Part 5
The next morning, Claire brought her camera and cleared a space on the windowsill. Walter selected the bear and the bird, then two carved boxes and a picture frame she had not seen before. He told her where to turn each piece so the light would show the work.
She photographed the new dog last. Walter wanted it farther from the camera, and Claire moved it back until he was satisfied. When she asked to take pictures of him working, he looked down at his right hand.
“You’ll want that in it.”
“I want your work in it. And you, if you’re willing.”
He considered that while Ruth smoothed the cloth beneath the carvings. Then he pulled his chair closer to the table and told Claire to wait until he had the tool positioned properly.
Toby found his way into nearly every picture. He settled against a wheel, raised his chin onto Walter’s knee, and watched a shaving drift toward the floor with unreasonable concentration. Claire moved the loose shavings beyond his reach, took a few more photographs, and showed them to Walter on the camera screen.
“That one,” he said, pointing to the bear. “You can see the paw.”
At home she made a page called The Carver and Toby. She wrote a short account of the stroke, the long period when Walter had put his tools away, and the work he was doing now. Before posting it, she read it to him over the phone. He asked her to remove one sentence about courage and add the type of wood.
She did both.
They agreed on prices. Claire listed the older pieces as ready to ship and explained that new work would take longer. She included sizes and close photographs so nobody would expect the little wooden dog to be larger, smoother, or more symmetrical than it was.
For a week, almost nothing happened. A few people from the hospital liked the photographs, and a colleague wrote that Toby was handsome. Nobody asked to buy anything.
On Saturday, Walter was working when she arrived. He asked whether she wanted tea and whether it was still raining downtown, but he did not ask about the page.
Ruth followed Claire into the kitchen. “He keeps saying he didn’t expect anything. Then he asks me if your phone is working.”
“I’m still posting.”
“Maybe we ought to leave it.” Ruth took a spoon from the drawer, then set it back. “I don’t want him waiting for another thing that doesn’t happen.”
Claire looked at the doorway. Walter had stopped carving, though she could not tell whether he was listening or simply resting his hand.
“I don’t want to promise him orders,” she said. “I’d like to give it a little longer.”
Ruth nodded reluctantly. Claire returned to the table and asked Walter if she could film a short stretch of the work. He agreed, then interrupted the first attempt because she had put her sleeve in the light.
She kept posting between shifts. There were brief clips of the tool moving slowly through wood, photographs of the finished pieces, and one picture she caught between shots of the finished work. In it, Walter held the new dog carving while Toby reached up to lick his right fingers. Walter was smiling at the animal instead of at the lens.
Two weeks after the page went up, Claire sat in the physicians’ lounge with coffee she had forgotten to drink. Her phone lit repeatedly on the table. She assumed a group conversation had become unusually energetic until she saw the page name above the notifications.
A man who hosted a popular woodworking program had shared Claire’s photograph. Beneath it, he had linked to the pieces for sale, and people were arriving faster than Claire could read their messages.
One wanted the bear for a father who had carved when he was younger. Another asked whether the bird could be shipped to Ohio. There were requests for boxes, questions about the new dog, and enough proposed commissions to fill months if Walter accepted them all.
Claire opened a notebook. She listed the finished pieces and marked each one only when a sale was confirmed, answering the other inquiries with realistic waiting times. Near midnight she stopped promising dates and began a waiting list instead.
The next morning, after arranging coverage, she went to the Bells’ apartment with the order details. Ruth looked at the pages before she let herself sit down.
“These are real people?”
“Real buyers. The finished pieces are sold. There are requests beyond those, but Walter gets to decide how many he takes.”
Walter came to the kitchen doorway. Claire handed him the list, and he held it in his left hand while following the names with a finger of his right.
“The bird’s going to Ohio?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll need something under the wings. For shipping.”
“We’ll pack it carefully.”
He read the next line, then covered his mouth. Ruth moved beside him without speaking, and Claire gave them time before explaining the deposits and what would remain after shipping and materials.
When the payments cleared, she brought the proceeds. Walter counted the money slowly on the kitchen table, straightened the edges, and passed it to Ruth. She held it for a moment before putting it into the envelope where they kept the household bills.
They used some of the earnings for a rehabilitation cycle recommended for Walter’s needs, with help learning to use it safely. Ruth bought boots whose soles stayed attached and filled the refrigerator without making each item justify itself twice. She brought home a large dog chew for Toby and insisted on paying for it herself.
The orders settled into something smaller than the first rush. Walter could finish one or two modest pieces in a good week, and Claire stopped taking requests when the list grew too long. Some customers chose to wait; some did not, which Walter accepted more easily than she expected.
“He can buy it somewhere else,” he said of a man who wanted a box by Friday. “I’m not ruining my hand over his anniversary.”
Claire crossed out the request. On the next line, Walter corrected her spelling of a wood name, and they went back to work.
By the time the first cold evenings returned, Ruth had begun asking about Claire’s holiday schedule. Claire answered vaguely the first time, then realized Ruth was waiting for something definite.
“Christmas Eve,” Ruth said. “Walter’s already planning dinner. Can I count on you?”
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