Three and a half fingers and a thumb

Prompt: Write a story about someone returning to their craft after a long hiatus.

Three and a Half Fingers and a Thumb

For Chester Brinkley, the days started blending into each other after he retired. He loved his career as a teacher, but the time came for him to put down his chalk and ruler and leave his class. 

One of his favourite things to do at the start of the year was to wear gloves and then take them off to shake the student’s hands. He liked to see how his little third graders would react when they saw his index finger. “He’s just missing his hat.” He would say as they stood there holding his hand, unsure of what to do. Some would look up at him with a face showing a mixture of intrigue and disgust whereas others would look at him and say “Ewwww!” and then giggle at it. He missed education, he missed the kids, but the time had come to retire. He often thought of going back, but Margery, his lovely, witty wife, would give a big guffaw and tell him he was too old and wouldn’t be able to keep up with the Nintendo-craft kids of today. And she was right. Kids now probably wouldn’t want him to teach them the Charleston, but he still missed it every day. 

Chester would never complain about his life. It was quaint and quiet. His wife was there with him to pass the time. The kids had all left the house and would visit every once in a while with their partners. Eventually, they started to come visit with grandkids that he absolutely loved. Aside from the fact that his kids stole his opportunity to teach the Charleston to his grandkids. One day they showed up at his house and did it for him as a surprise. His kids had taught them before he had the chance! It took everything in him, but he eventually forgave them. Partially. He couldn’t complain. He actually thought he was very lucky because if not, his grand kids would marvel at the single bite taken out of a two-bite brownie-sized index finger. He was infinitely lucky to have his wife, to have his kids, and his grand-kids. The days weren’t blending into each other because they were all the same, or because he was bored. It was mainly because the days became as they become when you’re used to expecting the same thing every single day. They just had some minor differences. Therefore today, for Chester Brinkley, who was now just waking up, was not exciting enough to be undertaken with more, or less, excitement than any other day. 

“Chester dear, remember when Laurence came the other day with the kids and Gabriel fell down the stairs and hit the door at the bottom with his head?” Laurence was their oldest daughter. She ended up becoming a veterinarian and a mother of two. Gabriel and Alice, 5 and 7 years old respectively, were cute but definitely clumsy. 

“Of course I do! Poor thing.” Gabriel had cried and cried and then, as kids do, regardless of the painful goose egg on his head, climbed back up and tried sliding again, giggling, seconds after. 

“One of the hinges is loose. Could you fix it please?” The words resonated in his ears. He thought of his garage, his tools, the smell of sawdust and, hours, and sometimes days lost in the shop. Maybe today wouldn’t be so similar after all. 

“Absolutely dear.” He was waiting for her to say it like she always did. Although he had learnt from his mistake a long time ago, and that his baby carrot of an index finger reminded him of it every day, Margery was just worried and didn’t want him to lose his only good index. So, she liked to remind him every time he went in the garage to mind the saw. “Don’t let the saw nip you again!” She would tell him. At first, he was sad about it. But luckily, he was right-handed. Losing half of his left index finger wasn’t that big of a deal. At most, he just wasn’t able to point to things with his left finger. Instead of pointing with a tree, he was pointing with a stump. 

“Honey, aren’t you going to remind me?” He said. It was odd that she hadn’t reminded him yet even though he was going to be working with tools.

“Chester, you don’t need to use a saw to fix a door hinge, love.” she said, not even looking up from her paper, and she was right. Chester shrugged in agreement and made his way over to the garage. His mind was filled with memories. He thought of Laurence and Oliver, his son, coming in the garage on a hot sunny day asking for the yard sprinkler. Oliver and his friends wanting to build a tree house “by themselves”. He reminisced of his neighbour, Walter, always coming in to borrow the same screwdriver all the time even though he had bought him the exact same one for Christmas. The things he had built and fixed: tables, chairs, a swing set… His hobby got to the point where even his kids were in on it. One day a wooden post broke in the yard at Laurence’s school, and she brought it home, bragging: “My dad can fix anything.” That night he ended up buying a four by four and replaced the old post. He still has no idea what that post was there for but according to Laurence, it was important for their game of tag. Somehow, woodwork had embellished so many aspects of his life. 

“Well, you don’t have to do it now, have a spot of breakfast. I made eggs and toast. Your plate is on the counter.” As it was every time she made him breakfast. That was also a tradition that started because of the shop. 

They had bought this house a year or two before they got married and it had been in bad shape. The fact that they now had door hinges for their grand kids to break would be an impressive feat for anyone who had seen the house in its “pre-Chester and Margery” era. Their parents and friends all said not to buy it, but Margery saw charm in it. They were looking for a place, and his first instinct when they got to the house was to turn away and tell her they’d look elsewhere, but she was more open-minded than he was. After walking through the house, it was a definite no, but this amazing woman did as amazing women do. She stood strong, she debated, and she convinced him, easily. She was fantasizing about every room.

 “A half spiral staircase here, and columns!” She would say.

“Oh, I see it babe.” A skeptical answer. 

“Brown walls. But not chocolate brown, like a very warm beige.” She was spinning in the large room that was now their living room. 

“That’ll be lovely dear.” He wasn’t too sure.

“A large window here so that we can look over the lake every night during dinner.” She stared out of a thin, tiny window into the backyard. He could start seeing it now. 

“We’ll put in the biggest one we can find.” Chester’s mind was opening up now. 

“If we ever have kids, these could be their rooms.” she said, caressing the wall ridden with holes that was now covered in their family pictures. 

“If we ever do, they’ll love it.” He was convinced now. There was one more room left but he knew now, with her guidance, that this would be their home. She opened the garage door. 

“Chester, this is huge! You could put all of your tools in here.” Her eyes were wide, her grin beaming. Even though he didn’t have a ring, he knew that this was the woman, this was the house. She turned around to find him down on one knee. Like an idiot, without a ring. But he confessed his love, he promised that there would be a ring, and that there would be this house, there would be his tools in the garage, kids in the bedrooms if she wanted them, a big window to look at the lake, brown walls and a half spiral staircase. 

Since they ended up buying the house, they had a lot of work ahead of him. Every morning, he woke up early and went straight to the garage and started working on whatever he had to work on. After about an hour, like magic, there would always be a plate of breakfast on his tool bench by the door. Sometimes, there was even a little note. In the meantime, she painted, changed trimming, tore down walls and wallpaper (if you could call it that). Little by little, the house became exactly what they wanted. 

He sat down, with his breakfast, to mentally make up a plan for changing the hinge. He might have to change the door trimming too, that would mean screws, a lot of measuring, and new trimming he’d have to buy or make. Maybe the door was also broken, and he’d have to go buy a new one. But there must be an extra or a spare door laying somewhere in the bazar of odd wood that had been collecting dust in there for a few years now. What if the astragal was damaged? That troublesome, never straight enough, too small to screw with certitude, little piece of wood in the middle of a door. He knew for a fact that he had enough wood to replace that, but that would require some precision cutting. How would Margery react if he had to tell her he needed to use the saw?

The day he lost part of his finger was a day like any other. The board on the old swing in the backyard had broken and Laurence said she wanted him to fix it because her imaginary friend was sad he couldn’t swing anymore. Was he in the middle of a project? Yes. Did he say that to Laurence? Yes. Did she care? No. Exactly like her mom that one, because in mere seconds he was convinced that he needed to fix this swing. However, he didn’t take the necessary precautions. Power tools might be extremely useful, but so are the fingers that are supposed to stay a safe distance from spinning pieces of very sharp metal. He didn’t fix the piece of wood to his workbench and decided to just hold it down and before he knew it, he had given his finger a horrendous buzz cut. Saying that Margery freaked out would be an understatement. For the first time since he’s known her, she hadn’t said anything witty at one of his mishaps. She turned white and went for the keys while he was on the phone with the neighbours asking if they could come watch the kids. She didn’t say anything until some 5 minutes later when they were well on their way to the hospital. 

“I think I would’ve soiled myself if you would’ve asked me to hold the finger for you.” He was in a lot of pain, but laughter definitely helped.

“Marg?” He said in between bites of toast. “What if I have to use the saw?” She was about to say something clever because she looked at him from over her glasses. 

“Chester, my sweet love, I don’t think a saw will help you tighten some screws. As I don’t think a screwdriver will cut off your good finger either.” Always so sharp, never missing a chance to show her wit. He couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little bit. Here he was making big plans to use his shop when in reality, he just needed to grab a screwdriver and tighten a few screws. 

Breakfast done and put away, he went to the garage and opened the door. The usually big garage was now cramped with a mish mash of tables, tools, wood, screws, nails, extension cords, anything he ever needed and more. The usual smell of oil and saw dust was now hidden behind the smell of regular old dust. He didn’t like it. He grabbed his screwdriver, went down to the door at the bottom of the stairs, looked at it for a second, and got to work. 

“Marg! Come here!” Chester yelled out after he was done. He heard her usual grumbling and purposeful shuffling. 

“Chester, I’ve already told you, you won’t be needing your--. What did you do?” Margery looked down the stairs at her husband who was standing there, wide eyed and beaming grin, holding a screwdriver, the door on the ground. 

“What if we took off the door and changed a few things around down here?” She paused and came down the stairs. 

“Well I’ve been telling you for years, almost a millenia now you old man, that I want an open arch at the bottom of the stairs. We should’ve never put in that carpet. We should have gone for hardwood. I want a bar here and a table there to be able to have drinks and play cards with my girls.” She went on for some time. Chester stood there, holding his screwdriver, listening to everything, making plans. 

“For you dear, anything.” It was time to start the old shop back up again.

I hope that through this pandemic, those who’ve lost touch with their craft

find the proper motivation to fire up old passions.

-       Sébastien Papineau