Benny Stitch's Arc

Chapter 6 of 10

The line reached the door by mid-morning. Six customers wanted the loud coats only Benny made. But his shop held one chair, and he needed it to work. The waiting neighbors shifted their muddy boots on his floor. Two grew tired of standing. They muttered, turned, and walked out. Benny watched two orders leave with them. He could sew fast. He could not sew for people who would not stay. He worked all day with his jaw tight. That night he counted the lost names in his binder. Standing room was killing him. He needed a place for people to sit. The next morning he searched behind the closed shops again, where he had found the metal scraps before. Someone else was already there, bent over the dumpster. A woman in a neat cardigan, pearls at her ears, pulled a broken carving into the light. She turned it over in her hands like she was reading it. Benny knew her. Fiona Ballard kept records the way he now kept his binder. She had once helped a customer of his track a lost receipt. She did not waste words. "You want this?" she asked, not looking up. It was a bench. Carved wood, long enough for three. Chickens marched across the back in painted rows, silly and bright. One leg wobbled. The seat held. "I might," Benny said. "My customers won't wait. They stand, then they leave." Fiona set the bench upright and pressed the loose leg. "Then they need a reason to sit." She stepped back. "This is a reason." "It's broken." "One leg. You fix seams all day." She said it flat, no push behind it. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt. "Take it. I have no room for it." Benny carried the bench home on his shoulder. The chickens knocked against his neat city coat, and mud smeared the carved feet. He set it by the front window and studied the wobble. He had no wood glue. But he had thread, wire, and patience. He wrapped the split joint tight with waxed cord, looping it the way he anchored a hard button. He pulled each turn until the leg stopped moving. Then he stitched a cushion from his brightest scraps and tied it to the seat. By afternoon the line returned. This time no one left. Three customers crowded onto the bench, laughing at the painted birds. A fourth leaned on the arm. They talked while Benny worked, and the talk pulled more people to the window to see what the noise was. He filled his binder with six new orders and lost none. But the bench sat four, and by dusk eight people wanted in. They spilled onto the lane outside his door. Benny wrote the names, then looked at his one small shop. The bench had fixed the waiting. Now the crowd was too big for the room he had.