“It’s a bear,” I say, trying not to laugh. “See, it’s got a super stubby tail.”
“It looks like it could be a cat with no tail,” she says.
She puts it back in its place and picks up another one, frowning at it for a moment.
“What’s this?” she asks.
Very diplomatic of her.
“That’s a raccoon,” I say. “See, it’s got the stripes on its tail?”
“Raccoons have masks.”
“It’s hard to carve a mask, though,” I point out.
“You carved stripes.”
What are you, kid, an art critic?
“That was easier,” I say.
She puts it back with that exaggerated caution kids have when they’re being extra-careful. I’m relieved that I tossed the voodoo doll I carved of her mom, not that she’d be able to tell what it was.
Whatever I may think of Crystal — namely, that she’s half demon and half swampthing — I’ve never said anything negative about her in front of Rusty, and I’ve never heard Daniel say anything bad, either. Despite her many, many, many faults, the woman is still Rusty’s mom, and the kid loves her to death.
There’s going to come a day when she doesn’t. Rusty’s a sharp, perceptive kid. Sooner or later she’s going to see Crystal’s bullshit for what it is, and just like everything else, the damage control is going to fall to Daniel.
“This is an elephant,” she says confidently, pulling another one down.
Inwardly, I sigh.
“Anteater,” I confess.
“Why’d you make an anteater instead of an elephant?” she asks. “Elephants are cooler.”
“But anteaters eat ants,” I point out. “Giant anteaters can eat thirty thousand ants in one day.”
I don’t remember where I learned that. I can only hope it’s right, or Rusty’s going to correct me next time I see her.
“Gross,” she says. “Can I make one?”
I open my mouth to say no, but then I close it without making a sound, because I was around her age when my Granddad first taught me woodworking. Somewhere, I’ve still got the snake I made under his supervision, even though he’s been gone for years now.
It’s a quiet, artistic task. Rusty’s smart for her age and good with her hands. I’ll keep a close eye on her.
“As long as you promise to be very, very careful,” I say, and her eyes light up as she nods.
I find her a small block of pine — it’s soft — and a penknife, then show her how to start. I suggest that for her first carving she try something simple, like an egg, but she informs me that she’ll be carving a wombat.
I drag her table over next to me, both of us wearing masks again, and I swear I look over at what she’s doing every thirty seconds. Every few minutes I put down the sander, go over, and give her a few pointers, stress safety again and again.
When it’s time to wrap things up, she hasn’t made a wombat, but she’s made progress toward one, and she positively beaming with pride.
“Nicely done,” I say, examining it. “You sure this is your first carving?”
“Can I keep the knife and finish it at home?” she asks.
“No,” I say, a little too suddenly and too harshly.
I clear my throat.
“You can’t have the knife, but you can finish it next time you visit, all right?”
“Please?”
“Sorry, kiddo,” I say. “You ready to head back home? I think your dad misses you.”
She walks back to the shelf of wooden animals and places the not-quite-wombat among them, and once it’s back, I turn and start putting the belt sander away.
“He tried to pour orange juice in my cereal this morning,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Your dad’s not feeling very good today,” I tell her over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
I manage not to laugh. Rusty hates it when we laugh at her being serious.
I close up the shop, load her into my car, drive to Daniel’s house, knock on the door.
It opens three inches, then stops short when it hits the end of the chain.
“Hey, guys,” half of Daniel’s face says.
He doesn’t look good: pale, a circle under the eye I can see, his hair slightly greasy and sweaty-looking, beard a little scruffy. I immediately have the urge to put him back in bed and put a cool cloth on his forehead.
Rusty shoves at the door, but it doesn’t budge.
“Daaaaaaaaaad,” she says, leaning against it with two hands.
“Just a sec, Rusty,” he says, then looks at me. “You can’t come in.”
I stand on tiptoes, trying to see past him.
“What happened?” I ask, alarmed.
I’m imagining a bodily-fluid nightmare. It’s gross.
“Nothing happened,” he says quickly. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”
“I promise not to lick your doorknobs,” I say. “Now can I please come in?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll help put this one to bed.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Daniel.”
“I’m not letting you get Ebola, and that’s final,” he says, a slight smile around the single eye I can see.