Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I need to sell these, I said.
Edwin stopped scraping. He set the putty knife down on the concrete floor and stood up.
He opened the lid of the chest. Inside, resting in custom-cut green felt slots, were twenty-four Swedish timber-framing chisels, three cast-iron bench planes, and a brass-bound mahogany level.
These are the ones you bought when we did the schoolhouse job in ninety-four, Edwin said.
They are, I said.
He took out the largest chisel, a two-inch socket slicker, and ran his thumb lightly along the bevel.
You spent three weeks oiling this handle, Edwin said.
I did, I said.
He froze the bank accounts, Edwin asked.
This morning, I said.
Edwin looked at the chisels for a long time. He went to his metal filing cabinet in the corner, pulled open the bottom drawer, and reached behind some old parts catalogs.
He came back with a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He counted eight of them onto the wood of the tool chest.
