The Carpenter and the Thief

Measure, cut, place, pound.

The Thief looks over my shoulder while I work. He caresses my hands. He breathes in my ear. The Thief never speaks to me. The Thief’s legs are strong. His fingers and face are long. His eyelids sag.

The Boy sits and watches me work and wipes his brow and drinks lemonade and asks me when we will be done.

“When will we be done?”

We’re almost done. We’re always almost done. So, we’re never done. We’re always never done.

The Boy takes a loud, long slurp of his lemonade and smacks his wooden lips. The wooden ice cubes tinkle. Sweat rolls down the wooden glass into a pool on the wooden table. The table wobbles. It rocks, the table. It, the table, rocks one way when the Boy lifts his glass. Then rocks back when he sets the glass down. Sometimes, he sets the glass in a different place and the table doesn’t rock. The Boy could fix the wobble if he wanted to. He knows how. Instead, after he takes a slurp and smacks his lips and sets his glass back down on the table that wobbles, he looks at me again with expectant eyes.

“Are we almost done?”

Sweat rolls down my face under the hot Sun. Sometimes I wipe my forehead with a torn handkerchief. After I do that—after I wipe my forehead—fresh beads of sweat appear on my forehead before I can even return the handkerchief to my pocket.

The Thief kneels beside the Boy. The Thief does not grin. He is pale and old looking, but older than he looks. Sometimes he is younger than he looks, though. The Thief is silent. He runs a long, bony finger through the Boy’s hair and down the Boy’s neck, all the while staring at me. The Thief does not experience mirth. He does not steal for pleasure. He steals for purpose.

Measure, cut, place, pound. The House is almost done.

“Are we almost done?”

Always.

Never.

Measure,  cut, place,  pound. I make a fence. The Boy hands me a nail. The Thief’s mouth hangs slack, exposing yellow slats, the spaces between which are colored brown that dips into black. I place the fence between the Boy and the Thief. The Boy slurps his lemonade and asks, “Will we be done soon?” The Thief looks on with slack jaw and wide, drooping, never-blinking eyes. I wipe my forehead and sweat beads again before I can put the damp handkerchief back in my pocket. The Boy watches me with expectant eyes. The Thief gnaws silently on the fence. The Thief makes no noise, not with his teeth, nor saliva, nor sack. If I couldn’t see him, I wouldn’t know he was there.

All around us, the ground is covered in sawdust.

Birds sing.

The Sun blazes.

The House is almost done, like always.

The Thief holds a large empty sack and silently gnaws on the fence. His saliva is acidic. It—the saliva—slowly eats the pickets as it runs down. The saliva, it makes them—the pickets—softer for the Thief to chew. He watches me while he gnaws. The wood turns pasty and oozes noiselessly between the brown black spaces of his—the Thief’s—yellow teeth.

The Boy slurps his wooden drink and sets it down where it sweats in a pool on the table that wobbles. He is not worried about the Thief. He knows the Thief will take him. He knows the Thief will take everything.

“Are we almost done?”

I work while they—the Boy and the Thief—watch.

The Thief removes a picket with his teeth and fondles the sack that looks like canvas. He runs his fingers along the track of the drawstring, pinching the bulge of the cord, worrying the wrinkles around the rim.

The Boy excuses himself to urinate, leaving me to work under the Thief’s silent gaze while he—the Thief—gnaws silently on the next picket. I wonder what, if anything, he—the Thief—thinks about.

The Boy returns from urinating.

“Are we almost done?”

My tools are old and may need sharpened. My hammer is rusty. My saw is rusty. My mallet is chipped. My pencil is broken. I do not know if the Thief wants them, but I know he will take them. Eventually.

The Boy draws a Tic Tac Toe board with a stick in the sawdust. The Thief watches and gnaws and removes another picket and fondles the cloth sack in his hands. I ask the Boy for help with my construction. The Boy draws an X in the middle of the grid. The Thief begins to breathe heavy. I ask the Boy for help again. The Boy draws an O in the top right. The Thief breathes heavier, his eyes growing wider as he watches the Boy. The sack ripples in his quivering grip.

The Thief devours another Picket. The Boy draws an X in the space beneath the O. I ask the Boy for help again. With nothing in his mouth, the Thief draws a howling, gasping, backwards-shrieking breath. Then the Thief places his whole mouth over the next picket and gnaws hungrily. He strains his hands to and fro, crinkling and pulling taut the sack that could be canvas in his hands.

The Boy draws an O to the left of center. I ask for help. The Thief snorts. The Boy draws an X in the top left. I ask for help. The Thief heaves. The Boy draws an O in the bottom right. I ask for help. The Thief groans. The boy draws an X in the bottom center. I ask for help. The Thief gnaws. The Boy draws an O in the top center.

“Are we almost done?”

The Thief finishes the last picket and places the sack on the ground. The Boy takes a slurp of lemonade, sets it down on the wobbly table, and steps into the sack.

Measure, cut, place, pound.

The Thief pulls the sack up over the Boy’s head and pulls the drawstring closed. The Boy is silent and still in the sack. The Thief disappears into the woods, taking the sack with him.

Measure, cut, place, pound. We steal from each other, the Thief and I, but one day, he will have stolen everything from me. He looks over my shoulder while I work. He caresses my back. He breathes in my ear. The Thief never speaks to me. The Thief’s legs are strong. His fingers and face are long. His eyelids sag.

The Girl sits and watches me work and wipes her brow and drinks lemonade and asks me when we will be done.

“When will we be done?”

We’re almost done. We’re always almost done. So, we’re never done. We’re always never done.