262.🪑 THE TABLE MY SON BUILT FOR MY OLD AGE

Chapter 10 - The Second Request

The second request was written on the same stationery as the first loan. It asked for ten thousand dollars, to be repaid after the winter service season. Under the amount, Paul had written, “I understand if this is impossible, Arthur. Please keep it between us until I can explain it to Margaret myself.”

I looked at my father. “Did you give him more?”

“No. I wrote him back the next day.”

Dad took a second sheet from the envelope. His handwriting was larger than usual. “I can't lend you any more money. What I have left must carry me through the years I have. You need to tell Meg. I love you, son, but I won't help you hide this from her.”

In twenty-seven years of marriage, Dad had called Paul “son” only on occasions that mattered. I remembered the word at our wedding, again when Daniel was born, and once when Paul's own father died. Seeing it in that letter, attached to a refusal, hurt more than any accusation could have.

“That's when he started asking Rosewood about me,” Dad said.

I sat down beside him at the workbench. Claire was standing in the doorway, holding a carton of framed photographs against her hip.

“Do you think he wanted you out of the way?” I asked.

“I don't know. I think he was frightened and wanted something to happen that would make the numbers easier. I don't want to guess at his motives anymore.”

He looked tired. I realized how often we'd asked him to explain Paul, as though old age gave him extra patience for other people's mistakes.

“Can I keep copies?” I asked.

“Of course. But don't make me spend another week discussing it. I said no. That ought to be enough.”

When I took the papers home, Paul was waiting in the driveway. He'd come to see Daniel, who was still at his friend's house. We sat on the front steps because I couldn't bear another conversation in the kitchen.

“Dad showed me the second request.”

Paul covered his face with his hands. For a few seconds he remained bent forward, elbows on knees, looking like a man bracing against a wave. Then he straightened.

“I sent it,” he said.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I don't know.”

It was the first answer that evening I completely believed.

“Do you understand why Dad thought you were arranging to move him because he said no?”

Paul stared at the street. “I wasn't trying to punish him. I was trying to find a solution to everything.”

“A solution in which he lost his home.”

“He'd talked about selling it before.”

“That was his decision to make. And you made it about your business.”

Paul nodded. He didn't say he had meant well. I suspected he knew by now that good intentions had become an exhausted currency in our house.

He told me he'd spoken to his accountant. The business had been losing money for six consecutive quarters, and another loan would only postpone its closing. He was negotiating to sell the remaining equipment and customer contracts to a larger company. If that worked, he could pay suppliers in part and begin repaying Dad on a fixed schedule. He'd also applied for a salaried position with a contractor he knew.

“Why didn't you do that six months ago?”

“Because I couldn't stand thinking I'd failed.”

“And now?”

“I have failed at this. I don't want to fail at being honest about it too.”

I considered him. At fifty-one, Paul was frightened of starting again after spending half his life introducing himself as the owner of Ellis Heating. I could understand that fear. Understanding it didn't make his decisions acceptable.

“I'll need proof of what you're doing,” I said. “And I want us to see a counselor, if we're going to try to repair this marriage.”

“I'll go.”

“I don't want a promise made just because you're afraid of losing us.”

He breathed out slowly. “Then watch what I do.”

That was fair. I didn't invite him back inside yet.

On Thursday, Dad went to Willow Court to measure the apartment. I accompanied him only after he asked. The rooms were small and bright, with a western window facing the old high school playing field. There was a narrow kitchen, a bathroom with grab bars, and enough space for his armchair and a bookcase if we didn't keep the enormous television he never watched.

He moved around with his tape measure, writing numbers down. He tested the sink faucet, opened the closet doors, and asked the manager whether the building allowed visitors after nine. He wanted to know where deliveries were left and whether the elevator was serviced regularly.

“We have a nice common dining room,” the manager said.

Dad smiled. “I'll use it sometimes. But I'd like to be able to invite people to my own table too.”

He paused beneath the window. “I think your mother's sewing machine would fit there, Meg. Claire can use it when she comes. She has the steadier hands for that kind of thing.”

I was startled to hear him discuss the future as something neither hopeful nor frightening, merely a place he intended to furnish according to his taste.

That afternoon I transferred the deposit from my personal savings. Dad signed a simple note promising repayment after the house sale, and I signed an acknowledgment that the loan gave me no say over his living arrangements. The manager smiled at our formality. Dad told her he'd been a carpenter and knew the value of putting an agreement in writing before anybody got confused about the measurements.

On Friday, Irene phoned with news of her own. The city had declined to renew the workshop's lease. The old school building was being transferred to a nonprofit after-school program, and the woodworking group had until February to move its benches and tools.

Dad was calm when he told me. Too calm.

“Perhaps it's time for me to stop teaching,” he said. “I've had a good run.”

I knew that tone. It was the voice he used when he thought something mattered greatly and didn't want anyone to notice. I asked whether the group had looked for another room. He said Irene was trying, but accessible spaces cost money, and their little fund was already stretched.

I offered to help with grant applications through the library. Claire could ask about vacant community spaces. Dad hesitated, then said yes. It felt like a different sort of help: work requested by the person who needed it, not a plan constructed over his head.

When Daniel came home, I told him Grandpa would be moving to his own apartment. He said that was good because Grandpa liked being able to leave his shoes wherever he wanted. Then he asked if Grandma's old house would be sold. I explained that it probably would.

He listened and went upstairs. A little later I found him in his room with the unfinished second piece he'd mentioned at Martha's. It was a narrow wooden stool, with one leg unfastened.

“Who is that for?” I asked.

He pressed the wood against his knees. “I was making it for Dad.”