to be a work of art,” he says. “It’s going inside the desk, no one’s gonna see it. Just get the splinters gone. Go along the grain, not across it.”
A pause. More sanding.
“What we’re making here,” he says, “is drawer runners. You know what those are?”
He glances up. It’s the kid from last night, all right, standing on the grass about a dozen feet away and staring at Cal, with every muscle poised to run if he needs to. Mousy buzz cut, too-big faded red hoodie, ratty jeans. He’s maybe twelve.
He shakes his head, one quick jerk.
“The part that holds the drawer in place. Makes it run in and out nice and smooth. That groove, there’s a piece on the drawer that’ll fit into it.” Cal leans over towards the desk, good and slow, to point. The kid’s eyes follow his every move. “The old ones were falling apart.”
He goes back to his chiseling. “Easiest thing would be to use a router for this, or a table saw,” he says, “but I don’t have those handy. Lucky for me, my grandpa liked carpentry. He showed me how to do this by hand, when I was about your size. You ever done any carpentry?”
He takes another glance. The kid shakes his head again. He’s built wiry, the type who’s as fast as he looks and stronger, both of which Cal already knew from last night. In the face he’s ordinary: a little of the baby softness left, not strong-featured or fine-featured, or good-looking or ugly; the only things that stand out are a stubborn chin and a pair of gray eyes fixed on Cal like they’re running him through some CIA-level computer check.
“Well,” Cal says, “now you have. Drawers nowadays, they’ve got metal runners, but this is an old desk. I can’t tell you how old, exactly; that’s not my area. I’d love to think we’ve got ourselves some Antiques Roadshow material here, but more’n likely it’s just a piece of old crap. I’ve taken a shine to it, though. I want to see if I can get it up and running.”
He’s talking like he would to a stray dog in his yard, steady and even, not bothering much about the actual words. The kid’s sanding is getting faster and more confident, as he gets the hang of it.
Cal measures his groove and saws off the next runner. “That should be done enough by now,” he says. “Lemme see.”
“If it’s for a drawer,” the kid says, “it oughta be real smooth. Or it’ll stick.”
His voice is clear and blunt, not broken yet, and his accent is almost as thick as Mart’s. And he’s not stupid. “True,” Cal says. “Go ahead and take your time.”
He angles himself so he can see the kid out of the corner of his eye while he chisels. The kid is taking this seriously, checking each surface and edge with a careful finger, going back over it again and again till he’s satisfied. Finally he looks up and throws Cal the runner.
Cal catches it. “Good job,” he says, testing with his thumb. “Look.” He fits it over the tenon at the side of the drawer and slides it back and forth. The kid cranes his neck to watch, but he doesn’t move nearer.
“Smooth as butter,” Cal says. “We’ll wax it up later on, just for a little extra slide, but it hardly even needs that. Have another one.”
When he reaches for the second runner, the kid’s eyes go to the Band-Aid on his hand.
“Yeah,” Cal says. He holds up the hand so the kid can get a good look. “This gets infected, I’m gonna be real pissed off with you.”
The kid’s eyes snap wide and his muscles snap tight. He’s on the verge of flight, toes barely touching the grass.
“You’ve been keeping a pretty good eye on me,” Cal says. “Any reason for that?”
After a moment the kid shakes his head. He’s still ready to run, eyes fixed on Cal to catch the first signs of a lunge.
“There something you want to know? Because if you do, now would be a real good time to go ahead and ask straight out like a man.”
The kid shakes his head again.
“Got any problems with me?”
Another head-shake, this one more vehement.
“You planning on robbing me? ’Cause that would be a bad idea. Plus, unless this turns out to be Antiques Roadshow stuff after all, I got nothing worth stealing.”
Hard head-shake.
“Someone send you?”
Incredulous grimace, like Cal just said something bizarre. “Nah.”