Chapter 9: Sawdust

Malcolm's shop was a long brick building on the east side, with a roll-up door and a loft over the back.

He unlocked the side entrance and flipped on the overhead lights, one row at a time.

It smelled of cedar and varnish.

Cabinet doors leaned along one wall in a line, and a half-built dresser sat on sawhorses by the window.

I walked in with Dot's quilt still over my arm.

"I come here when I can't be in my head," he said. "Hasn't failed yet."

"Does it work?"

"Mostly."

I set the quilt on a stool.

I ran my hand along the dresser's top rail, which was sanded perfectly smooth.

"Did you make this?"

"It's an order. A woman in Worthington wants it for her daughter's room."

"It's beautiful."

"It's a dresser," he said, but he looked pleased.

He stood across the workbench from me with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and I looked at his forearms.

There was sawdust in the hair on them, and a long white scar along the left one.

"How did you get that?"

"A table saw, when I was nineteen."

"Did it hurt?"

"Not as much as the stitches."

"You ask a lot of questions," I said.

"You've asked three."

"I clean teeth for a living. My patients can't answer with their mouths open, so I'm used to carrying both sides."

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