Turning by Matthew Berger
Turning
Papa set Son down on the corner of the dusty workbench that was littered with the organized ramblings of a man who communicated through creating. Son tucked bare feet behind the wooden workbench leg and his outstretched arms grasped at the air where Papa had been, raising fleshy thighs off the greasy crescent wrench beneath them.
Papa shook a weary head, tilted it towards the monolithic lathe, solid blue and steel except where rust penetrated the veneer. It was sturdy, nonetheless, and stood alone in the corner. Papa stretched out an arm over Son’s reaching fingers and removed the chisel hung between the shear scraper and burning wire.
Papa turned on the ball of the left foot and Son scraped the diaper along the peeling plywood table top towards the precipice, the fibers snagging on the exposed grain in the attempt to hold onto the fleeting blue fabric of Papa’s shop coat.
Son, unbalanced at this exertion, pushed against the workbench post with the tops of feet and waved chubby arms in search of stability, and for an instant, the frantic, wide-eyed boy tumbled to the concrete below.
Papa wrapped an arm around the soft bare chest and lifted Son off the worktop, causing the air to leave the tiny lungs in a cough that pealed with laughter. Safely on the ground, Son crawled on fingertips and tiptoes in the wake of Papa’s footsteps; growling, the little lion hunted his prey all the way to the skirted base of the lathe.
Papa glanced down and briefly smiled at the innocent thing, and Son saw Papa’s face-hair twitch like when he patted the sleepy-kitty. Papa spun the wheel at the end of the lathe and tightened the handle that suspended the three foot long octagon of ash between spurred bits, then moved the bed of the lathe up to the wood and rested the chisel on it.
With the toggle of a metal switch, the lathe jolted to life. Son jolted, too. The wood whirred as the engine spun. He inched the razor edge of the chisel towards the turning body and braced weathered and veined forearms for the elemental collision; metal scraped wood and splinters arced over the lathe.
A squeal of excitement from Son at the floating, falling things that settled between his toes caused Papa to stop, set the warm tool down and place the instep of his left work boot in the cold small of Son’s back; together they scooted and shuffled along the slick concrete floor.
Papa picked up the chisel again and noticed how the ridges and valleys in the grain of the handle matched the grooves of his thick calloused hands. With a harrumph, the wood whirred again and Papa’s chisel soon carved out a cylinder from the pirouetting polygon.
All the while, Son sat on the ground with unblinking eyes and watched as Papa stopped to hunch and squat and slide and measure, then again begin turning the wood. The delicate flakes of that labor settled on eyelashes and lenses and Son cried out, rubbing eyes in unsure terror. Papa turned his head and made shushing noises to comfort the child.
Papa eased the dial to speed up the machine and as he furrowed his brows in concentration, the chisel bit deeper into the wood, tapering the right half of the cylinder. Son stopped crying to cough; the tongue arched out of the open mouth, the whole body shook with the force, the eyes wobbled.
Son inhaled sharply as a shaft of light filtered through the single, dusty window, and Papa paused to notice the floating particles illuminated and spiraling and swirling in the rays, then inhaled sharply with pride at the timeless item he was turning for his son, for him, for them. Papa smiled. The scorched wood smelled like roasting marshmallows. He thought of camping trips with his dad who had died yet three years ago.
Half the block that began as a whole now lay settled at the foot of the lathe in piles of chips and curls, which Son scooped up unnoticed as he waddled away from the blue giant. A trail of falling dust marked the passing. Son drooped a diapered bottom between flared out knees, placed the mound on the floor, hunched over and proceeded to shape and move mountains.
Papa rounded over the furthest edges of the once-octagon and the coarse semblance of a Louisville slugger spun where a block had lumbered. Son coughed again, sending the mountaintops cascading into the heavens. Papa removed the tool bed the chisel rested upon and turned away from the lathe, stumbling over the little mountain man who worked at his heels. The heavy boot caught Son in the chest.
Papa swore and Son furrowed his brow and opened his mouth in expectation of the coming tears. Papa turned towards the delicately arranged pegboard that contained the tools he used to shape and cut and smooth, and gently hung the chisel between the shear scraper and burning wire before returning to Son who had found enough breath to let out a shrill cry.
Papa dug leathery hands under the arms and retrieved the siren-sounding child whom Papa bounced and kissed, and slid down his right leg to the concrete below, this time at a safe distance from the workspace. The boy could wait for he was nearing the end.
He wished Mama was home to take care of the ornery child. Papa withdrew a medium grit abrasive from the drawer and let loose the full potential of an engine that screamed at a furious pace. The bat whooshed in sedentary revolutions and the paper skooshed as Papa’s cupped hands slid along. Fine particulates choked the cramped garage. Son stopped crying and stood barefoot and unsteady on the dusty garage floor; the protruding tummy heaved with each breath more shallow than the last.
Papa trusted his hands to do the finishing work. As the paper slid across the bat he slipped into a daydream and let his imagination loose upon the bat, turning it over to Son, who was here twelve, and telling him to keep his eye on the ball because here comes a fast one, and when the bat smoothly whistled through the air it was because he had made it that smooth -- his son would only have the best.
The sound of a mower’s engine seemed far off. Papa thought about how the maturing boy in front of him would soon be a man with children of his own, his grandchildren, who would laugh and sweat and practice on these fields with that bat that he had made with his own hands. Papa tossed up another tumbling orb and it floated past Son who grunted and choked with the exertion of the home run swing that sent him pirouetting away from home plate.
Son began to feel a spinning head and lay down in a puff of dust but Papa said that it was okay, that you have to strike out swinging sometimes or else you will never hit the ball, and Son wheezed with laughter at Papa because he had heard this all before from the Little League coach who beckoned Son away from Papa to come join the other boys who all smiled at the coach who let out sharp concussive coughs followed by ragged breaths because he was a pack-a-day smoker.
Papa said it was okay if Son wanted to go with them because there will always be other times we can play together but Son remained quiet on the ground, unshaken when the ball boy dropped the bundle of wooden and metal bats on the concrete floor of the dugout.
Papa realized the bat was still in his hand and grew warmer with each second and he looked down at the baseline that Son had laid down upon and found he was missing but a shrill and panicked voice from behind him said Play with me… play with me and he turned around and found the garage door thrown open and grocery bags spilling out cans of soup and fruit at the stoop and Mama, kneeling over Son who lay dormant and blue in a pile of dust, frantically pushing spaded hands into Son’s soft bare chest while repeating the phrase Stay with me…stay with me, and Papa’s wide eyes found Son’s sullen lips and Mama’s trembling eyes found Papa’s wide eyes grown wide in understanding and the breath caught in his throat and he willed the remaining life through flared nostrils but the tears came and a choking gasp brought with it a deluge of the betraying air.
Inspired, enraged, Papa ripped the bat from the lathe’s grasp and smashed the barrel into the dusty pegboard where his tools peacefully lay. The dust shook free, fell and settled on the boy, stirred only by the whispered pleas and burning tears of kneeling Mama. Papa stood alone, cradling the bat.
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Matthew Berger is an undergraduate at California State University Fullerton. He currently lives in Corona, California.
This is his first published story. He heartily thanks and apologizes to the reader.
Find more out about Matthew Berger here, or on this site, here.