the space that paul made
day 3: 100 day project
In my memory, Paul came with the house we got when my mother had two babies eleven months apart, he was just there when we got it, like a swing on a porch, or a spicket outside. He was always working on something - fixing the chicken coop, mowing the huge pasture-sized yard, cutting back the jungle that was always encroaching, but most times he was tinkering tucked in the shack, classic leaning with brownish gray slats and one side doorless and open — because it was Hawaii, and doors weren’t necessary.
Sometimes I would finally find the shack, and it was hard for me to find it, because I was 3, maybe 4 years old, and he wouldn’t be there, and I would be heartbroken. But if I did find it, and he was there, I would be so filled with excitement that I would have to steady my breathing before walking over. We didn’t talk much, but we didn’t need to. A stark contrast from my father, who talked all day long about the Bible and women, snakes and apples, sin, rib bones, and submission…so many words that weren’t necessary because we all knew what he was trying to say. A misogynist living life with three daughters always has something to say.
Paul would look up at me, notice I was there, and twinkle. He kind of sparkled when he saw me, and I sparkled back. That’s just how it felt to be around each other. When I try and bring his face back in my mind, he looks like Sam Elliot - tall, lanky, dancing eyes, white hair a little scrappy and long, and a mustache. I don’t think Paul had a mustache in real life, but it wants to be there in my mind, and so it is.
He’d quietly bring over a white piece of chalk, place it in my hand, and then go back to what he was doing. As if we both had things to do, important things, so there wasn’t time for talking. I’d take it over to the little green chalkboard he’d leaned up on the side of the entrance for me. He had found some of those little plastic magnet letters and numbers. Not all of them, just a few — the letter A, B, and Z. The numbers 5 (so hard to make), 7, and 8. And he’d shown me how to trace them, “like this,” he’d say as he drew an 8 so gorgeous and perfect it might as well have been God making it for the first time. He’d smile and sometimes say something about what I was working on - “that’s a beauty”, he’d say, or he’d tell me which ones were his favorites. But mostly we just kept each other. In our company, there was a safety and a space that I hadn’t known yet, and it meant everything to me. Time with Paul yawned on in the best way, like magic, as if it were years and years we were spending together instead of handfuls of minutes.
One day, I came and he said, “I found something for you, little one.” And he brought over a package wrapped up loosely in an old cloth. He set it down in the grass next to me, and I unwrapped it. It was one white, smooth, antler — small but sharp. He told me, “I found it in the wood and cleaned it up for you. I thought maybe you would be interested.” I imagined Paul walking in the thick green jungle, finding it, and thinking of what interested me, taking it and cleaning away the old velvet and maybe even blood, making it white and clean…just for me. Waiting for me to come and giving it to me now. We smiled at each other, understanding, and I said “thank you”, which was a poor substitute for what I felt. I just sat there and rubbed my fingers over it for a long time. I left it there because we both agreed my parents would disapprove of it in the house. If I could, I would have slept with it. I would lie in my bed later and think of it out in the shack, glowing there waiting for me — it was something to think about, like thinking about the moon, when things felt dark.
One day, I was watching Paul use climbing spikes to scale one of our coconut trees. When he shouted that he was coming down, I stepped back and watched as suddenly his foot slipped, his body spun around, and the spikes from one foot drove into his other leg. Then red started running like a little river down the tree. His arms fell back, and his body hung out from the tree, and he moaned for me to “get help.” And I did. I ran as fast as my little legs could run, up the long hill to the house, my lungs burning, screaming for anyone. My mother kept me inside at first until she couldn’t anymore. And when I made it back down, I saw Paul lying slumped over at the bottom of the tree, his pants had been cut up to his thigh, and everything was so dark. I didn’t know blood could be so dark; what was left of his jeans looked almost black. They had it wrapped as best as they could, but it was still bleeding through, and I watched as my father and another man helped him, half-dragging him, over to the back of a now waiting pickup truck. Paul’s face looked white and sick, and damp. I remember wanting to hug him, I remember wanting to tell him I loved him, and I remember wanting to go with him wherever he went. But then he was driving away, and he managed to yell out “don’t worry little one, I’m okay” and he waved a short wave, from his hand which rested limp at his side, like a little hip-level salute. His eyes were soft and kind even then. They were watching me, holding steady so I wouldn’t worry. I waved back and stood there and cried. And for some reason, after that, I never saw him again. I remember asking about him, and they assured me that “no, he hadn’t died,” but he never came back. Soon after we moved to Arizona. I left my antler in the shack and in my mind, it’s still there, with the magnet letters, and the love, the perfect number 8’s, and the space that Paul made with chalk and bone and twinkling eyes.
Beautiful piece.
I remember this day! We all.loved Paul, he was an amazing gentle soul
He did come home, and moved to Arizona , we wrote letters and stayed in touch for years after.