Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 6

there?"
"Nothing much. Linseed oil, thinned some."
"Mighty nice."
"It's beautiful, Tucker."
"I made it for your mother." It was a statement of fact, but it carried
something extra, like the horse. "You probably don't remember
Mesquite, Margery."

"Mesquite--" Her face began to open.
"Must have died when you were about four or five."
"I'm remembering, now."
"Mr. Randolph brought him back for your mom--Helen," he said. "Got
him at a show down south somewhere. He was a quarter horse,
Mesquite. From Oklahoma originally, if I remember right. Damn fine
horse." Tucker tilted his glass for two swallows. "I used to take care of
him once in a while--when the family was away, you know. Well, one
day Helen was out riding and I was walking along. It was in June. The
flowers was all out. Mesquite got to cantering and I run along to keep
up. Never forget it. The flowers all different, blurring together and
flowing along like I was running through a river all different colors.
And Helen sitting up tall--she had hair just like yours, Margery, short
and thick, straw colored, went with her blue eyes." Tucker slowed
down. "Well, I had to do something. I made the horse."
"Mesquite."
"Yep."
"Why didn't you give it to her?"
"It's a long story, I guess. Took me a while to make it. Your mom took
a fancy to Jack. What with one thing and another, I went in the Navy.
When I got out, I guess you was three years old already."
"Oh, Tucker."
"How's she doing? She still in Florida where they went?"
"St. Augustine. She's down to one lung. She lives in one of
those--assisted living places, they call them. She has her own space, but
there's help if need be. She gets around on a walker." Margery paused.
"Tucker, why do we cling so to life?"
"Guess we ain't done yet."
Margery looked at him for a long moment, and they exchanged what
could be exchanged in small smiles. Tucker went inside the house and
returned with a heavy cardboard box. "While I'm at it," he said and
began taking out carvings and putting them on the table--more horses,
deer, squirrels, birds of all kinds, a woodchuck. Charlie held up a fox
and looked at it from different angles. Its tail was full, straight out
behind him, level with his back. His ears were sharply pointed, his head
tilted slightly, all senses alert. Charlie was sure it was a he; the fox was
elegant and challenging, superior.

"Damn near alive," Charlie said. "You could make money with these."
Tucker shook his head negatively. "Only do one a year. In the winter,
not much going on." He looked into the back yard. "Try to get it done
on February 15th."
"Mother's birthday."
"We used to talk about them a lot--animals and birds. Walk in the
woods, talk."
"Tucker, does she know about these?"
"Nope."
"But she should see them!"
"She'd like them, you think?"
"Of course she would. They're beautiful."
"I'm not much for writing,"
"I could mail them to her if you'd like." He looked at the carvings,
rubbed his chin, and inclined his head. A why not expression crossed
his face. He pulled a twenty dollar bill from a scarred black wallet.
"Tucker, for heavens sake!" He insisted that she take it.
"Ask her, if she don't mind--I might take a ride down, say hello.
Probably get a train down there." He looked at Charlie.
"Amtrak," Charlie said. "Or you could fly."
"I like trains."
They finished lunch and put the box of carvings on the back seat of the
car. "I'll wrap tissue paper around them so they don't get banged up. I'll
mail them tomorrow," Margery said. "Tucker, thank you so much for
lunch. It was so good to see you."
"I thought I'd be seeing you again one of these days," Tucker said.
"We'll keep in touch," Margery said.
"Take care of yourself," Charlie said. "You want a ride back?"
"I'll walk."
They drove away slowly as Tucker and Sally watched. Tucker lifted
one hand in farewell.
"You just never know, do you?" Charlie said.
"Tucker Smollett," Margery said. "Good old Tucker."
Halfway back to Portland, Charlie looked over at Margery and asked
about her husband. "He cared for me," she said. "He just cared more for
someone else."
"Damn shame," Charlie said. Margery brushed the fingers of one hand

through the back of her hair. Charlie thought she was going to say more,
but she didn't. At the ferry, he helped her with the box and said
goodbye.
The next morning was again bright and sunny. Charlie returned to the
bench near the ferry and sat, savoring his coffee, croissant, and the salty
air. His brother Orson came to mind. Orson was