All right.”
“You going to be busy Monday?”
“No, I’m open Monday.”
“All right. Why don’t you come by the station about . . . oh, say, 5? I’ll show you around a bit and then you can watch me do the news. You have a way to get there?”
“I think I can borrow a car.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll clear it with the front desk and then give you a call with the details. Where are you staying?”
“Oh . . . a friend’s house.”
“Got a number there so I can call you?”
Carl hesitated. “Uh . . . no, not yet.”
“Well, okay.” John pulled out his wallet and produced a business card. “Here’s my number at home and at work. Give me a call Monday morning and I can let you know what to do, where to park, all thatstuff.”
“Okay.”
More dead air. The noise in the room was noise enough. Plenty of conversation, distraction, action. But what a lousy place to try to get some kind of conversation going with your son. Maybe Monday, at dinner. Then they’d be alone. They could work at it.
“Well, okay then,” said John, getting up. “See you Monday.”
“Monday,” said Carl, giving John a thumbs-up.
John found that simple little gesture encouraging. Perhaps some ice had melted.
CHAPTER 6
CLICK. TWO BARE lightbulbs on the ceiling came to life, and Carl Barrett remained in the doorway of the building for a moment spellbound, almost afraid to go inside.
“This was your grandfather’s workshop,” said Mom Barrett, still wearing the pale blue dress. It was Saturday night. The memorial service and afternoon get-together were over. Now, at the Barrett home, it was just Mom and Carl. “When he wasn’t working at the warehouse it seemed he was always out here, he and your father.”
Carl, still in black, still wearing the chain across his cheek, went inside, walking slowly among the power tools that stood neatly arranged about the floor like a gray steel platoon: the band saw, the table saw, the power planer, the drill press, the radial arm saw, the power sander. The room smelled of sawdust and machine oil, wood and iron, paint and lacquer, but it was remarkably clean. The floors had been thoroughly swept, and though faint traces of sawdust were visible in the rafters, on the windowsills, and along the top edges of the tool racks, this place was no typical messy woodshop.
“It wasn’t always this clean,” Mom said. “Close to it maybe, but Dad took a lot of time out here just getting the place spick-and-span, just like everything else he did in the last few days. Everything taken care of, everything in its place.”
Carl looked down and watched his own feet taking steps across the worn boards. This was where Grandpa walked , he thought. Thiswas where he worked. He placed his hand on the knob of the drill press, the finish worn off long ago by repeated use. This is your hand, Grandpa. He gave the crank a little turn and watched the drill’s chuck drop toward the table. He could imagine the rumble of the machine, the chips flying out of the drilled wood. My father used this machine too , he thought. This was part of his world.
Along the entire far wall was a heavy-built, nicked, gouged, spilled-upon but kept clean workbench with heavy drawers beneath it and tools, tools, tools hanging on the wall above it, each one carefully traced on the wall with a black marker so the eye would immediately know if a tool was missing, not in its place. Right now no tool was missing. All had come home to stay.
Mom’s eyes were filling with tears. “I’d better not stay out here long. I can see Dad everywhere I look.”
Carl knew what she meant. This room was just full of Grandpa. His touch and his personality were everywhere. Carl could feel it.
“But see?” Mom pointed, wiping her eyes clear with her other hand. “Down there at the end, right by the windows. Couldn’t you use that area?”
They walked down to the south end of the room where a row of large windows would welcome the daylight. Carl
“You going to be busy Monday?”
“No, I’m open Monday.”
“All right. Why don’t you come by the station about . . . oh, say, 5? I’ll show you around a bit and then you can watch me do the news. You have a way to get there?”
“I think I can borrow a car.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll clear it with the front desk and then give you a call with the details. Where are you staying?”
“Oh . . . a friend’s house.”
“Got a number there so I can call you?”
Carl hesitated. “Uh . . . no, not yet.”
“Well, okay.” John pulled out his wallet and produced a business card. “Here’s my number at home and at work. Give me a call Monday morning and I can let you know what to do, where to park, all thatstuff.”
“Okay.”
More dead air. The noise in the room was noise enough. Plenty of conversation, distraction, action. But what a lousy place to try to get some kind of conversation going with your son. Maybe Monday, at dinner. Then they’d be alone. They could work at it.
“Well, okay then,” said John, getting up. “See you Monday.”
“Monday,” said Carl, giving John a thumbs-up.
John found that simple little gesture encouraging. Perhaps some ice had melted.
CHAPTER 6
CLICK. TWO BARE lightbulbs on the ceiling came to life, and Carl Barrett remained in the doorway of the building for a moment spellbound, almost afraid to go inside.
“This was your grandfather’s workshop,” said Mom Barrett, still wearing the pale blue dress. It was Saturday night. The memorial service and afternoon get-together were over. Now, at the Barrett home, it was just Mom and Carl. “When he wasn’t working at the warehouse it seemed he was always out here, he and your father.”
Carl, still in black, still wearing the chain across his cheek, went inside, walking slowly among the power tools that stood neatly arranged about the floor like a gray steel platoon: the band saw, the table saw, the power planer, the drill press, the radial arm saw, the power sander. The room smelled of sawdust and machine oil, wood and iron, paint and lacquer, but it was remarkably clean. The floors had been thoroughly swept, and though faint traces of sawdust were visible in the rafters, on the windowsills, and along the top edges of the tool racks, this place was no typical messy woodshop.
“It wasn’t always this clean,” Mom said. “Close to it maybe, but Dad took a lot of time out here just getting the place spick-and-span, just like everything else he did in the last few days. Everything taken care of, everything in its place.”
Carl looked down and watched his own feet taking steps across the worn boards. This was where Grandpa walked , he thought. Thiswas where he worked. He placed his hand on the knob of the drill press, the finish worn off long ago by repeated use. This is your hand, Grandpa. He gave the crank a little turn and watched the drill’s chuck drop toward the table. He could imagine the rumble of the machine, the chips flying out of the drilled wood. My father used this machine too , he thought. This was part of his world.
Along the entire far wall was a heavy-built, nicked, gouged, spilled-upon but kept clean workbench with heavy drawers beneath it and tools, tools, tools hanging on the wall above it, each one carefully traced on the wall with a black marker so the eye would immediately know if a tool was missing, not in its place. Right now no tool was missing. All had come home to stay.
Mom’s eyes were filling with tears. “I’d better not stay out here long. I can see Dad everywhere I look.”
Carl knew what she meant. This room was just full of Grandpa. His touch and his personality were everywhere. Carl could feel it.
“But see?” Mom pointed, wiping her eyes clear with her other hand. “Down there at the end, right by the windows. Couldn’t you use that area?”
They walked down to the south end of the room where a row of large windows would welcome the daylight. Carl
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