By Jared Carter
Hawkbill Knife We had driven all morning on the back roads, my father and I, into those dense green hills, all that way just to fix a leak on the roof of the old lodge hall – the patched-up building where the artist kept a studio during the war, where his widow still came to stay each summer till Labour Day, sleeping on a cot in the back room, heating cans of soup on a single hotplate, selling a pastel now and then to a passerby. It would be my grandmother's annual visit to see her only sister-in-law, the two of them entirely unalike – one from a small town, the other from the city – but cordial, since both had known the same man, both lived with him for a few years, one early in life, one late. She would be with us in the cab of the pickup, dozing in the heat, leaning forward, catching herself, peering out at the unfamiliar hills. The old building – two stories, square-fronted, white clapboard with an elaborate cornice – faced east across a broad lawn always dusky in the shade of great towering, arching elms. Along the stones of the foundation, on steps leading to the front door, in that rare cool of high summer, a brindled tomcat belonging to one of the neighbours would be stretched out, too drowsy to slink away when we pulled up. A cast-iron pump stood anchored in a square of limestone in the yard. We leaned to wash our hands and faces, then took the tin cup and drank. Aunt Carolyn would be talking to Effie, then to my father, telling him about the leak, how the man tending the yard was not to be trusted. I worked the handle and watched water cascading over the stone, glistening and disappearing in the grass. The two of them set out tea in a room filled with unframed paintings and relics of Paris. My father brought the bucket of pitch; I lugged the roll of tarpaper. Upstairs, we followed the hall to the roof ladder. I went first, feeling ahead in the gloom, the thick heat, reaching to push against the rough boards until the hatch gave way. Fresh air swirled all around me as I struggled into the light. We were there, in the stillness, high above everything else in town, looking out and down through a pale scrim of leaves – at the roof of the Baptist Church, the library on the corner, the barbershop in the red-brick building, the cars parked along the courthouse square. I gazed out at the hills surrounding the town while my father took a jackknife and probed to find the roof's bad places. He scraped at beads of tar, and whistled at the damage. He sat back on his heels. Then he called to me, fished around for a dollar bill, and explained he wanted me to go to the hardware store on the main street, and tell the old man there I needed to buy “a hawkbill knife.” Years later I would learn it was simply a roofer's knife with a short curved blade, but then I had only the strange name he had given me, and the dollar clutched in my hand as I climbed down the ladder. Since then, too, I have seen that kind of knife sharpened and resharpened again and again by roofers, by those who work high in the air with hot pitch, with the steamy black smell of tar rising all around them, the ropes caked and stiff, everything sticky to the touch – I have seen such knives filed to the nub, handles wound with tape, hawkbills worn flat, seen them thrown away, useless, in the street. And could I have looked out far enough over those quiet houses, beyond those green hills, I might have seen how everything in that town would be worn away too, would pour glistening over the smooth ledge of time – the elm trees burnished by the wind, the huge dim interior of that building, the two old ladies talking, the cat on the doorstep – all that would dwindle and fade, as though falling down a deep chasm. Part of me did know: had glimpsed, in drawings thumbtacked to the walls of the meeting room on the second floor, scenes of a vanished world. Lacking the money for canvas, for oil paints, how many times had he gone out to sketch young girls at their sewing machines, old men trundling carts, sidewalks crowded with menders, fixers, buyers hurrying along and yet caught, saved for an instant, by his smooth-flowing hand? What held them up could yet hold me. August, nineteen forty-eight: I was nine years old. My father had given me a dollar to spend and waited for me to return. I came out onto the walk, under the canopy of trees, sunlight dappling the grass, cicadas pulsing all around me. At the pump I filled the cup to overflowing, drank its coldness, then walked on toward the square, to buy a hawkbill knife. (First published in Sandscript)
Jared Carter’s most recent collection, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. His Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, with an introduction by Ted Kooser, was published by the University of Nebraska Press in 2014. A recipient of several literary awards and fellowships, Carter is from the state of Indiana in the U.S.
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