The Puppet Carver Read online

  “Are you sure that’s not just the stink of pepperoni past its expiration date?” Sage asked.

  “Same difference,” Edwin said, grabbing a french fry and dragging it through the shared puddle of ketchup. “If we were selling that pepperoni, it wouldn’t be going bad, and we wouldn’t be in danger of being out of a job.”

  “Wow, now I’m depressed,” Angie said, stirring her soda with her straw.

  “No need to get depressed,” Edwin said. “You’re in nursing school. You’ve got a good career ahead of you, and Porter and Sage are college boys. I’m the only one at this table who’s looking down a dead-end street.”

  “Well, maybe you’re not,” Porter said. “I’ve just about finished my invention, which will bring the cost of animatronics way, way down. I’m showing it to Jack on Friday. If he doesn’t have to keep replacing expensive animatronics, then he can pour his money into advertising and better food quality, maybe even buy a few new games. Then customers will start coming again.”

  “Well, I admire your optimism,” Angie said, popping a french fry into her mouth. “I hope it pays off.”

  “I think it actually might,” Sage said. “Porter showed it to me tonight. He’s calling it the Puppet Carver because of my novel. It’s pretty amazing.” He grinned. “The invention, I mean, not my novel. Though the novel’s pretty amazing, too.”

  “Your confidence is inspiring,” Edwin said. He raised his soda glass. “Let’s toast to a brighter future!”

  “To a brighter future,” the friends said, clinking glasses.

  * * *

  Porter and Sage shared a two-bedroom basement apartment. From the window, they could see the spectacular view of people’s feet walking on the sidewalk above. The apartment was dark and damp with cheap paneling on the walls and ancient moss-colored carpet on the squeaky floor. The one thing you could say for it was that the rent was fairly cheap, especially with the two of them sharing it.

  Tonight was the same as every other night. They got home. Sage went to his room to work on his novel. Porter went to his room to work on designs for his inventions. Porter drew and measured and made notes, working until he was so tired he could no longer hold his eyes open. Then he would collapse into bed, setting the alarm so he would wake up in time to get ready for the morning classes he took before returning to Abusive Pizza Land, as he called it, in the afternoon. It was a grueling schedule that wore him to the bone, but he kept on pushing, sure that he was on his way to something better. Meanwhile, Sage returned to his manuscript, typing in the dim glow of his desk lamp until late in the night.

  from The Puppet Carver

  a novel by Sage Brantley

  Sylvester Pine emerged from the chamber as a perfect specimen. The first thing he saw were his hands, which were fully jointed. He watched himself curl them into fists, then straighten them back out and spread the fingers apart.

  “Remarkable, yes?” his creator said.

  Sylvester nodded.

  “Would you like to see more of yourself?” his creator asked.

  Sylvester nodded again.

  His creator smiled. “You are programmed with the power of language, both the ability to comprehend and the ability to speak. When I ask you a question, please answer it with a yes or a no. Now … would you like to see more of yourself?”

  “Yes,” Sylvester said. The word slipped from his lips effortlessly.

  “Good,” his creator said. “Follow me.”

  Sylvester let his creator lead him to a large piece of glass he somehow knew was called a mirror. Sylvester regarded himself. He was a complete person, with symmetrical facial features and eyes that opened and closed. When he wished to move an arm or a leg, it moved according to his unspoken commands. He was not yet clothed, but when he was, he knew that he would strongly resemble a man with one exception. The surface of his face and body, unlike his creator’s, was not soft and pliable because instead of flesh, he was made of smooth, solid wood.

  “You’re a handsome fellow,” his creator said. “And a highly functional one. You can think. You can move. You can talk. You have three of the five senses regular humans have: sight, hearing, and smell.”

  “What senses am I missing?”

  His creator shrugged. “Nothing very important. You don’t have a sense of taste because you have no need to eat. And you don’t have a sense of touch because we haven’t been able to perfect the technology yet. But this isn’t a wholly bad thing. You’ll have no ability to feel heat or cold, no ability to feel pain. In some ways, this lack makes you superior to those who have it.”

  Sylvester touched his left hand with his right hand. Then he reached out and touched his creator on the shoulder.

  His creator was right. Sylvester felt nothing.

  * * *

  Before Jack entered the house, he took off his shoes. Becky forbade wearing shoes inside because they might scuff the beautiful new hardwood floors. Jack understood this—he knew how much the new flooring had cost; he had paid for it—but taking off his shoes and holding them in his hands still made him feel strangely sneaky, as though he were a thief trying to break into his own house.

  He walked into the newly remodeled home. The hardwood floors gleamed. The new living room furniture was sleek and modern (if not as comfortable as he would like). Becky loved to watch all those shows about redoing houses, and she had really put her heart and soul into making their comfy, older house look elegant and new.

  But when Jack looked at his plush surroundings, all he could see was money flying out of his pockets.

  He found Becky at the kitchen table, reading a home-and-garden magazine and sipping a diet soda. Even though it was late, she was still dressed in a designer blouse and dress slacks, her hair and makeup perfectly in order. Ever since she got the house looking the way she wanted it, it was like she had to look a certain way, too. No more lounging around in sweatpants. She had to match the decor.

  She looked up from her magazine. “You know, I’ve been thinking we might want to knock down the wall between the living room and dining room,” she said. “Have more of an open concept.”

  “An open wallet’s more like it,” Jack said. “My wallet.” He stomped over to the refrigerator—new, stainless steel, and very expensive—and looked inside. What was the good of having a top-of-the-line refrigerator if there wasn’t anything worth eating inside it? “We never have anything good to eat in this house,” Jack said.

  Becky rolled her eyes. “I had a fruit smoothie for dinner. I’d be happy to make you one, too.”

  “That’s not food,” Jack growled. “Food is something you can chew.”

  Becky got up from the table and started selecting fruit from the fruit bowl. “Hon, I know you’d love to eat a big, juicy steak every night, but the doctor says it’s bad for your cholesterol and blood pressure. A fruit smoothie with protein powder is much healthier. And besides, it wouldn’t hurt you to go down a pants size.”

  Jack’s head was pounding with both hunger and anger. “Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Everything always has to be improved. The house, your wardrobe, my waistline—everything always has to be upgraded again and again.”

  Becky was dropping blueberries into the blender. “Well, in the case of your waistline, it would be more of a downgrade that’s needed.” She smiled at him.

  It was the same smile he used to find radiant, but paired with tonight’s criticism, it was just annoying.

  “That’s not funny!” Jack said. “Stop making that smoothie. I don’t want a smoothie! I’m going out for a hamburger!”

  “But your cholesterol—”

  “If I die from cholesterol, at least I’ll die full and happy!” Jack said. He stormed out of the house, then realized he’d forgotten his shoes and had to tiptoe back in to get them. It wasn’t the dramatic exit he’d been hoping for.

  Jack pulled up to the drive-thru at the Golden Heifer.

  “Thank you for choosing Golden Heifer. Order when you’re
ready,” the voice on the speaker said.

  “Give me the Moo’n’Oink Double Bacon Cheeseburger, a large fry, and a peanut butter shake,” Jack said.

  “That’ll be nine twenty-five. Please pull up to the window,” the voice said.

  Jack shoved a ten at the young cashier in the window and grabbed his order. He pulled into an empty parking space to eat his meal. When he unwrapped his burger, there was no bacon on it. Enraged, he got out of the car and stomped up to the drive-thru window, holding the burger in his hand as evidence.

  The cashier, a petite young woman with mousy-brown hair, said, “I’m sorry, sir, but the drive-thru is for cars only. If you need to speak to someone, you need to go inside the restaurant.”

  “I ordered the Moo’n’Oink Double Bacon Cheeseburger, and you left out the Oink!” Jack yelled. “I am not going inside the restaurant. I am standing here until you make my order right. I demand bacon!”

  The cashier, who was probably still in high school, looked nervous. “Our company policy is no customers on foot at the drive-thru—”

  “I don’t give a plugged nickel for what your company’s policy is. I am standing here until I get what I paid good money for.”

  “So,” the cashier said with a quiver in her voice, “there was no bacon on your burger?”

  “That’s what I said,” Jack thundered. “Do you not speak English, or are you just an idiot?”

  “I’m sorry you’re frustrated, sir,” the cashier said. “I’m going to fix the problem for you. But you have to understand I’m new at this job. Today’s my first day.”

  “And if you worked for me, it would be your last,” Jack said. The young woman looked like she was near tears, which Jack found strangely satisfying.

  Once his order was finally corrected, Jack stomped back to his car and gobbled down the food like a starving dog. A smoothie was not dinner. He was a man, and men needed to eat.

  He knew he was consuming thousands of calories, but once the food was all gone, he still felt empty.

  He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the bank statement that had come earlier in the day. Jack had a master’s degree in business and was an expert number cruncher. But no matter how he crunched them, these numbers were bad.

  It shouldn’t be this way. Many years ago, when he was in college, Jack had envisioned himself on Wall Street as a real mover and shaker in the world of finance. When that hadn’t panned out, he had gotten a job at a bank and started to move his way up the ranks. He worked there several years and his career had been on the rise. Until he had butted heads with his superiors and yelled at his subordinates one too many times and gotten himself fired.

  “You’re great with numbers, Jack,” his old boss had said, “but you’re terrible with people.”

  Hard to get along with, they had said. Authoritarian personality, they had said.

  Jack had figured that if he built his own business, he wouldn’t have to be bossed around by anybody. When the pizza restaurant building had gone up for sale, he took the plunge. He knew that kind of restaurant had been a big hit in other cities, so he figured he couldn’t fail.

  He was wrong.

  He frowned at the numbers on the bank statement. You didn’t have to be an expert number cruncher to see that he owed more than he was earning.

  In Jack’s pocket, his phone—the latest model, which Becky had bought him for his birthday with his money—rang.

  “Hi, Dad.” It was Tyson, his son, calling from college.

  Jack felt his dark mood lift a bit as he thought back to Tyson’s childhood, the ball games and the birthday parties. Things had been happier then. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”

  “Uh, well, I just wanted to let you know that I had to use your credit card for a couple of things today.” Tyson’s voice sounded tense. “One of my classes has an additional textbook I didn’t know I needed, and then …”

  Tyson paused. That pause made Jack nervous.

  “And then … ?” Jack prompted.

  “I had a little oopsie with the car that ended up costing nine hundred dollars. I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “Nine hundred dollars is a big oopsie! A gigantic oopsie, in fact.” Jack felt his face heat up with anger.

  “I know, Dad. I really am sorry. It was an emergency.”

  “Sorry doesn’t get me my nine hundred dollars back, plus whatever exorbitant sum you had to spend for that useless textbook.” His voice was growing louder and louder. “Tyson, you’re supposed to be off at school, learning how to be independent. Learning to be a man. Well, how are you going to be an independent young man if you just reach for Daddy’s credit card every time you have a supposed emergency?”

  “I thought that’s what you gave it to me for—emergencies,” Tyson said. His voice had the trembling quality it got when he was upset.

  “Are you talking back to me?” Jack roared.

  “No, Dad, I’m just trying to understand—”

  “Well, I’m trying to understand, too,” Jack interrupted him. “I’m trying to understand how just two people, the other one being your mother—though you don’t need a college education to figure that one out—how just two people can be such an enormous drain on my finances!”

  Jack hung up the phone before he could hear whatever sob story Tyson was about to tell him.

  Bleeding him dry. His business, his family were bleeding him dry. Why couldn’t they understand that he wasn’t an endless source of money? They treated him like a human ATM.

  With a shaking hand, Jack opened the search engine screen on his phone and typed in the word bankruptcy.

  From The Puppet Carver

  by Sage Brantley

  “What are they?” Sylvester asked the little girl. In the cardboard box was a pile of small, squirming, furry creatures.

  The little girl giggled. “They’re kittens. Have you never seen kittens before?”

  Sylvester shook his head.

  “Really?” the little girl said. She picked up one of the creatures. It was orange and white and made a strange mewling sound. “They’re baby cats. I named this one Daffodil. Do you want to pet her?”

  Sylvester reached out and gently stroked the tiny creature.

  “Isn’t she soft?” the little girl said.

  “Yes. Very soft,” Sylvester answered. But the truth was, the kitten could have been as hard as a rock for all he knew. He could feel nothing.

  Sylvester, like all of his wooden brethren, had been created perfectly to perform the manufacturing jobs that were required of them. But because he and his brethren could not truly feel anything, they were not real.

  Sylvester couldn’t feel the softness of a kitten or the bright sun on his face. He couldn’t feel the heat from a fireplace or a cool evening breeze. He couldn’t feel the hugs of friendship or the kisses of love.

  Sylvester could walk and talk like a man, but he wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself. A wooden man was no man at all.

  More than anything, Sylvester longed to be real.

  * * *

  Today was the day. Porter had arrived at work early to set up the Puppet Carver on the stage. He had even gone to the office supply store and gotten a flip chart so he could explain how the machine worked in an official-looking way. He wanted everything to be as professional as possible. It had to be, if he was going to save the restaurant and everybody’s jobs.

  Sage helped him center the puppet carver on the stage. “You’ve really gone all out, haven’t you?” Sage said, looking at the flip chart, then at the uncharacteristic jacket and tie Porter was wearing.

  “Yep,” Porter said. “I’m a nervous wreck, too. I really need this to go well. I feel like we all need it.”

  “Yeah, but no pressure, right?” Sage said. “Even though our futures are all in your hands.”

  Angie came in for her shift and looked up at the stage. “Hey, looking snazzy!” she said to Porter.

  “Just trying to make a good impression,” Porter s
aid. He tugged at the uncomfortable tie. He had always thought it strange that hanging a strip of cloth from your neck was supposed to make you seem all businesslike and professional. Who had decided that anyway?

  Angie flashed him a thumbs-up. “Well, I for one am impressed.”

  “Wait till you see the machine work,” Porter said. “Then you’ll be really impressed.”

  Jack stomped into the dining area, his face already set in a scowl. Clearly he was in a terrible mood. But what else was new?

  “Oh, that’s right,” Jack said, looking up at Porter who was onstage with his invention. “Today’s the day you’re going to waste my time with that contraption you made.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think you’ll find it a waste of time,” Sage said. “When Porter showed it to me, I thought it was amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s always working on that ‘novel,’ ” Jack said, using exaggerated finger quotes. “Show me a fiction writer, and I’ll show you a liar.”

  Sage opened his mouth, but before he could put his foot in it, Porter jumped in. “Why don’t we go ahead and get to the demonstration? Sage, can you get Edwin out of the kitchen? He wanted to see this, too.” Porter hoped having a small errand to run would distract Sage from the fact that Jack had just insulted him.

  Soon Edwin, Angie, and Sage were sitting at the table nearest the stage, smiling and cheering Porter on. Jack sat at a table in the rear and leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest. “Okay,” he said. “Impress me.”

  “Yes, sir!” Porter said. He tried to sound confident even though he was nervous. “Sage, can you give me a hand with this log?”

  Sage stepped up and helped him feed the large piece of wood into the machine’s opening.

  “I’ve got it from here. Thanks, buddy,” Porter said, and Sage took his place back at the table.

  “Now, I just push this button, and we watch the magic!” Porter said. After he pushed the button, he stepped aside so everybody could have a clear view of the machine.

  Porter could tell right away that something was wrong. The machine was shaking too much and making a strange sputtering sound. There was an unfamiliar rattle from deep within its core. Porter caught Sage’s eye and could tell that Sage knew, too.