“There’s no curfew. He’s completely within his rights.” A voice came over the intercom requesting the a.m. crew report to the roster room. “Look, the snot-nosed punk’s on probation,” the officer said. “My advice is to go down to district court and speak with his probation officer or even the clerk of courts. They might be able to strong arm the little creep.”
“The little creep is six foot tall.”
“I was thinking,” the officer replied drolly, “more in terms of mental capacity rather than height.”
******
On Saturday morning Angie was scheduled for her first lesson, but Carl called and told her to meet him at the lumberyard in the Marieville section of town. “I’ll drive you over there,” Grace suggested, “and then you hitch a ride back with Carl.”
At the lumberyard, Carl was waiting out front besides a Chevy pickup truck. Grace kissed her daughter and made a motion to leave. “You can join us if you like,” Carl said.
Grace killed the engine and slid out of the car. They went inside. A plump man with a red beard and plaid flannel shirt reached across the counter and shook Carl’s hand. “Didn’t you women see the sign on the door? No females allowed unless they’re swinging 30-ounce Estwing framing hammers.”
“Don’t mind Fred,” Carl explained. “He missed his calling in life as a standup comic.”
A contractor plunked a cellophane bag bulging with sheetrock nails on the counter and went off in search of something else. Fred weighed the nails on a scale and wrote the price on the outside of the bag with an felt-tipped marker. “If you’re looking for cherry, you’re out of luck. We got an order from an overseas, Asian firm. They bought up our entire first grade cherry for a massive, building project in Japan. Paid a small fortune for the lumber.” Fred shook his head thoughtfully. “All we got left is low-grade seconds.”
“Maple and walnut are fine,” Carl said. “Mind if we go up into the loft?”
The contractor reappeared with several tubes of clear caulking and a Forstner, flat-bottom drill bit. Fred started ringing up the order. “Watch your step, ladies. Stairs are narrow and it’s a long way down.”
They headed back outside. The temperature was frigid and Grace could feel the icy air burning her lungs. Crossing the lumberyard, the threesome passed row upon row of neatly stacked lumber - two-by-fours and pressure-treated decking, thicker boards for roof trusses, floor joists and decorative lattices. A forklift puttered by with a stack of cedar fencing. At the far end of the yard was a huge shed with a steep flight of stairs leading up into a darkened loft. Grace peered up the stairwell but the landing was invisible from where they stood.
Carl led the way up the narrow stairs, which ascended twenty feet before reaching the second level where more wood was stacked on pallets up against the walls. He flipped a light switch on. “It’s colder up here than it was down below,” Angie said between chattering teeth.
“Here’s some maple.“ Carl gestured toward a stack of cream colored boards. He pulled a six-foot, coffee colored plank off an adjacent pile and stood it up on end. “This hickory’s beautiful but hard as nails. You’d run through a dozen sanding belts just trying to shape one box.” He moved on to the next flat. “Ash is a bit softer but brittle with an open grain and hard to finish.”
“And I thought wood was wood.” Grace made a tent over her nose and breathed out forcefully trying to warm the flesh. Judging by the pins and needles shooting up her calves, her feet were growing increasingly numb.
“What’s this?” Angie asked, indicating a reddish brown board with a smooth, textured grain.
“Honduran mahogany. A mature tree can reach 150 feet high with a trunk diameter upwards of six feet. It’s still very plentiful over there,” Carl explained. “Unfortunately, most of the exotic, South American timber is seldom replanted so it’s becoming endangered.”
“This wood,” Carl ran a hand over the Honduran mahogany, “is grown on tree plantations; it’s a renewable, resource.” He turned to Grace. “Remember the Beetles?”
“The rock group from the sixties?”
“Ringo’s drums were made from mahogany. The wood produces a very warm, resonant tone. It’s also great for guitars.”
“Some of the finest musical instruments - violins, pianos, basses, and cellos - were originally made from European hardwoods. Native American spruce found in the old growth forests of the Pacific Northwest, where the trees grew taller and straighter, was also greatly prized. The straighter the grain, the richer the tone.”
“That metal beast over there, “ he gestured at a huge machine that took up most of the left side of the room. “is an industrial grade planer. When contractors needed lumber sized to a special thickness, they run the wood through the machine, which thins the lumber in tiny increments.”
Carl finally pulled up in front of a pile of coarse boards. No one had bothered to trim the bark; the slabs were random thicknesses and lengths. Unwanted, mismatched orphans and ugly lumber ducklings.
“Gross!” Angie turned up her nose.
“Gross and just what we are looking for.” Carl grabbed the roughest plank, which was a solid inch thick and handed it to Angie. “Watch out for splinters. It’s still got most of the bark on the back side.”
“What’s so special about that one?” Grace asked. The pins and needles in her toes were beginning to crawl up her ankles and she stomped her feet on the floor to get the blood flowing.
“This homely slab of black walnut is drop dead gorgeous, but its true character is hidden away under all the bark and dirt.” He flipped the boa
rd over. “Look here.” Angie and Grace stepped closer and stared at a section near the top of the board where the rough, scaly bark had been trimmed away. The chocolaty grain swirled in glorious unpredictable patterns. “We can buy this board for half the price of the others, trim the bark and mill the finished wood ourselves.”
Carl picked over several other rough-cut boards then sent Grace and Angie down the steep stairwell. When they reached the bottom, he brought the lumber down from the loft, one unattractive plank at a time. Paying for the lumber, he loaded the boards in the rear of his truck then went back inside. Fred was at his post behind the cash register. “Got any exotics?”
“See for yourself.” Fred gestured with a flick of his head. “Just stay away from the pear and butternut. It’s all wormy.”
Carl led the way into a backroom cluttered with broken picture frames, sharpening stones and carbide-tipped router bits. Up against the wall was an odd collection of smallish lumber, some cut at jagged angles. Carl pointed to a dark brown board with brilliant swirls rippling through the grain. “Morado from the mountains of Chile.” He grabbed Angie’s hand and pressed the heel of her palm up against the wood. “Morado belongs to the rosewood family. There’s so much natural oil in the wood, you don’t even need to apply a finish. You can polish the surface to a high gloss with nothing more than your bare hand.”
He steered Angie’s hand in a figure-eight and the surface of the chocolaty wood soon began to glow with a subtle richness. “I want some of that,” she whispered.
“Perhaps next time.” He reached for a thin board, light as skim milk and shot through with orange highlights. “Tulipwood. Also from the rosewood family.” Carl took a small penknife and peeled a paper-thin shaving from the board. A pungent, sickly sweet perfume wafted through the room. He showed them an unusual African mahogany flecked with gold and a dark wine colored board with the peculiar name bubinga. There was a small bar of bluish black wood no longer than a Louisville slugger, baseball bat - kingwood. Even with a crack down the middle, the scruffy ‘bat’ was worth fifty dollars. And a tiny scrap of ebony—black as coal and twice as hard. Angie lofted the absurdly heavy wood in her hand. When she put it down again, her fingers were smudge with a blackish soot.