“Come with me, then, before you implode” he says, walking toward the door without checking to see if I follow.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I hurry to catch up to him.
“To the garage. I’m going to teach you how to make something. Maybe then you’ll be able to satiate your boredom on your own for a while.”
“Make something?”
“You’ll see.”
Ambrose flicks on the workshop lights, illuminating the large space that’s filled with the scent of sawdust and metal, and turns on the garage heater in the corner of the room.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to a stool beside a table.
I follow his instructions and watch him from the stool while he gathers materials and places them on the table. Once he’s collected everything he needs, he stands beside me.
“I’m going to teach you how to carve an animal,” he says. I picture all the intricately carved figurines lining his shelves and am immediately intimidated. I’ll be lucky not to chop a finger off.
He sets a block of wood about the size of a brick in front of me then plucks up a few of the tools from the middle of the table. He explains how to sketch out the lines on the top and sides of the wood, demonstrating on his own block before I attempt my own. I decide to carve a rabbit. I carefully sketch my lines while Ambrose watches, and he gives me an approving nod once I finish.
Next, he shows me how to use the chisel and the smaller whittling knife, again demonstrating on his own block of wood. His fingers brush mine when he shows me how to angle my hand, and my skin heats from that one simple touch. Once I’m somewhat confident in my actions, he takes a seat at the table across from me and begins to work on his own figure.
The first few cuts I make are rough and uneven. I curse under my breath as an uneven curl of wood springs off and lands in my lap. Ambrose doesn’t laugh, though. He just sits there, watching me with quiet patience and encouraging me to continue.
“So, you do this a lot, don’t you?” I ask.
“Yes. I like to keep an array of hobbies to keep my mind and body active. This one is a nice little way to challenge myself.”
“I imagine it’s probably good to have multiple things to keep you entertained, especially out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe you should find a hobby of your own,” he teases. “You know, since you’re already so terribly bored.”
“I do have a hobby. I both planandcommit murders,” I deadpan.
His lips twitch with a smile. “That’s a start.”
We fall into silence after that, broken only by the rasp of metal against wood. My block slowly but surely takes shape. It’s lumpy and uneven, but each stroke of the knife takes away another layer until it somewhat resembles the shape of a rabbit.
I use the smaller knife to attempt some details, but it’s more difficult than I imagined. Finally, I figure that’s as good as it’s going to get.
“Voila!” I hold the awkward little figure up to show Ambrose, and he looks up from the much more intricate figure he’s carving and smiles.
“I love it,” he says.
As I turn it over in my hand, feeling all the awkwardly carved ridges and bumps, I realize that I don’t even mind that it’s not perfect. The satisfaction of having created something is enough to make me proud, even if it does look like a nine-year-old made it.
“Do you want to make another one?” Ambrose asks, studying my expression.
My hands are sore from gripping the wood too tightly, so I answer, “No, but I might try again tomorrow if that’s alright.” I have to admit, the idea of having a hobby thatdoesn’t involve torture or murder is becoming increasingly more appealing. And reading is fun, but I can only do it for so long before the words blur together.
“Of course it’s alright. You’re welcome in here anytime, whether I’m here or not.”
“Thank you.”
Ambrose turns his attention back to the carving he’s working on, and I take a moment to really look around the room. The garage is filled with various tools, from wrenches and screwdrivers hanging neatly on the walls to a large table saw standing in the corner.
Scattered about the massive garage are pieces of wooden furniture in various states of finish. A dresser that’s been sanded down and needs to be re-stained, a coffee table that’s missing the handles for the drawers, a rocking chair that looks like it may fall apart at any moment. Clearly Ambrose keeps himself busy.
I stand and wander around the room, careful to keep a wide berth of the half-finished furniture and power tools.
