Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

the business, then, or buy a car for his son and daughter, take
a trip, all possibilities. But that would end and he would sink
back to his distant, disapproving self, still with the ability
to shave arteries.
No.
He would not profit from long-term murder. He would not
have blood money. Carl squeezed his eyes shut and groped for his
soul, lost somewhere in the hard shell. It evaded his grasp.
He almost sent the check to the Red Cross, where she had
volunteered for most of those thirty-seven years, but stayed the
pen. It would be dismissal, a single act throwing her and her
shredded artery away. Insufficient. The artery needed repair.
He sent it to the equity loan and paid the remaining
$3472.16 a week later with the two invoices that came in from
the Court House job. That was a good start. The equity loan had
worried her. She would say to him, "Carl, is there any way we
can send them a little extra?" Debt frightened her. She'd spent
her childhood thrown out of one perfectly good house after
another because of her Dad's gambling. Carl's Master
Certificates for Interior Remodeling, Plumbing, and Electricity
ensured she would never, ever be thrown out of another house in
her life, especially because he was a sober, unimaginative man
for whom gambling, or theater or dancing, were frivolities. She
loved that, though. The safety.
But safety is a relative term, and a high price to pay for
things lost, and she never really felt safe, actually, because
he didn't have her concerns. His Dad was a tile setter, too, and
Carl grew up convinced debt was an instrument of business, a
base for doing more. "There's a new KD wet saw out," he
announced and $3000 went against the house. "That new Dodge
truck has more torque and can tow a bigger trailer," and there
was $38,000, just after the equity had been paid down to about
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