From THE MEMORY COLLECTORS:
The air beneath Evelyn’s paper mask is hot and damp, and even though a shaft of sunlight from the open barn door reveals swirling sawdust, she pulls the mask upto her forehead and allows herself a breath. She rarely gets a moment alone in her father’s workshop, so she pauses briefly to enjoy the grown-up feeling of it, her boots rustling the shavings on the floor, the smell of cut wood and lacquer, no one around but the old headboards and mirrors hanging on the walls, the maze of chairs, wardrobes, dressers, and end tables that stretches all the way back to the darkened doorway leading to the shop floor.
Sunday is Evelyn’s favorite day of the week. On Saturdays, Daddy’s store is open and strangers come in and out of his workshop all day to purchase antiques or to ask him to restore old pieces of furniture, and Evelyn has to stay inside with Mama and Noemi. On Sundays, the store is closed. In the early mornings, her father goes out to garage sales. When he gets back, he brings his finds into the workshop and he and Evelyn sort through them together. After that, they work side by side. Now that she is eight, he has been showing her how to use his tools. She’s not strong enough to work a plane yet, and she’s not allowed to use the drill or handsaw. But she knows how to use a hammer, a scraper, a screwdriver, and a hand sander. Daddy especially likes her to help with detail sanding because her small hands are good at getting into tight places. The square of sandpaper she’s been using has grown creased and worn. She lightly traces the bumps and curves of the chair leg she’s working on. The armchair stands naked on top of the worktable, the fabric cut from its seat and back and all the stuffing pulled out. Soon Daddy will dress it again. He showed Evelyn the fabric he’s chosen, a rich green velvet the color of the ferns that grow along the fence in the backyard.
A gust of wind rattles the barn doors. The morning was sunny, but clouds have blown in and the sky is darkening. She can hear Noemi talking to herself in her nonstop baby chatter, which means Mama is still in the garden. She hears footsteps coming up the steps to the workshop, Daddy with the last boxes from the truck. He huffs as he places them on the work- table and then comes around to see how she’s doing.
“How does it feel?”
“Warm,” says Evelyn. “Happy.”
“Yes.” She hears the smile in his voice. “I think it’s time you come out to the sales with me on Sundays. Would you like that?”
Evelyn nods. He places his hand on the top of her head and scratches gently, like she’s a kitten.
“Feel this.” She catches his fingers and moves them along the chair leg, first on the bottom, where she hasn’t yet worked, but where Daddy’s coarse sandpaper has scrubbed off the old white paint, leaving the wood rough and scratchy. Then up to the top, where Evelyn’s finer sandpaper has worked its magic, turning the surface satiny and soft.
“Beautiful work. I have something for you.” He pulls the boxes closer and opens the flaps of the top one, pulling out a smaller battered box covered with masking tape. Daddy pulls the tape away and shakes out the pieces inside. Evelyn picks one up. It’s made of the lightest material. It looks like wood but feels like cardboard.
“It’s balsa wood,” he tells her. He fits the pieces together into the shape of an airplane. Evelyn cups it in her hands.
“It’s plain,” she says. It doesn’t feel like anything.
Her father laughs. “It’s not for the shop, it’s for playing. It’s very old but it should still fly. Go on. Before it starts raining.”
