Day 5 - The Twelve-Dollar Tree

Clara's college apartment had been terrible.

Not charmingly terrible.

Actually terrible.

The building had once been a respectable house and had since been divided into four units by someone with an enthusiastic but limited understanding of walls.

Her bedroom floor sloped.

The kitchen possessed one outlet.

The radiator either did nothing or attempted murder.

The bathroom door did not fully close unless lifted slightly by the handle.

Clara loved it.

It was the first place that felt like evidence.

She had left Holloway, just barely.

Not permanently yet.

But enough.

Jack arrived on December nineteenth carrying a duffel bag, a paper sack from a gas station, and exactly twenty-seven dollars until payday.

“You're early,” Clara said when she opened the door.

“You're welcome.”

“I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You could've just said surprise.”

“That lacks commitment.”

She stepped aside.

Jack entered and immediately looked around.

Her apartment contained one couch she'd found near a dumpster, two mismatched lamps, and an aggressively green rug Naomi had inherited from an aunt and insisted was “vintage.”

Jack looked at the rug.

“No.”

Clara shut the door.

“It's temporary.”

“It should've been temporary in 1974.”

“You don't live here.”

“I'm concerned for the building.”

She kissed him.

That ended the review.

For a while.

Later, when they were eating gas-station chips on the couch, Jack looked around again.

“Where's your tree?”

Clara blinked.

“My what?”

“Christmas tree.”

“I don't have one.”

“It's December nineteenth.”

“I know the date.”

“You don't have decorations?”

“I have a mug with a snowman on it.”

“That doesn't count.”

“It does if you're poor.”

Jack looked genuinely troubled.

Clara laughed.

“You're serious.”

“We need a tree.”

“We do not need a tree.”

“Everyone needs a tree.”

“Everyone does not need a tree.”

“You're becoming cynical.”

“I have eleven dollars.”

“I have twenty-seven.”

“Excellent. Together we can almost afford electricity.”

Jack stood.

“Get your coat.”

“Absolutely not.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at Dixon Drug & Variety.

The Christmas aisle had been picked over.

One plastic wreath.

Several boxes of blue tinsel.

A ceramic angel missing half a wing.

And three miniature artificial trees.

Jack picked up the tallest.

Three feet.

Maybe.

Clara checked the price.

“Twelve ninety-nine.”

“Reasonable.”

“For a plastic shrub?”

“Tree.”

“Shrub.”

“Tree.”

“It has seventeen branches.”

“It has potential.”

“You sound like a realtor.”

Jack put it in the basket.

Clara took it out.

He put it back.

“Jack.”

“Clara.”

“We have no money.”

“We have some money.”

“We have ramen money.”

“We can eat ramen.”

“We already eat ramen.”

“So there's precedent.”

Clara stared at him.

He smiled.

This was how he won arguments sometimes.

Not logically.

By becoming too irritating to continue opposing.

“Fine.”

Jack looked pleased.

“We need lights.”

“No.”

“Tree needs lights.”

“The tree needs perspective.”

They bought lights.

Two ornaments.

Candy canes.

Nothing for the top because Clara refused to spend another dollar.

They carried the bag back to the apartment through snow that kept getting into Clara's boots.

“This is financially irresponsible,” she said.

“Correct.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“You have twenty-seven dollars.”

“I had twenty-seven dollars.”

“That's worse.”

“Probably.”

When they were inside the apartment, Jack assembled the tree on an end table.

It leaned.

Clara stood back.

“It looks ill.”

“It needs decorating.”

“It needs medical attention.”

They wrapped the lights around it.

The strand was too long, so half ended up on the wall.

Jack hung the blue ornament.

Clara hung the crooked gold star.

“Mine's better,” he said.

“Yours is an oval.”

“It's artistic.”

“It's defective.”

“Beauty is subjective.”

“Not in this case.”

They made hot chocolate with candy canes in chipped mugs.

Ate ramen.

Later, Naomi stopped by, saw the tree, and laughed for five uninterrupted minutes.

“It's festive,” Jack said.

“It looks like it lost a custody battle,” Naomi replied.

Clara laughed so hard she spilled cocoa.

They stayed up until almost three.

Music playing softly.

Naomi eventually left.

Snow moved past the windows.

Clara sat cross-legged on the couch under a hand-me-down blanket, her feet under Jack's thigh because the radiator had chosen neglect that evening.

He was sketching.

He did that constantly.

On receipts.

Margins.

Napkins.

His hand moved over a cheap notebook.

Clara leaned over.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.”

“That's clearly something.”

“Chair.”

“Another chair?”

“Different chair.”

“You're very chair-focused.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You do not have an occupation.”

“I will.”

The certainty in his voice made her smile.

She watched him draw.

Clean lines.

Measurements.

Tiny notes.

“Where do you think you'll do it?” she asked.

“What?”

“Furniture.”

Jack shrugged.

“Somewhere.”

“In Holloway?”

“Maybe.”

Clara looked toward the tree.

“Really?”

“Maybe.”

He glanced at her.

“You hate that answer.”

“I don't hate it.”

“You make a face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you think someone has volunteered for prison.”

Clara laughed.

“I don't think that.”

“You do a little.”

She pulled the blanket higher.

“I just don't understand wanting to stay in the same place forever.”

Jack closed the notebook.

“I'm not sure I do either.”

“You just said you might.”

“I said I might work there.”

“That's the same thing.”

“No, it isn't.”

At twenty, Clara still believed most choices came in pairs.

Stay or leave.

Success or failure.

Courage or fear.

Jack was already irritatingly resistant to binary options.

“So you'd leave?” she asked.

“If I had a reason.”

Clara looked at him.

The answer sounded larger than it was.

She felt it anyway.

“What kind of reason?”

Jack smiled.

“That was subtle.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure.”

He reopened the sketchbook.

Clara kicked him lightly.

He caught her foot.

For a moment, neither said anything.

Then Jack looked around the apartment.

The bad rug.

The chipped mugs.

The ridiculous tree.

“This is nice.”

Clara followed his gaze.

“It is objectively terrible.”

“You know what I mean.”

She did.

That was the dangerous thing.

At twenty, she had spent most of her time imagining elsewhere.

New cities.

New jobs.

Different versions of herself.

But that night, nothing elsewhere felt urgent.

The apartment was warm enough.

Jack was there.

The tree leaned.

The world outside was white and quiet.

For the first time, “someday” did not feel like escape.

It felt like something they might build together.

She rested her head on his shoulder.

“Do you think we'll always be broke?”

“Yes.”

Clara laughed.

“Terrible answer.”

“You want honesty.”

“I want reassurance.”

“Then absolutely not. We'll be obscenely wealthy.”

“Better.”

“Private jets.”

“Too much.”

“Summer home.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere with trees.”

“That's everywhere.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled.

Jack looked down at her.

“What do you want?”

The question should have been easy.

Clara was full of wants.

Career.

City.

Travel.

A life that surprised her.

But sitting there, she said:

“Something that feels like mine.”

Jack nodded.

No joke.

No correction.

Just understanding.

“I get that.”

She looked at him.

“What do you want?”

He glanced at the sketchbook.

“Same.”

And for that night, it sounded like they meant the same thing.

On Christmas Eve, Clara mailed Jack's postcard.

One from the drugstore rack.

A picture of a lake in July.

No Christmas theme.

On the back:

Jack—

This Christmas, I want to remember that we spent almost twenty dollars on a tree that leans left and ate ramen for dinner because of it.

Also that you said we'd be obscenely wealthy someday. I am keeping this in writing.

—C

Jack's arrived two days later.

The front showed a motel in Arizona neither of them had ever visited.

On the back:

Clara—

This Christmas, I want to remember that your apartment is freezing, your rug is criminal, and somehow it still felt like home.

—J

She had read that one at least fifty times.

Present-day Clara sat at the table with the postcard in one hand.

Her phone buzzed.

A calendar reminder.

MERCER WORKS — 2:00 PM

She looked at the time.

12:30.

Ridiculous.

Plenty of time.

She carried her coffee upstairs.

Then came back down because she had forgotten the receipt.

Why she needed it, she wasn't sure.

She folded it once and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

Mercer Works occupied the first floor of an old brick mill at the edge of the river.

Clara knew the building.

Everyone in Holloway did.

For years it had sat half-empty after the textile company closed.

Now the front windows were enormous panes of glass framed in black steel.

A simple sign read:

MERCER WORKS

CUSTOM FURNITURE

No rustic logo.

No cartoon sawblade.

Thank goodness.

Clara parked.

For a moment, she stayed in the car.

This was not the boy with the notebook.

That thought arrived unexpectedly.

She knew it intellectually.

But now she was about to walk into proof.

Clara got out.

Closed-toe shoes.

She found it a ridiculous comment considering the freezing temperatures and snow on the ground.

The front door opened into a quiet showroom.

Not what she expected.

The space was spare and beautiful.

White walls.

Old brick.

Tall windows looking toward the river.

Furniture stood with enough room around each piece to be seen.

A walnut dining table.

Two sculptural chairs.

A low oak credenza.

A writing desk so simple Clara immediately understood how difficult it must have been to make.

She stopped.

“Oh.”

“That's usually better than silence.”

Jack stood in a doorway at the back.

Work apron.

Dark shirt.

Sleeves pushed up.

Sawdust along one forearm.

Clara hated how predictable her own reaction was.

Naomi would be unbearable.

“You clean up the front before I came?”

Jack looked around.

“No.”

“So this isn't staged for visiting magazine editors?”

“I considered rose petals.”

“Too much.”

“That's what Theo said.”

A man appeared behind him carrying a clamp.

“Absolutely not what I said.”

Jack nodded toward him.

“Theo Mason.”

Theo held out his hand.

“Clara Bennett.”

She shook it.

“You know who I am.”

Theo looked at Jack.

Then back at Clara.

“Yes.”

Jack sighed.

“Theo.”

“What?”

Clara smiled.

“I'm apparently famous locally.”

“You're something locally.”

Jack pointed toward the shop.

“Go away.”

Theo grinned and disappeared.

Clara watched him go.

“I like him.”

“You won't.”

“I probably will.”

Jack took off the apron.

“Want the tour?”

She looked around.

“Yes.”

Very much.

The main workshop occupied the back half of the building.

Six workbenches.

Machines she could not name.

Shelves of timber.

Drawings pinned to walls.

Partially assembled pieces.

The air smelled like wood, dust, and something warm she couldn't identify.

Jack explained the workflow.

Design.

Milling.

Joinery.

Finishing.

Clara understood perhaps sixty percent and pretended it was ninety-five.

People greeted him as they moved around the shop.

Not employees performing for the boss.

People who clearly liked working there.

That mattered.

“How many people?” Clara asked.

“Seven including me.”

She glanced at him.

“You built all this?”

Jack looked around.

“Over time.”

“That means yes.”

“It means I had help.”

Clara smiled.

“Still allergic to compliments?”

“Still turning statements into compliments?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They stopped beside a long oak table in progress.

Clara ran her hand above it without touching.

“Can I?”

Jack nodded.

She touched the surface.

Silky.

Not glossy.

Alive somehow.

“This is beautiful.”

Jack looked at the table.

“It's getting there.”

“No. It's beautiful.”

He glanced at her.

“Thank you.”

There.

He took the compliment.

Growth.

Clara smiled.

Then she saw it.

Against the far wall, elevated on a small shelf.

The chair.

Jack's first chair.

Crooked.

Unstable.

Still bearing the warning:

DO NOT SIT

Clara burst out laughing.

“No.”

Jack closed his eyes.

“I forgot that was visible.”

“You display it?”

“I do not display it.”

“It is literally elevated.”

“Theo moved it.”

From somewhere in the shop.

“History matters!”

Clara laughed harder.

Jack called back:

“You're fired.”

Theo answered:

“You said that Tuesday.”

Clara walked toward the chair.

Up close, it was worse.

One joint had a visible gap.

The seat tilted.

“What happened here?”

Jack stood beside her.

“I was twenty.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“I didn't understand wood movement.”

“You also didn't understand geometry.”

“That feels personal.”

“It is.”

He smiled.

Clara touched the back lightly.

“You really kept this all these years.”

“Yeah.”

“Because it was the first thing that was yours.”

Jack nodded.

She looked from the chair to the workshop.

The distance between them felt enormous.

“You did it.”

The words came before she could stop them.

Jack looked at her.

“What?”

“This.”

She gestured around them.

“You actually did it.”

For a second, he didn't answer.

Then:

“So did you.”

Clara went still.

“You don't even know what I do.”

Jack smiled.

“I know exactly what you do.”

She blinked.

“Really?”

He nodded toward the front office.

“Come here.”

He led her through another doorway.

Small office.

Books.

Material samples.

Drawings.

A coffee mug.

And framed on the wall—

a magazine spread.

Clara stopped.

She knew the typeface before she read the masthead.

Her magazine.

FORM & HOME

Six years earlier.

An 8-page feature on contemporary American furniture makers.

Two pages devoted to Mercer Works.

Clara stared.

Then turned to Jack.

“We featured you.”

“So I've been told.”

“I run this magazine.”

“I know.”

“How did I not know this?”

“It's a large magazine.”

“That is not an answer.”

Jack leaned against the desk.

“A contributing editor did the piece. West Coast, I think.”

“Midwest desk.”

“See? You know more than I do.”

Clara stepped closer to the framed spread.

Beautiful photography.

A handmade table.

The Mercer Works shop..

Jack in one image, younger but unmistakable.

She read the headline.

Then the caption.

Jack cleared his throat.

“There is an error.”

Clara looked at him.

“Where?”

He pointed.

The caption read:

The Ridge Dining Table - reclaimed oak, restored and reimagined by Mercer Works.

Jack said:

“It's ash.”

Clara stared.

Then started laughing.

“You've been upset about this for six years?”

“I wouldn't say upset.”

“You framed it.”

“For evidence.”

“You could've emailed us.”

“I thought about it.”

“For six years?”

“No. For maybe four.”

Clara laughed.

Jack smiled.

Then she looked at the page again.

Her world.

His world.

Printed together.

Years ago.

Without her knowing.

Something about that felt strange.

Not cosmic.

Not fate.

Just unsettlingly close.

“You never told me,” she said.

Jack's expression softened.

“We weren't exactly talking.”

“No.”