“Arthur,” he said, his voice carrying that nasal, mocking drawl that always sounded like he was trying to sell a bad watch.
“Dustin,” I said.
He walked around the hood and opened Marcy’s door, but his eyes stayed on me. He held out his hand.
I took it, and he immediately wrapped his fingers tight, applying a hard, steady pressure that had nothing to do with a greeting. He cracked his knuckles one by one with his free hand while he held my grip.
“You look like you are losing weight, old man,” Dustin said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You need to spend some time down at the club.”
“My work keeps me busy enough,” I said, pulling my hand back without showing the effort it took.
“Marcy says you are building her something,” he said, leaning against the truck door.
“Just a small project,” I said.
“Make sure it is sturdy,” Dustin said, tapping his knuckles against the steel truck bed. “Things get broken around our place when we start cleaning up.”
Marcy stepped out of the truck, her head down, her hand already checking the collar of her heavy coat.
“I will see you at seven, babe,” Dustin said, not looking at her as he climbed back into the cab.
The truck roared as he backed down the drive, leaving a smell of unburnt fuel hanging in the cold air.
The kitchen was warm from the oven, but Marcy sat near the radiator with her coat still draped over her shoulders. I set the small white oak jewelry box on the oilcloth table between us.
“I finished the latch this afternoon,” I said.
She looked at the wood, her fingers moving slowly toward the lid. “It is beautiful, Dad.”
The white oak was quartersawn, showing the wide, bright flakes of the grain that took the oil finish so well. I had spent three nights sanding the joints until they disappeared.
“Open it,” I said.
She reached out her right hand, but her fingers stopped an inch from the brass clasp. Her wrist shook with a small, persistent tremor that she tried to hide by tucking her sleeve down over her palm.
“The wood always tells you how it wants to be shaped, Marcy,” I said, my voice low. “If you force it, the grain splits.”
