"About
so high."
About so high, Will repeated to himself.
"Made it for my daughter."
"For your daughter."
Made it for his daughter. Will joined the chorus. He couldn't see the
box, but he could hear it.
"Took me some shiplap--nice and dry. Made her tight. No cracks."
"No sir."
No way.
It was four o'clock in the morning. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish
glow over wooden booths, plastic covered stools, the grill, and a
double doored refrigerator. A waitress leaned against the wall by a
kitchen door and lit a cigarette.
The man's voice rose and fell. There was a question of hinging. To
hinge or not. Maybe a plain top with a handle? A hinge, but--you didn't
want the top just flopping around. "I got me some light brass chain,
put about fifteen inches on each side, inside, running to the underside
of the top. Little screw in each end. Not going to pull out _those_
hinges."
The other man shook his head.
"I sanded her up good--you know--finished it nice."
The waitress bent forward and tapped her cigarette on an ashtray hidden
behind the counter. "You want more coffee, Herbert?"
"Don't believe I will." Herbert turned to his friend. "What do you say?"
"Don't get paid for sitting."
They left and the waitress cleared their places, sweeping a tip into
her pocket. She turned toward Will. "More coffee?"
He pushed his mug forward. "Thanks." He could see the box now.
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