The Disarming Carpenter by Stan Wild
My wife had told me to rest. I like to watch the sun off the water at that time, rippling out in gold in these small, murmuring waves. The fish come to the surface too, since I used to feed them at that time. I see their bubbles from where I sit and watch the flurry before they slowly shrink away.
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I could see that he was athletic, as his boat emerged through the leaves of the trees that overhang the river. I watched him as he paddled to the shore and moored at the jetty. He said his boat had run dry, and could he trouble us for some gasoline?
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When folk come through the trees this way, I like it for them to recognise the craftsmanship. All of it is oak: felled, planed, joined, everything by me, so I like it appreciated.
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“It’s a beautiful place you have here, Sir”
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He took his hat in the palm of his hand as he spoke to me, which is not commonplace now.
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I said, “Come up here and get a drink.”
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“Nathan Clarke”, he said, shaking my hand.
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He looked up and past me, and in the doorway was my wife.
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“Hi”, she said.
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“Cynthia”, I said, “come meet Mr Clarke.”
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We watched her walk from the doorway, across the veranda.
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Soon, the smell of Tri-tip found us out there, and we convinced him to join us. He helped me up, and we made our way to the table, and I took my pills from the cabinet.
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“What’s your trade?” he said
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“Prosthetics”, I said
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We took the chance to look each other up and down as we took our seats at the table. The cabinet, the table: I had made all these things too. I said:
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“Carpentry, but lately, more or less, limbs”
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“Wooden limbs?” he said
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If folk think of me as Geppetto, then god help them: I like to disarm, so to speak.
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My wife came through the door now. She had made up around the eyes and filled our glasses. She said:
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“Are you from here, Nathan?”
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“Let the man eat,” I said
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She started to offer us potatoes.
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“Here”, she said, “have more” I can make her nervous like that.
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He cleared his throat and dabbed his lips. We ate in silence then, but that was standard. What was not, is that once he was done, he said to his plate:
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“I knight you: Sir Loin.”
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He placed the napkin down on his plate and cutlery.
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“Now, can I offer anyone a smoke?” he said
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She looked to me, and then him and took the napkin from her lap. From my chair, I watched them pass through the kitchen. I could have done with a smoke. I dropped a pill in the wine and whisked it silently with my fork, deliberate not to hit the edges of the glass. These things bubble like the fish, then slowly shrink away.
Stan J Wild is a new British writer. He has appeared or is forthcoming in Vestal Review, Neon & Smoke, Hinterland Magazine, Suddenly and Without Warning, Flash Fiction North, Literally Stories and now Free Flash Fiction. He works in the NGO sector and has two young sons.
Photo by James Wheeler via flickr.com
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