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Authors: Ben Stephenson
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all of them at once. It felt exactly like wet sandpaper.
I kind of giggled even though I wasnât in the mood to laugh, because it was really tickling. Brenda peeked out from the kitchen door, and looked at me, smiling, with the phone cord yanked out straight behind her.
âOh Phil, I almost forgot! Little Arthurâyou remember Arthur Williams? No, yes. Yes exactly. He was wondering if you lost a book.â
The cat finished my toe bath and softly hurried up a few of the grey carpeted stairs to the second floor, and sat there watching me.
âNo, a black and white notebook. What? Yes, black and whiteâspeckled. Yes. No? Okay, I wouldâve figured as much. Yes. Wouldâve figured as much.â
She put her hand over the bottom part of the phone and whispered, âHe says itâs not his,â and went back into the kitchen to keep phoning.
âObviously,â I whispered to the cat.
I tiptoed down the hall and shoved my boots on and opened the door to outside. It was almost dark.
âWell, Phil, nice to talk to you. Just wanted to separate sheep from goats, you know, asââ
I shut the door as softly as I could, tiptoed half of the driveway and then ran the rest. When I finally got to the street I slumped all the way back home, picking up twigs every once in a while and snapping them in half.
I got home and went past the kitchen and the room beside, where Simon was doing work on the computer, and I went to my room and opened my closet and stared at the bulletin board. I thought about Brenda, and the piles of stuff. I thought about the chocolate chip cookie, and the frozen garden. I thought about the whole stupid evening, and tried to think of something I might have learned. Years later, I wrote on another scrap of paper and tacked it up with the rest.
CLUES:
âFrom the bent tree you take five steps away from the river and one sideways towards the house.
âIt must have been there a while.
âBecause of the mud and water and rust.
âHow you canât possibly think of anything else.
âIt was in the woods.
âSomeone named Phil.
âHow the catâs tongue felt exactly like wet sandpaper.
WE HOLD
THEY BUILD it together. We see another man, a man with glasses and slim limbs, a man carrying on his square shoulder a young boy, kicking squirming laughing. He always carries the boy this way, at least every time we see them come to build: he holds the boyâs waist and flings him up onto his shoulder and they walk among us. The man places his steps with visible caution: he is walking for two. With his other hand, on the non-boy side, he carries a red toolbox. When they get to the spot, the man bows and the boyâs small feet touch the ground as the toolboxâs scuffed bottom does the same.
Though the man does the bulk of the work, he makes sure the boy always has some task, some skill to contribute: see him pass the box of nails to the man when he asks. See the boy holding the level, the man asking if the bubble is centred, the boy checking and screaming yes. The boy sitting with his back to the man, stacking small towers of dusty scraps of wood, humming structureless wandering songs that he invents as he goes.
The man places the boards of the ragged frame and the plywood to clothe it. The wood they use is from a pile of leftovers from the building of their house, years ago. The man starts the nails with his hammer, leaving an inch for the boy to finish with his own boy-sized hammer. Often the boy bends a nail in half, and the man starts another one just beside. Sometimes the boy demands to use the big hammer, making the man use the small one instead.
Between three of us, a small triangular floor soon sits. A moment later, a top floor as well. Then two ladders, one for each level, and a roof: a wavy bit of mint-green fibreglass blazing translucent in sunlight. The man watches the boy climb the ladder to the top floor for the first time.
The
I kind of giggled even though I wasnât in the mood to laugh, because it was really tickling. Brenda peeked out from the kitchen door, and looked at me, smiling, with the phone cord yanked out straight behind her.
âOh Phil, I almost forgot! Little Arthurâyou remember Arthur Williams? No, yes. Yes exactly. He was wondering if you lost a book.â
The cat finished my toe bath and softly hurried up a few of the grey carpeted stairs to the second floor, and sat there watching me.
âNo, a black and white notebook. What? Yes, black and whiteâspeckled. Yes. No? Okay, I wouldâve figured as much. Yes. Wouldâve figured as much.â
She put her hand over the bottom part of the phone and whispered, âHe says itâs not his,â and went back into the kitchen to keep phoning.
âObviously,â I whispered to the cat.
I tiptoed down the hall and shoved my boots on and opened the door to outside. It was almost dark.
âWell, Phil, nice to talk to you. Just wanted to separate sheep from goats, you know, asââ
I shut the door as softly as I could, tiptoed half of the driveway and then ran the rest. When I finally got to the street I slumped all the way back home, picking up twigs every once in a while and snapping them in half.
I got home and went past the kitchen and the room beside, where Simon was doing work on the computer, and I went to my room and opened my closet and stared at the bulletin board. I thought about Brenda, and the piles of stuff. I thought about the chocolate chip cookie, and the frozen garden. I thought about the whole stupid evening, and tried to think of something I might have learned. Years later, I wrote on another scrap of paper and tacked it up with the rest.
CLUES:
âFrom the bent tree you take five steps away from the river and one sideways towards the house.
âIt must have been there a while.
âBecause of the mud and water and rust.
âHow you canât possibly think of anything else.
âIt was in the woods.
âSomeone named Phil.
âHow the catâs tongue felt exactly like wet sandpaper.
WE HOLD
THEY BUILD it together. We see another man, a man with glasses and slim limbs, a man carrying on his square shoulder a young boy, kicking squirming laughing. He always carries the boy this way, at least every time we see them come to build: he holds the boyâs waist and flings him up onto his shoulder and they walk among us. The man places his steps with visible caution: he is walking for two. With his other hand, on the non-boy side, he carries a red toolbox. When they get to the spot, the man bows and the boyâs small feet touch the ground as the toolboxâs scuffed bottom does the same.
Though the man does the bulk of the work, he makes sure the boy always has some task, some skill to contribute: see him pass the box of nails to the man when he asks. See the boy holding the level, the man asking if the bubble is centred, the boy checking and screaming yes. The boy sitting with his back to the man, stacking small towers of dusty scraps of wood, humming structureless wandering songs that he invents as he goes.
The man places the boards of the ragged frame and the plywood to clothe it. The wood they use is from a pile of leftovers from the building of their house, years ago. The man starts the nails with his hammer, leaving an inch for the boy to finish with his own boy-sized hammer. Often the boy bends a nail in half, and the man starts another one just beside. Sometimes the boy demands to use the big hammer, making the man use the small one instead.
Between three of us, a small triangular floor soon sits. A moment later, a top floor as well. Then two ladders, one for each level, and a roof: a wavy bit of mint-green fibreglass blazing translucent in sunlight. The man watches the boy climb the ladder to the top floor for the first time.
The
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