I’m looking for the coffee supplies. It seems to me that in a house as fully furnished as this one, there must be a coffeepot somewhere in the kitchen. On the way back home, I stopped at the General Store—yes, this town has an honest-to-God General Store—I didn’t think they even had any more of those and picked up a local roast, praying I’d be able to find a coffee maker. I ground the beans, because I was pretty sure I'd be hard-pressed to locate a grinder. I figured, worse case scenario, I could use the funnel that’s hanging in the garage and a filter to make it. At least I know I can boil water.
In the cabinet to the left of the stove I find it. As I pull it off the shelf, a small, smooth carving of a pregnant woman tumbles onto the counter. The coffee pot is as old as I am, but after a good cleaning and some fresh water and grounds, it’s making all the right chugging noises. The carving is smooth in my hands and seems familiar to me. The smell of the coffee is like a balm, and I remember that the General Store had nearly an entire row of designer gourmet coffee available. This is not the General Store of my youth. In addition to the standard sodas, baked goods and greeting cards, there were sections of solar equipment, polish pottery, severely fancy kitchen tools and shelves and shelves of spices. They carry everything from pickling spice to garam masala. Either this town is full of chefs, or this store is catering to the green yuppie crowd.
The pregnant woman, so warm now in my hands, is what made me remember the Store. There were 3 carvings on one of the shelves that look like they were done by the same artist. There’s a stunning simplicity to the forms, but they draw the eye, and the hand, right to them. It’s as if they’re waiting to be handled. I like the way this carving has warmed under the heat of my fingers. I find myself tracing the line of her belly where she’s swollen and ready. The wood where my finger traces is darker than the rest of the carving, and it’s only after close scrutiny that I realize it’s oil from other hands. I am not the only one to trace this lady’s belly.
____
The phone trilled loudly in the kitchen. I hopped up and jogged from the bedroom to the kitchen. In my rush, I skidded in the living room driving one of those damnable wood shavings into my foot. God-damned-mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch-and-bastard. I limped into the kitchen and didn’t make it in time to answer the phone. I’d gotten so comfortable in my ready-made life I hadn’t bothered to buy some of the more necessary items, like an answering machine. Hell, I hadn’t even had the number changed to my own, or asked for voice mail or anything. I slammed the puke-green phone down on the cradle and hobbled to the bathroom, which seemed like a logical place for a pair of tweezers.
The medicine cabinet was a barren except for a razor that was nearly as old as me, a single toothbrush in a mason jar, and a gleaming pair of what was called “Uncle Bill’s Sliver Gripper Tweezers.” There were alarmingly pointy and small, and I snatched them up and sat on the toilet. I bent my foot up, found the sliver and pulled it out on the first try with the tweezers. That’s a good pair of tweezers. A damned good pair of tweezers. A pair of tweezers for someone who got a lot of slivers. I palmed the tweezers, stopped by the coffee table, picked up the small knife and decided it was time to take a drive.
____
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. She glanced up at me and smiled.
“May I help you?”
“I hope so. I was in here a few weeks ago and noticed the older gentleman who was working. I was hoping to ask him a few questions. Is he around?”
I glanced back toward the shelf that had the carvings and realized they were gone. I turned back to the counter and noticed a display of Uncle Bill’s Sliver Gripper tweezers.
“I’m sorry. He’s not here now.” She grinned and pointed a dainty hand toward the employee door. “But he should be in in about 10 minutes, if you’d like to wait.”
It wasn’t as if I had pressing matters elsewhere.
“Oh. Okay. Yes. I will. Wait, I mean.” She looked amused. “There were 3 small statues, wooden statues when I was here last. But I don’t see them. Did you move them?”
Her eyes softened and she cocked her head slightly. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I puzzled.
“We sold all three of them early this week. They were exquisite in their simplicity.”
“Damn. Those were my thoughts exactly. Lucky buyer.” What are the chances they’d be gone when I came back. I’d seen the dust covering them when I was here last. They must have lived on the shelf for years. I wandered over to the shelf where they were. Sure enough, the missing statues left footprints in the dust as well as 4 lines where the right hand of someone trailed when they took them off the shelf. I was hopeful the older fellow who, I assumed, owned the place would be able to tell me a little more about them.
YOU ARE READING
Carving Out
General FictionWhen Clare's life is shattered in an instant, she leaves behind everything she has known to start fresh in a place that holds no memories. A pile of wood shavings in the carpet of her new house propels her on a journey she never saw coming.
