Story by James C.
            Clar


            
Crooked Nails


            
 

            
"Bang" went the hammer again
            in my uncle's bony hand as he attempted to straighten another
            crooked nail. He had found a small tin bucket full of old, bent
            and rusty square nails in the back of the dilapidated barn that
            served as garage on his lakefront property. He sat hunched over
            a scarred workbench that ran along the western side of the structure.
            A vintage Lincoln Continental dominated most of the remaining
            space in the dimly lit interior. He didn't drive the car any
            more. At ninety-six he was far too old and feeble. Besides, after
            his memory had started to go they basically pulled his license
            anyhow.



            His short-term memory, that is. A newspaperman for over forty
            years, he could still recall just about every interview he had
            ever done as well as most of the stories he had covered as far
            back as the thirties and forties. It was just that he couldn't
            remember what he had for breakfast an hour ago or, sometimes,
            even where he lived. Like the dead, my uncle was gradually being
            confined to one tense, the past … or maybe for him it was
            the present?

            
"Hey Unk, how are you doing?"
            I asked as I entered the barn.

            
Looking up from the workbench at the sound
            of my voice he turned toward me and responded, "Hey yourself.
            I was just straightening these old nails. You never know, we
            might be able to use them again for something."

            
I moved closer and, leaning down, gave
            him a light kiss on the forehead. It looked as though he had
            shaved earlier that morning but he had done so unevenly. Small
            tufts of coarse white-gray hair remained at irregular intervals
            on his cheeks and jowls.

            
He put his hammer down and, eyes traveling
            over the tools that were hanging in front of him, he reached
            out to grab a chisel. Arthritic fingers caressed pitted steel
            as his mind slipped into reverse. "I remember a winter back
            in 1937 or 1938," he began. "They sent me out to the
            train station because they found some damn fool frozen solid
            to the side of a boxcar. Seems he hopped the freight somewhere
            back East and, maybe in Utica or Syracuse, got soaked when the
            engine took on water. Turns out he was the son of a local politician
            or something… that's what made it news. He had run off a
            few years earlier. No one knew where. I guess his luck petered
            out and he decided to come back home with his tail between his
            legs, a regular prodigal son. Anyhow, the local cops and the
            railroad people couldn't decide whether to thaw him out or chip
            him off the side of the damn train. They ended up using a chisel
            a lot like this one right here."

            
Taking an old windbreaker off the back
            of the barn door, I placed it over my uncle's thin shoulders.
            He put the chisel back and picked up his hammer again. He lay
            hold of another nail with his left hand and, placing it in front
            of him, brought the hammer down with his right. 



            The truth was he didn't have enough strength to actually straighten
            any of those old nails. Even if he had, by tomorrow for sure
            or maybe even by later today, he'd forget which pile was which
            and he'd start to work all over again. Time really was a serpent
            that devoured itself. Those old nails were my uncle's attempt
            to create order out of the chaos that was his mind- an attempt
            to hammer his memory back into submission, back into some semblance
            of working order. But he just didn't have the energy and there
            was too much rust. The nails were just too far-gone. Even so,
            I hoped he'd never stop.

            
"Listen, Unk," I said as he continued
            to pound away, "I'm going to head out. I have to go to work.
            Millie will be out when it's time for lunch. I'll be back in
            the morning to see how you're doing."

            
He looked over his shoulder at me as though
            seeing me now for the first time. "It's really nice of you
            to take the time to visit with an old man. What did you say your
            name was? You remind me of my nephew. Do me a favor, would you?
            If you run into him, tell him to stop over. I want to let him
            know about these nails. I think I'm pretty close to finishing."

            
 

            
James C. Clar is a teacher
            and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, author
            interviews and articles appear regularly in Mystery News. He
            has also published material in HackWriters, A Long Story, Short
            (story of month for Feb. '08), the Crime and Suspense Ezine,
            CrimeTime Magazine (UK) and CrimeScene: Scotland.