"So the family can't kick you out?"
Kendra raised her hands, palms up, and smirked impudently. "Not in thirty days, not in thirty years."
For the second time since he met the hardscrabble woman with the unlovely features, the boy burst into tears. Kendra reached out and pulled him close. "I ain't going anywhere, so don't you worry."
Only when he got his emotions back under control, did she gently pull away. "The Boxboro juried art festival is coming up next month."
"Yeah, you already told me." Frankie blew his nose and dabbed his cheek with the back of a hand.
"I sure could use an extra pair of hands."
"Okay."
"I'll need someone to sand and finish, while I get the rest of the inventory together. Can't afford to pay you much better than minimum wage, but…"
"Yeah, I'll do it. When can I start?"
"Unless you're planning another emotional meltdown," Kendra tucked the red birch tea box under her arm and headed for the basement, "you can get cracking now."
* * * * *
Later that night, Frankie told his mother about his new, working relationship with Kendra Ryder. "So everything's going good over there."
"Yeah, real good."
"Staying away from the power tools?"
"She lets me use the stationery belt sander and a scroll saw but they’re pretty safe."
"Good." His mother wet her lips. "Your father called from the office. He won't be coming home tonight."
"Okay."
Frankie turned to go, but his mother brought him up short. "I suppose he's spending the night at his girl friend's place." Her voice was devoid of anger, no hint of bitterness. "So it will be just the two of us for supper."
He eyed her uneasily. "You're not going to drink, are you?"
"No, not tonight." The woman pursed her lips and gazed pensively out the bay window. "I still care about your father but he's all mixed up."
They ate supper alone. Somehow it didn't feel so bad. Frankie sat in the kitchen while his mother did the dishes. "Don't you have homework?"
"Already did it."
Frankie's mother squirted a stream of dish detergent into the sink. "Be nice to the Ryder lady." She was facing away when she made the odd remark, and Mrs. Dexter blurted the handful of words with an abrupt severity that caught the boy off guard. He stared open-mouthed at his mother's backside. "I want you to be nice to the lady who lives at the Lomax place," she repeated.
"Why wouldn't I be," he stuttered. His mother reached for the sponge and began scrubbing a Pyrex baking dish. He waited. After Mrs. Dexter finished the dish, she washed the rest of the plates and rinsed the sink. Approaching the kitchen table, she cupped her son's face in her moist hands, planted a kiss on either cheek and said, "I gotta throw a load of laundry in the dryer."
Frankie went upstairs and took a shower. Then he got in bed with his tulipwood. He had already used up the old piece and Kendra sliced him a new one off a three-foot slab. He scuffed the surface and raised the pungent wood to his nose. Yes, that was better.
Be nice to the Ryder lady. What the hell did his mother mean? Kendra was the nicest goddamn person he had ever met! No one had to tell him to be kind, or generous, or decent or anything! Frankie felt a lump growing in his throat. He scratched the tulipwood a half dozen times for good measure, rolled off the side of the bed, went and found his mother in the laundry room. "The Ryder lady,… why did you say what you did?"
Mrs. Dexter had finished with the dryer and had moved over to the ironing table. She added a cup of distilled water to the steam iron and raised the temperature to the cotton setting. "I ran into her when I returned some books at the library earlier today." She pressed down on the steam button and a puff of watery vapor burst from the sole plate. "Anyway, we got to shooting the breeze the way women do and one thing led to another."
Frankie's mother spread a plaid, perma-press blouse over the nose of the ironing board and made a tentative pass. "Well, the conversation turned to a certain fifteen year-old boy and she kept going on and on about what a swell kid you were." Finishing with the blouse, she grabbed a pair of black slacks. "Then the woman goes all mushy on me and confides how she and Edgar Lomax were planning to start a family of their own right before he took sick and how she looks at you almost like the son she never had." Only now did the woman set the iron aside and look her son full in the face. "I'm only sharing this because you forced the issue. What I'm telling you goes no further than this room."
"Kendra… she really said all that?"
His mother turned back to the ironing. "No further than this room, mind you!"
Still later that night while teetering on the cusp of sleep, Frankie tried to reconcile the notion of the utterly fearless, taciturn female hunched over a slot cutter chucked into a drill press lumbering at six-hundred rpm's and the mushy sentiments volunteered at the Brandenberg Public Library.
* * * * *
Chop. Chop. Chop. Edgar Lomax fashioned a hummingbird whirligig from ridiculously expensive marine-grade plywood. When the wind blew, the bird rocked back and forth dipping its slender beak into a cluster of burgundy flowers. A week after he placed the gizmo in the back yard, the heavens spit rain relentlessly for three, solid days. On the fourth when the skies cleared, Edgar discovered that his hummingbird had given birth to three, identical siblings. The veneer sheets separated accordion-style. They warped, cupped, bowed and, in three-dimensional chaos, became insufferably gnarly. Additionally, all the propellers had fallen off and were scattered about the yard.
Edgar collected the wreckage, carried the pieces indoors and conducted a forensic audit - a mechanical post mortem, of sorts. Then he fashioned a new hummingbird from poplar, a sturdy member of the North American cottonwood family. After painting, he coated the wood with exterior-grade polyurethane then reattached the propellers with a two-part, waterproof epoxy.
Problem solved!
* * * * *
Kendra had signed on for a couple of local craft fairs. The third Sunday in October, Frankie helped load the rust-pocked Dodge Caravan and spent the day watching her greet customers and sell merchandise. As Kendra explained it nobody bought the big stuff. The elaborate, mixed-media tea boxes and multi-drawer jewelry cases sold reasonably well through the chic galleries on Cape Cod and Newport but were outside the price range of the average craft fair shopper. "They usually stop to ogle the really fancy stuff and admire the workmanship, then settle on a smaller keepsake."
She also set out items each show as a 'lost leader', cheaper offerings she sold for cost and never really brought in any profit. The sign over a hexagon-shaped ring box fashioned from bird's-eye maple read:
Clearance Sale!!!
Ten dollars while they last!!!
A dozen or so ring boxes were spread out on the table. "Customers view the ring boxes as a solid bargain so they grab them up. Meanwhile, more people crowd under the canopy to see what all the fuss is about, and medium-priced items start flying off the table.”
“Even if I lose a few bucks on the ring boxes, I recoup the loss twice over on pricier stuff that gets tacked onto the initial sale." Kendra gestured with a flick of her eyes at a lanky older man sitting on a director's chair next to a tent full of watercolors. "That fellow isn't going to sell crap!"
"How can you be so sure?"
Kendra smiled at a woman pushing a baby stroller past her booth. The woman nodded amiably but didn't slow down. "You see how the sourpuss sits with his nose buried in the newspaper?" Sure enough, the fellow was leaning back in his chair, ignoring the customers streaming down the walkway. The artist's expression was sullen, disinterested. "Customers aren't stupid. They can tell when a vendor is giving them the holier-than-thou, cold shoulder." Kendra waved a hand emphatically in the air. "By five o'clock, you will be able to count the number of sales that guy’s made on the fingers of one hand."
A young woman approached and was staring at an unusual box with green, gold and black hi
ghlights. "That's paldao," Kendra explained. "The wood is harvested from the jungles of Indochina. It's a dangerous wood to harvest… most natives won't go anywhere near a paldao tree."
"Why is that?"
"Boa constrictors frequently nest in the lower limbs."
The woman flipped the lid up then ran her fingertips over the crushed velour interior. "You're joking." Kendra grinned and shook her head slowly from side to side.
The woman left but returned an hour and a half later. "About that tree and the snakes… you were pulling my leg, right?"
"Boas hang from the trees searching for prey; the natives, who are animists and believe in voodoo, are terrified of the snakes. The logging companies had an awful time finding locals willing to go into the jungles and cut down the trees." The woman promptly pulled out her wallet and paid cash for the paldao box. By closing time Sunday night, Kendra had pocketed fifteen hundred dollars. Peeling five twenty dollar bills off the roll, she handed the money to Frankie. "What's this for?"
"Your take. Now help me break down the tent and pack up all this crap so we can get home."
* * * * *
The first week in December, Frankie stopped by the Lomax place. The door was open but the basement was empty. He glanced in the bedroom. Kendra was lying under the comforter with a box of Kleenex balancing precariously on her chest. "What's the matter?"
"I gotta bad cold. Bronchitis."
The boy placed a hand on her forehead. "You feel hot."
"I was up to a hundred and three last night, but the temperature came down since then."
"What about the Litchfield Christmas Fair?"
"I dunno," she said listlessly.
Frankie went and sat on a chair in the far corner of the room. "You got food?"
"Yeah, I went to the market just before I got sick. There's plenty to eat, but I can't keep anything down." The woman coughed spastically, blew her nose and lay silent. Five minutes later, Kendra Ryder began snoring softly. On the night table was a framed photo of Edgar Lomax. Heavyset with a dark beard and plaid flannel shirt, the unsmiling hulk of a man resembled a backwoodsman from the hills of Appalachia. This was the man who taught Kendra Ryder to cut finger joints, miters, dovetails and mortises. This was the man who died before he could give the woman what she wanted most in the world.
Frankie went home and told his mother what had happened. "When is the Litchfield Fair?"
"This coming weekend. It's an indoor event at the art center. The booth fee was two hundred dollars."
Mrs. Dexter groaned. "Maybe she could tell them what happened and get a refund."
"It's a fancy-schmancy, juried art show," Frankie explained. "By invitation only… no refunds."
Mrs. Dexter blew out her cheeks. "Tough luck!"
Thursday Frankie's mother came into the bedroom as he was climbing under the covers. "How's the Ryder woman doing?"
"Much better, but she's still too weak to work the fair." He breathed out heavily making a disagreeable sound. "She spent the whole month making inventory for the show, and now she'll have to eat the loss. What a waste!"
His mother picked up a pair of Dockers slacks, folding them on the crease. "You know how to manage the booth, right?"
"Yeah, but each crafter has to set up, greet customers, track sales … "
Mrs. Dexter hung the slacks in the closet and turned to face her son. "Perhaps if she got permission from the sponsor, we could manage the booth in her absence."
Frankie's brain flickered, momentarily dimmed then grew white hot again. "I can sell. That's no problem as long as somebody helps bagging, collecting the money and sales tax."
"What's Kendra's telephone number?” Mrs. Dexter shuffled to the door. “I'll call over there now and let her know."
When his mother was gone, Frankie reached under his pillow and fingered the milky white shaft of Brazilian tulipwood. He ran his palm over the surface of the redolent, ornamental wood - the talisman of a kinder, gentler universe – but left it where it lay.
Back to Table of Contents
A Key to Paradise
Part I
Grace Paulson took advantage of a free period at eleven forty-five and ran across the street to the Kentucky Fried Chicken. A colorful sign in the window trumpeted: ‘Today’s Special: Chicken Pot Pies only $2.55!’ Inside another cardboard display propped on the counter repeated the bargain. A bleary-eyed youth behind the counter took her order.
“Whadayawanna drink?” The clerk asked, running all the syllables together in a semantic salad.
“Nothing, just the pie,” Grace said.
He rang up the order. “That’ll be 4.79.” Grace pointed to the sign next to his elbow. The youth scowled and punched in the correct number on the keypad. No apology. Not even a hint of embarrassment.
It was a few minutes past noon when Grace returned, and most teachers at Brandenburg Middle School were eating lunch in the staff dining room. Ed Gray, Chairman of the English Department, entered. The man was a bit of an oddity at Brandenburg. Gaunt and high-strung, he kept apart from the rest of the staff but was not unfriendly. A real bookworm.
Under his left arm was a tattered, hard-covered volume which he placed on the table as he sat down next to Grace. The binding of the book was coming unglued, the spine just barely holding the frayed, yellowed pages together. “Didn’t see that on the menu,” Ed remarked with a wry grin, indicating the chicken pot pie.
Grace plunged a plastic fork through the flaky, golden crust and speared a wedge of chicken floating in a creamy, vegetable broth. The previous Tuesday, the KFC was sold out of chicken pot pies well before noon and she had to settle for a plate of fried chicken with a side order of lukewarm potato wedges and crumbly biscuit. Bait and switch. Even something as simple as buying lunch was becoming a royal pain in the derriere. And who could you complain to? The pudgy, white-suited colonel was long dead and no one in the store looked old enough to vote.
“How is it,… the pot pie?” Ed’s voice jolted her back to reality.
“Actually, it’s quite good,” Grace replied nibbling on a succulent carrot. She told him about the incident at the KFC.
“An innocent mistake,” he said. “The clerk probably forgot the pies were on sale today.”
“Perhaps,” Grace countered, “but then he wasn’t the least bit concerned about ringing up the wrong price and actually seemed offended when I pointed out his mistake.”
Ed shrugged and pursed his lips but had nothing more to say about the matter. Grace, on the other hand, couldn’t let it rest. She had a nagging suspicion that, out of pig-headed spitefulness, the next dozen customers to order the chicken pot pie would be charged full price.
She broke off a section of the papery crust, swirled it around in the thick broth and deposited the soggy dough on her tongue. Regardless of price, the pie was awfully tasty. “Now that’s an ancient artifact,” Grace gestured toward the damaged book. She was teaching eighth grade English and worked with Ed on the curriculum committee during the summer.
"A collection of Pushkin's short stories," Ed replied, turning his attention to the food on his plate.
Grace wracked her brains. She had a decent grounding in Russian literature—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov. She’s even read some Turgenev and a smattering of Gogol but no Pushkin.
After a moment Ed raised his head and noticed Carl, the janitor’s helper, staring at the clothbound object by his tray. "It’s quite good," Ed said. His thin, delicate fingers danced over the torn binding.
Carl’s face went blank and then the hint of a smile formed at the corners of his lips. The smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "I’m familiar with Pushkin."
There was an uncomfortable pause, as though some code of etiquette had been breached and no one in the dining room quite knew how to set things right. Ed Gray smeared the watery brown gravy from his meat loaf onto the mash potatoes with the flat side of his knife. "You’re familiar with Pushkin?" He repeated the man’
s words without bothering to look up.”
“The father of modern Russian writing.”
Tapping his fingers in rhythmic staccato a second time, the Chairman of the English Department opened the front cover of the book and began turning pages at random. His forehead furrowed and lips tightened in a thin, bloodless line. "But that's not possible," Ed countered in a slightly petulant tone. "Pushkin wrote in the early eighteen hundreds. There was nothing modern about his prose. Perhaps you have him confused with someone else."
Carl glanced up at a florescent light that had been flickering erratically then resetting itself throughout the meal. The corners of the bulb had turned a sickly bluish-orange; there was no more life left in the mottled tube. “Pushkin broke with the romantic tradition. Everything changed after that."
Dead silence.
Those teachers who, for the sake of propriety, had averted their eyes, now stared intently at the janitor in the blue coveralls. Ed Gray blanched; he had the look of a man free falling through space. No one spoke for the remainder of the meal.
Grace finished her chicken pot pie, sopping up the last remaining peas and carrots with a piece of crust. She glanced curiously at the janitor’s helper. How long had Carl been employed there? She couldn’t recall when the wiry man first appeared at Brandenburg Middle School. It may have been in the spring of 2004, a particularly cold year with many snow storms and an endless series of illness that thinned the classes by half on any given week. Or it might have been the following September. No one really noticed. Nor did they care.
The janitor's helper. Teachers sometimes used the term interchangeably with his name but not in a mean-spirited way. There was technically no such thing as a janitor's helper. But the man was too old, in his late thirties, to be a career-minded new recruit. He swept the floors, scraped and painted old furniture. He washed the windows and emptied the trash. He did whatever Bob Watson, the head janitor for the past fourteen years, told him to do. He did his job quietly, unobtrusively. Hardworking and dependable, you saw him and didn't see him at the same time.