Read Online Match Play by D. Michael Poppe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D. Michael Poppe
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washes and then searches the refrigerator for a light dinner. He chooses cheese, bread and a half bottle of wine, placing the food on the table. He moves his briefcase to the floor and opens the patio door and sits down to eat. He likes that there is an overhead light above the table as he plans to sharpen his blades after eating.
The cheese, bread and wine are satisfying and the ocean breeze has refreshed him. After clearing the table and washing up, he returns the briefcase to the table.
He removes and unrolls the sheath of knives. He commissioned the set from a German master knife-maker in Chicago. The knives in his collection are top quality, hand-forged steel and all but one, his beautiful twelve-inch butcher knife, which was a gift, were made under his direction. The butcher knife handle is oak and bloodstained, worn with use, and his most precious possession. He instructed the knife maker to use oak for the handles but to stain them with blood.
He lightly touches each one, starting with the peeling knife, then the paring, the boning, the cleaver, the carving, and finally the butcher knife. The pattern in the forged steel shimmers in the light. He removes the butcher knife and briefly flashes back to the many hours spent with this knife in his hand. He picks up a very fine quality whetstone, rises and gets a cup of water.
Deborah Beatty’s eyes flicker through his mind as he begins to caress the stone with the edge of the blade. The sound is like a chant, comforting him with a serenade that is not unlike the sound of the ebb and flow of the ocean. Soon he is in a concentrated rhythm, one with the steel as the blade mates with the stone.
Touching the butcher knife brings memories of Samuel Washington. He worked beside Sam in the kill room of his father’s packing plant. Sam, who never harassed or made fun of him, often jumped the rails and helped him catch up on the gutting.
His first days on the job had been crazed, frenzied bedlam. The sounds were maddening with screaming animals, the air thick with the stench of blood and excrement. Blood was inches deep on the concrete floor; he stood in the guts as the entrails splashed out of the bellies. He was covered in blood, exhausted and disgusted to the point of nausea and had vomited after the first hour.
He was not well built or particularly strong. Sam had jumped over the rails several times to help him and to show him how to split the carcass with the least effort and a deft movement. Sam gave him his personal knife and taught him how to use it properly. The job became easier after that. He was over-handing the blade of Sam’s big knife into the belly and pulling it down until the ribs split, then he would insert his hand and with one firm pull on the intestine, release the innards.
He was the owner’s son and Sam befriended him, never questioning why the young man was there. He had expected to go to college and instead ended up in a mad house. He stops and sets the big blade aside. Samuel Washington is there, in the knife. He will always be grateful to the man for teaching him his skills.
He thinks of his father standing on the observation deck above the kill room, smiling down through the glass. He wonders if he has learned what his father intended.
He reaches into the sheath and chooses the boning knife. It has a very slender blade that he has learned to wield like a scalpel. Often, when he holds it, it feels as if it is a part of his hand. The subtle, soothing rhythm resumes. The sharpening process is repeated four more times before he finally sheaths the knives, dries the stone and closes the briefcase.
He relaxes in the chair for a moment, closing his eyes and listening to the ocean as he unties his hair and thinks of Joan.
California is a place known for its anonymity and a place where he can and will play the second hole. Metaphorically, his ball is lying in the fairway, but no one can touch his game until he chooses.
If all goes according to plan
The cheese, bread and wine are satisfying and the ocean breeze has refreshed him. After clearing the table and washing up, he returns the briefcase to the table.
He removes and unrolls the sheath of knives. He commissioned the set from a German master knife-maker in Chicago. The knives in his collection are top quality, hand-forged steel and all but one, his beautiful twelve-inch butcher knife, which was a gift, were made under his direction. The butcher knife handle is oak and bloodstained, worn with use, and his most precious possession. He instructed the knife maker to use oak for the handles but to stain them with blood.
He lightly touches each one, starting with the peeling knife, then the paring, the boning, the cleaver, the carving, and finally the butcher knife. The pattern in the forged steel shimmers in the light. He removes the butcher knife and briefly flashes back to the many hours spent with this knife in his hand. He picks up a very fine quality whetstone, rises and gets a cup of water.
Deborah Beatty’s eyes flicker through his mind as he begins to caress the stone with the edge of the blade. The sound is like a chant, comforting him with a serenade that is not unlike the sound of the ebb and flow of the ocean. Soon he is in a concentrated rhythm, one with the steel as the blade mates with the stone.
Touching the butcher knife brings memories of Samuel Washington. He worked beside Sam in the kill room of his father’s packing plant. Sam, who never harassed or made fun of him, often jumped the rails and helped him catch up on the gutting.
His first days on the job had been crazed, frenzied bedlam. The sounds were maddening with screaming animals, the air thick with the stench of blood and excrement. Blood was inches deep on the concrete floor; he stood in the guts as the entrails splashed out of the bellies. He was covered in blood, exhausted and disgusted to the point of nausea and had vomited after the first hour.
He was not well built or particularly strong. Sam had jumped over the rails several times to help him and to show him how to split the carcass with the least effort and a deft movement. Sam gave him his personal knife and taught him how to use it properly. The job became easier after that. He was over-handing the blade of Sam’s big knife into the belly and pulling it down until the ribs split, then he would insert his hand and with one firm pull on the intestine, release the innards.
He was the owner’s son and Sam befriended him, never questioning why the young man was there. He had expected to go to college and instead ended up in a mad house. He stops and sets the big blade aside. Samuel Washington is there, in the knife. He will always be grateful to the man for teaching him his skills.
He thinks of his father standing on the observation deck above the kill room, smiling down through the glass. He wonders if he has learned what his father intended.
He reaches into the sheath and chooses the boning knife. It has a very slender blade that he has learned to wield like a scalpel. Often, when he holds it, it feels as if it is a part of his hand. The subtle, soothing rhythm resumes. The sharpening process is repeated four more times before he finally sheaths the knives, dries the stone and closes the briefcase.
He relaxes in the chair for a moment, closing his eyes and listening to the ocean as he unties his hair and thinks of Joan.
California is a place known for its anonymity and a place where he can and will play the second hole. Metaphorically, his ball is lying in the fairway, but no one can touch his game until he chooses.
If all goes according to plan
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