The Theft
Voss didn’t offer him the chair anymore. Wes settled into it without being asked.
“Ready?” Voss said.
“I still hate that question.”
“You used to ask how this worked.”
“And now?”
“You ask if it will.”
Voss studied him for a moment before looking down at the tablet in his lap.
“You’ve done well.”
Wes laughed softly.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Wes hesitated.
“Then why don’t I feel any different?”
Voss looked up from the tablet.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. I sleep. I don’t lie as much. I don’t bolt every time something hurts. He rubbed his palms against his jeans. “I just thought...”
“Thought what?”
“I thought it’d fix me.”
Silence.
Voss studied him.
“When I was in medical school,” he said quietly, “I watched a woman beg us to sedate her.”
Wes looked over.
“She’d lost her son.”
Voss’s voice remained even.
“There was nothing medically wrong with her.”
He looked back down at the tablet.
“She just didn’t want to feel it anymore.”
“What happened?”
“We told her grief was natural.”
Silence.
“It was the correct answer.”
Wes frowned.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Voss met his eyes.
“It wasn’t useful.”
“You think grief should be treated?”
“I think unnecessary suffering should be.”
“What’s unnecessary?”
Voss leaned back.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
He set the tablet down.
“I think it’s time we stopped practicing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re done working with memories that inconvenience you.”
Wes’s stomach tightened.
“And?”
Voss held his gaze.
“Now we work with the one that changed your life.”
Wes sat at the kitchen table. It was still dark outside. Rain fell steadily against the window. Only the light above the stove was on.
Bills.
Bank statements.
Overdue notices.
He blew out a frustrated breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
He was supposed to be at the gym.
Instead, he’d gotten sidetracked by the debt.
Again.
No matter how many times he went over the numbers, they refused to add up.
He heard a creak from upstairs.
He quickly gathered the pages. The stairs creaked one by one. He had nearly finished when a small voice drifted from the doorway.
“Morning, Daddy. What are you doing?”
Wes stuffed the last of the papers into a folder and slid it carelessly into his work bag.
“Hey, sweetie. Daddy was just doing some paperwork.”
“Paperwork?”
“Yeah. Making sure the bills are paid. Important adult things. Managing the money.”
Nora climbed into his lap and snuggled against his shoulder.
“Sounds boring. Will there be enough for the zoo?”
Wes felt his breath catch.
“Yeah, baby. There’ll be enough for the zoo.”
He brushed her hair out of her face.
“What animal do you want to see?”
“A sloth.”
Wes laughed.
“A sloth? Why?”
“They are really good at relaxing. I think that’s important.”
“Oh yeah? Why do you say that?”
“You and Mommy are so busy. Maybe we just need to be more like sloths sometimes.”
“What would you do if we slowed down?”
Nora looked up at him with mischievous eyes.
“Eat ice cream and sing Taylor Swift songs.”
“That sounds pretty great, sweetie. Is Mommy up?”
“Yeah. She’s doing her makeup in the bathroom.”
“Sweetie, you know you can talk to Mommy while she’s doing her makeup, right?”
“Yeah. But she’s doing the makeup with the door closed.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. She does that when she’s sad.”
Wes looked toward the stairs.
“What’s she sad about, honey?”
Nora shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’m just a kid.”
“You want it done right or you want it done today?”
“Both, you smart ass.”
“You’re asking a lot, old man.”
“I’m paying you a lot. Figure it out.”
Wes looked down at the corner in front of him.
“This is a real dumpster fire, Marty. Where do you find your framers these days? I swear to God they get worse every year.”
He held up his speed square.
“You’re telling me this is square?”
Marty glared at him.
“Fuck no. It’s been amateur hour here all winter. I’m telling you it’s going to look square by the end of the day.”
He jabbed a finger toward the wall.
“And you’re going to fix it.”
Wes sighed.
“I’m going to need a holiday after this. Take my kid to the zoo.”
“Zoo’ll still be there Monday. Get this shit done.”
“Just caulk it.”
Wes looked up from his tape measure.
“What?”
The apprentice held up the two pieces of trim.
“The corner’s out. We’ll never get it perfect. We’ll just caulk the gap.”
Wes walked over.
The two forty-five degree cuts met at the inside corner with a V-shaped opening wide enough to slide a pencil into.
He held his speed square against the wall and frowned. Most houses weren’t square. You learned that pretty quickly. Ninety degrees existed mostly in blueprints and textbooks. Real houses settled. Floors sagged. Walls bowed. Corners wandered. The trick wasn’t forcing the trim to fit the drawing. The trick was teaching it to fit the house that was actually standing in front of you.
“How far out is it?” Wes asked.
The apprentice shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter. Caulk, paint. Nobody’ll notice.”
Wes took the pieces from him.
“It matters.”
He put two pieces of uncut trim in the corner, one stack over the other, both tight to the wall. He marked the spot where they overlapped. He took his speed square and drew the angle.
“The house isn’t forty-five degrees,” he said. “Why would the cuts be?”
The apprentice frowned.
“So what do we do?”
Wes adjusted the saw.
“You cheat.”
The kid blinked.
“You just said it matters.”
“It does.”
The saw kicked to life.
“You can cheat the method,” Wes said over the scream of the blade. “You can’t cheat reality.”
Back to the corner. Marked the angle he cut against the other board. Back to the saw. Another cut. The joint closed. Tight. Clean. Like it had always belonged there. The apprentice stared at it.
“How’d you know that would work?”
Wes smiled.
“I didn’t. I measured the angle instead of arguing with it.”
A few feet away, the apprentice slid a toe kick against the base of a cabinet and frowned.
“The floor’s out too.”
He reached for the caulking gun.
Wes laughed. He dug through his pouch and pulled out a pencil and a steel washer.
The apprentice frowned.
“What’s that for?”
Wes pressed the washer against the floor and threaded the pencil through its centre.
“Store-bought version costs twenty bucks.”
He rolled the washer along the hardwood. It rolled over every dip and rise in the floor, carrying the pencil with it. A wavering line appeared across the board.
“The floor tells you exactly what it needs,” Wes said. “You just have to stop pretending it’s straight.”
He followed the line with the jigsaw. A minute later, the toe kick slipped into place. The gap disappeared. The apprentice crouched down and ran his hand along the bottom edge.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Wes shrugged.
“Not really.”
“What do you call that?”
“Scribing.”
The apprentice shook his head.
“I would’ve just caulked it.”
Wes looked at the cabinet for a moment.
“Yeah,” he said. “Most people do.”
For a few minutes at a time, work still made sense.
Measure. Adjust. Cut. Problems that stayed solved.
Marty walked past and grunted. “Show off.”
Wes brushed the sawdust from his jeans and stood.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Knew ya had it in you, kid. Good work today.”
Wes looked over.
“Hang on. Was that a compliment?”
“I can’t criticize every damn thing you do, can I? It loses its meaning. You get used to it.”
A few of the crew walked past.
“Night, guys!”
“See ya.”
Marty handed Wes a thick envelope.
“Hey, I gotta run tonight. Can you drop this in the safe on your way home?”
Wes looked down at it.
“What is it?”
“Tickets to the fucking opera. What do ya think?” Marty snorted. “There was a bonus if we got the main level done on time.”
“You never told me that.”
“None of your business.”
He nudged Wes with his elbow.
“Lucky for me I’ve got the best finish carpenter in the city on my crew.”
Wes rolled his eyes.
“You’re getting soft.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Marty stood and stretched.
“Keep working like you did today and there’ll be a cut for you if we get this filthy fucking shithole done on time.”
Wes sat in his truck outside the office.
The envelope rested on the passenger seat beside him.
Still sealed.
Marty was notoriously trusting with money. Never counted it in front of clients. Half the people they worked for had tried to stiff him at one point or another.
Wes stared at the envelope.
Then looked away.
He pulled up his banking app.
Chequing: $37.22.
He looked at the gas gauge.
Empty.
The orange fuel light shone beside it.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then back at the envelope.
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Where the Light Is is a story about memory, guilt, identity, and what happens when we confuse self-erasure for love.
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