The Carpenter Read Online Free PDF

furniture shop, and he’d eaten every day from a truck that came around and sold submarine sandwiches. But this wasn’t bad, packing a lunch. This was good. This seemed like the kind of thing you did when you had only yourself to look after and answer to.
    Around eight o’clock there was a knock at his door. Mr. Yoon was in the hallway.
    —How are you, said the landlord, flatly.
    —I’m good, said Lee. Tired out. You know.
    —You weren’t here today.
    —I was working. First day.
    Mr. Yoon nodded and said: Is everything working here?
    —Everything’s working good.
    —Okay.
    After a moment Mr. Yoon nodded and left. Lee closed the door.
    He got his tool belt and went back to the window, rubbing his sore shoulder. He sat there, watching the street. Indian summer evening—folks coming and going at the A&P across the way, a couple of high school kids acting like hoods on the street corner, boats out on the lake. While Lee watched, he cleaned the dirt from the tool-belt pouches and the hammer.
    Bud had said he could drive him the next day as well, would pick him up in the morning. There was that. And it was good to be sore from a day of work, even if he couldn’t see the progress at Clifton’s job site the way he could see how a desk went together. It was good to not have much to think about at all.
    B usiness was slow on Friday evening at the Texaco service station where Pete worked. The Texaco was on the highway bypass northeast of town. The sky above was turning dark and the night was going to be cool. Pete was sitting in a lawn chair, leaning back against the wall of the booth between the pumps, with a Louis L’Amour paperback—one of his Luke Short stories—open on his lap. A Ford Fairlane pulled in and drove over the bell-line and stopped at the pumps. Pete’s co-worker Duane was at the edge of the parking lot, engrossed in conversation with a shift worker from the chemical factory, so Pete put his book down and got up from the chair.
    He went over to the Ford. A thin old man, bald-headed, got out of the car and stretched and regarded Pete wearily.
    —What’ll it be, mister? said Pete.
    —The unleaded, please. You folks have a washroom?
    —Yes. Just go in the store and ask Caroline—she’s at the cash-out—for the key.
    The old man went into the store. Pete lifted the nozzle off the pump and pushed it into the Ford’s gas tank. The smell of gasoline rose on the air.
    —Working hard?
    Pete was startled. He turned and saw a man of about forty who’d evidently been in the Ford’s passenger seat. The man standing there did not appear to be all put-together. He had a wide grin and vacant eyes and sweatpants drawn high over his waist. He was wearing a baseball cap, but it didn’t fully hide theedges of a scar near the top of his forehead. He was nodding his head in perpetual agreement.
    —What can I say, said Pete. I’m keeping busy.
    The man’s head bobbed up and down. He laughed.
    —And you? said Pete. Plans for the weekend?
    —Oh, not me! I take it easy.
    The old man reappeared from the washroom.
    —For godsake, Simon. Get in the car.
    Simon shuffled back to the passenger seat. Over his shoulder he told Pete not to work too hard.
    —I’m sorry, said the old man. Sometimes he wanders away. It’s frustrating.
    —It’s no trouble.
    The old man didn’t say anything. By way of something to break the quiet, Pete asked him if his car was the ‘79 Fairlane.
    The old man blinked. He smiled, said: Yes, this is the ‘79. I was always a Ford man. I used to run a dealership. Do you have a car?
    —I have a ‘73 Honda coupe I bought from my stepdad’s friend. It gets me around. But I always wanted a Mustang.
    The tank finished filling. Pete hung the nozzle on the pump.
    —It’ll be ten dollars.
    The old man paid by credit card. As Pete took an imprint of the card, he caught sight of the man’s name:
Arthur Grady.
Pete brought out a receipt and Arthur Grady signed it. He didn’t leave