Ria Carriger

At A Quarter Past Noon

To him, life and his craft were a similar construction - easily measured and assessed. Like the shadow of a plumb line, it was the straight lines that gave both strength and purpose. Banty Aynesworth was a man governed by precision. He always arrived on time, his mule lurching in worn traces maneuvered artlessly by the taciturn man perched in the buckboard. But what he lacked in grace he made up for in practicality. Who knew what drew him to such a macabre profession? His stepfather, by all accounts, had been boisterous and dependable. Later in life, however, he would share his son’s penchant for keeping to the roads. Instead of putting Banty’s hand to the plow, he had put it to the saw, and taught him to tame thickets of wild-grown oaks and pines into sleek boards. From his stepfather also came Banty’s personal creed: “A man honors his commitments and see things through.”