Try

Was it clear from the message what they wanted him to do?

*

The letter arrived in a beautiful envelope, with his name and address written in embossed letters on red glossy paper. He had woken up that morning wondering if he was going to speak to his neighbor about their dog and their children again (they were always teasing the poor thing when he saw them in their yard). At his front door, he picked up the letter and thought that this might be another joke. But as he read the note inside, he realized that this was a real company and that he knew the name of the man who had contacted him. This was real.

*

A5. Black leather. 256 pages. Gold edging to the pages. No noticeable labels or designs except his name. Deliver by the end of the month. $20,000.

*

The rich had vanities that he never understood. If he had understood, he might have listened to his daughter and kept the workshop open a little bit longer. She was his only child and she wanted him to accept that he had a reputation for quality work, even in an age when too many people were trapped in front of a screen and seemed to have codependent relationships with Samsung and Apple (he barely understood what she meant by that and did not laugh at her joke). If it had been anyone else, he would not have listened. Orders had fallen over the last ten years and he saw no reason not to enjoy his retirement. But that letter…

*

Not too much of the old material left now. He would not need to use much for something that size, but he was worried about the paper. They never said what type of paper he should used, so he left it blank (he quickly reviewed the letter and saw nothing that referred to this type of request). That was not a difficulty. And there was still glue and paint left over under the cabinet. The only worry was the stitching.

*

“Traditions matter, son; tradition keeps us alive.”

His father was the one who showed him how to do this. That combination of glue and stitching was old-fashioned even then, but he was a good boy and tried to copy what he saw. After many messy lessons, his father allowed him to do the work on his own and produce a book for a client. That was over sixty years ago and he still remembered the look of joy on the woman’s face as she picked up her purchase and thanked his father for the work. No one revealed the truth to her that day, and over time, it became easier for him to accept that clients would always think his father had done the work he tried so hard to perfect. It was a tradition. He did not want to damage what his father had worked so hard for.

*

Stitching… He was thinking about that now. Whomever it was that made the order would want to see it in the work. The problem was not just his eyesight or age; his hands were shaky. He had tried his best to hide it from his daughter, but she was one of the sharpest people he had ever known. She made him see a doctor and the diagnosis was nothing he did not expect. At least it was not the arthritis that ruined his father and made him surly and bitter with the world when his own son had to take over. He would take the medication and try to rest his hands when he could.

*

Damn blunt needles… Every time he started on one of these jobs, he had the same complaints and cursed in his own mind the shop when he had purchased them. It never stopped him from ordering from them when he had to, but it was always a challenge to get the needle threaded and then to puncture each page just at the right spot. The main cutter was still functional, but he had to make sure that each page was lined up perfectly and not off by even the slightest space. His hand was beginning to tremble.

Dammit.

*

Dammit again… He forgot the gold-edging. That would take some time. He threw the needle on the counter and looked for the paints and trays underneath. From his experience, this would be at least one extra day of waiting before he completed the job. The odor of the liquid was still quite pleasant to him as he dipped the individual pages into it (you had to do them separately and then hang them for the drying process to work correctly). The wires he used to hang up sheets were still intact and it took him over two hours to get them pinned up. He looked out the window and saw that it was already dark. Dinner would be whatever his daughter had left behind after her last brief visit and he felt his stomach respond to his thoughts of food.

*

It was not an easy night for sleep. His hands, which never shook when he was in bed, had a slight tremble to them on the comforter. His late wife’s picture stared at him under the lamp as he turned it on and stared away from it. What if this was a prank on him? What if there was no money at all when he mailed it? What if he was wasting all that time, leather, paper, thread, paint, needles on something that may be his last job?

He looked the photograph. What would she say to him if she could read his thoughts (he could not count the number of times he had turned to her when he doubts about an issue at work; she could even read his thoughts when he had not said a word)? He needed her wise counsel.

*

“What do you lose if you finish this order? A few days out of a retirement you are clearly not ready for, along with a little leather, paper, thread and paint. And you always hated those needles; you even had me thread them a few times when you were upset and could not concentrate on what you were doing. Just do the job. And do not forget that this silly customer is paying a small fortune for the most talented stationer in the country. Finish it up, you dummy.”

*

When he awoke, he did not even bother with a cup of tea or some of the delicious biscuits his daughter had baked. He was in the workspace and pulling down sheets as quickly as he could. After folding up the paper into the right number of pages, he cut along the edges carefully, making sure not to damage the paint that had not left a slight shine to the stack in front of him. And then, he picked up a new needle and spool of thread.

*

Cutting is not the hard thing. That could be done anytime, but you had to make sure that the thread was strong enough and not rely just on the glue to get the job done. Dad would be smiling at me right now, with all this shaking and me trying to ignore it all as I get this job done. He must be smiling right now. And she was right. I need to do this right, and not be a dummy.

Do it, dummy.

*

Was it his best job? It was the best he could do at his age after many years of not even touching some of the equipment in that room. He went to the post office to buy a padded envelope that would fit this one and had a bit of a conversation with the young lady who worked there. She was younger than his daughter, but there was something in her manner that made him think of her as family. Most strange…

“Are you sure about the address, sir?”

“I have it right here.”

“I see. Let me just measure it…”

It was a little more expensive to send it than he thought it would be.

“If you don’t want to send it…”

“No, I’ll pay. I think that I am covered for this.”

She smiled again, but it was an odd and uneven smile; it was as if she pitied him.

“Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks.”

Had he missed something? She was a young woman dealing with an old man who was trying to send out his best work to a customer. Maybe she did not understand that, but it still seemed odd to him that she would act in such a way. Maybe young people really are different now. Maybe.

*

He thought of his wife one last time that night. The money would be something he could give to his daughter, or use to fix up a few things in his home, like the car or the TV set she tried to get him to use (too many buttons to figure out). He breathed deeply and thought of thread and spools spreading out into the sky.

*

It was his daughter who found him. She stopped by, knocked on the door, and then let herself in when he did not respond. The doctor said that he had passed peacefully and that she should be happy to hear such news. She did not hear this as she held a homemade notebook in her hands and looked at the floor. The funeral had a decent number of mourners from the neighborhood and she made sure that his ashes were spread in the garden behind his home. What she would do with the workspace was not clear until she went through his mail and found a letter from a very satisfied client with information about a deposit made into her father’s bank account. She never worried about what to do with the workspace again. Not a thing would be touched and she would always remember his pride in his last job.

Now, if only she could do something about that dog.