Carnival Souls

Metal and Wood

The abrasive sounds of the heavy metal music scraped Owen's ear drums much the same way his knife scraped the piece of wood in his hand. It was so loud Owen swore he could see the wood shavings on the table popping like kernels with the vibrations.

Though not particularly fond of death metal, he put it on whenever something other than desire brought him to the garage to carve. It made his anger feel smaller and more manageable by comparison. Normally, he didn't play it at this volume, but the walls were insulated enough to prevent the noise from upsetting Ethan. And Owen wasn't in the mood to think.

Instead he let his fingers take over, enjoying the familiar feeling of the rough block of wood and the warm grip of the knife handle in his left palm. He was in the process of carving an elephant requested by one his favorite customers. Lucinda, a woman in her mid-thirties, was always stopping by his stall at the craftsmen's fair to purchase his carvings as gifts for her widespread family. But this was a special project; a hand-carved mobile that would hang above the crib of her soon-to-be arriving baby.

She was willing to pay $150 for it; more than five times what his other pieces usually went for and, besides the money, he didn't want to let her or her baby down. Looking at the wooden bear and giraffe he had already done—soon to be joined by the elephant—he couldn't help but wonder if his dad had done the same when he was expecting a son.

"Yeah, right," Owen thought darkly.

Owen had been ten when his mom broke the news to him that his dad had left, that he wasn't coming back. He was still young enough to cry, to yell that she was wrong, to throw things, break them, and then lock himself in his room. But he had been old enough to remember.

Old enough to remember his mom crying on the phone that night, speaking to an answering machine that provided no answers, begging him to come back. Old enough to remember telling a recently-diagnosed Ethan, four-years-old at the time, who had just blinked stupidly at him until Owen pinched him hard enough to make him cry; so that he and his mom weren't the only ones miserable.

And he had been old enough to remember sitting on this very stool in this garage—his dad's workshop—watching his father carve. He could still see clearly in his mind's eye the life that his dad created out of blocks of shapeless wood, watching in a sort of trance the way different blades could create whole new dimensions, and asking him in a little kid voice, "Dad, will you teach me?"

To his dad's credit, though Owen wasn't sure how much it was really worth, his dad had always been willing to teach him. From the time Owen had asked at the age of seven, when his hands still lacked the coordination of an adult and he was at risk of cutting off the tips of his fingers, his dad had painstakingly taught him to carve. Though he was by no means a pro when his dad left three years later, he had learned enough to continue teaching himself. Now at sixteen, he was apprenticing at a local carpenter shop. It was basic stuff, kitchen cabinets and tables, but it gave him a chance to practice and the extra money was welcome.

Lost in thought, Owen angled the knife too much and nicked his pointer finger. With a grunt of pain, he placed the cut to his mouth to apply pressure, getting the sharp tang of metal mixed with the musky taste of wood on his tongue.

On his workbench, his phone began to ring. He turned down the music and said a muffled, "Hello."

"Asshat, what's up!" crowed Jared on the other end. "Where'd you take off to today? You left Kyle and I to fend for ourselves."

"Family emergency," Owen replied. But with his fingers to his mouth it came out as "Amly emgemthcee."

Jared caught the gist though—he and Kyle were used to it by now.