The Art of Crash Landing

by Melissa DeCarlo

  Prepregnancy, I had long stretches, years-long stretches, between vomiting episodes, including some pretty impressive hangovers. I am extremely disappointed in this new sickly me. Shaking and disgusted, I trudge back out to the tow truck, slowly of course, in the hopes that JJ will have already cleaned up the mess by the time I arrive. No such luck.

  Thank God for removable rubber floor mats.

  I coil the hose back alongside the building and go check on my car. JJ has the hood up and already seems to have some parts taken out and lying on the cement floor.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Looks like you need a new transmission.”

  “Seriously? Shit.”

  He rocks back on his heels and tucks his hands up under his arms. “So what I’m thinking is . . .” He pauses and chews awhile on his lower lip. I get the impression that thinking is a struggle for the man, so I don’t interrupt. Of course it’s possible that I’m being too judgmental. I’m sure lots of really, really smart people listen to banjo music.

  “What I’m thinking is you should give me some money.”

  Without being obvious, I look up and down the street. Seeing as how this neighborhood is one big cry for help I’m not sure who I think would respond to mine, but I still start measuring the distance to the closest house.

  “So . . . is this, like, a robbery?”

  He scowls. “Hell, no. It just looks to me like you don’t have a pot to piss in, and I’m sure as hell not putting seven or eight hundred dollars of parts in a car if I’m not getting paid.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course I can pay.” I pull out my MasterCard and wave it in front of his face.

  “Great. Come on in the office and we’ll run it through.”

  “You expect me to prepay?”

  “Just the parts.”

  I’m pretty sure that he and I both know things are about to get ugly, but I can’t stop myself from trying again. “Don’t be silly. It would be easier to pay one time. Once the work’s done we’ll settle up.”

  “You pay for parts now, and labor later.”

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  He narrows his eyes, engaged apparently, in that difficult thinking stuff again. He picks up a Styrofoam cup and spits a glob of brown goo inside. “You don’t have the money, do you?”

  It seems Albert Einstein here has a firm grasp of the obvious.

  “I have money. Or I will have soon. I just inherited my grandmother’s house.” I don’t mention the creditors and I don’t mention the three months.

  “Miss Thayer’s house, right?”

  I nod.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Thirty. Why?”

  He shakes his head. “No reason.”

  “How old are you?” I’m just being obnoxious; I don’t give a shit how old this asshole is.

  He looks annoyed. “Fifty-four.”

  For all his weathered looks, he’s a year younger than my mother would be if she were still alive. “Maybe you knew my mother . . .”

  JJ studies me for a second before answering, “I knew her.”

  Wiping his hands again on the rag, he walks out of the garage bay and into the office. Through the window I can see him sorting through some papers scattered on the counter.

  The door beeps when I push it open. “So are you going to fix my car?”

  He shakes his head. “You bring me the money, we’ll talk.”

  “Oh come on, what am I supposed to do? I don’t have the cash, but I’m good for it.”

  “It’s company policy.”

  “What is?”

  “We don’t work on vagrants’ cars without some money up front.”

  “Vagrant!”

  “Homeless. Broke. Destitute.”

  I sigh. “I know what vagrant means, and I’m not one.”

  “You’ve got a lot of crap in that car.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Looks to me like you’re living out of it.”

  “I’m in the process of moving.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Come on, what am I supposed to do without a car?”

  “I need money up front to buy the parts. Company policy.”

  “Show me where that’s written down. I don’t see that posted anywhere.”

  He uses his spit cup again. “I didn’t write it down,” he says, wiping his chin, “because I couldn’t decide whether to put a hyphen between dead and beat.”

  “Nice. Very nice.”

  I’m wondering if the man is just an evil fucker or if he’s smarter than he looks. I glance around the waiting area. The whole room smells like burned rubber. There are two orange chairs and between them a table piled with tired-looking newspapers. Above one chair is a framed print of John Wayne, above the other a framed print of Ronald Reagan. Perfect.

  “So tow me to another shop.”

  “Fifty bucks will cover the tow. Pay me that and I’ll do it.”

  I pull out my wallet and count bills. I count change. I dump my purse and count that change: $23.74. I look up in time to catch a smile on JJ’s face. He’s shaking his head.

  “You could sell it to me.”

  “What?”

  “The car. I’ll take it off your hands.”

  I feel clammy, nauseated, sitting in one of the orange chairs, staring at the meager wad of cash in my hands.

  Sell the Malibu?

  I take my time shoving everything back into my purse, hoping the asshole can’t see that I’m furiously blinking back tears. I wasn’t always certain what my mother thought about me, but there was never a question about how much she loved that car. She would hate for her car to belong to an asshole. Well . . . an asshole who wasn’t related to her, I should say. We’re all assholes sometimes.

  “I can’t sell it,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. My hands are shaking as I zip up my purse.

  “I’ll make you a fair offer.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can you afford to keep it? It’s going to be a couple thousand to fix this, then it’s only a matter of time before the next thing goes out.”

  “I know.” I lift my gaze to his and add, “But it was my mother’s.”

  I’m not sure what he sees in my eyes, but whatever it is, something hardens in his.

  “Suit yourself.” He turns back to the paperwork lying on the counter.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask. “I don’t see a bus stop around here.”

  “Not many buses in Gandy. You could rent a car.” He doesn’t look up when he says this, but there’s a little smirk at the corner of his mouth.

  “Tell me, is there a hyphen between douche and bag?” That gets rid of the smirk, but doesn’t get me out of this smelly office.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll just hang out here with you.” I lean back in my seat beneath Ronald Reagan and cross my legs. “What’s your sign? I’m a Gemini. I bet you’re an Aries, right? All the real jerks I’ve known have been Aries. Or Capricorns . . .”

  After less than five minutes of my sparkling conversation, he gestures for me to follow him. We walk around to the gravel lot behind the building. He opens the passenger-side door of a white Taurus.

  “Where are we going?” I’m thinking that it might just be to a shallow grave in the woods.

  “Back to where I found you.”

  “What about all my stuff?”

  He shrugs. “Not my problem.”

  “Hold on a minute.” I run to my car and grab my toiletries pillowcase and shove in some clean underwear, my phone charger, Nick’s guitar strap. I also grab my mom’s camera bag.

  I hurry back to the Taurus before the asshole changes his mind. “I’m staying at my grandmother’s house.” I dig in my pocket for the slip of paper with her address. “I’ve got the address—”

  “I know where it is. Get in.”

  “Maybe I should drive.�
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  “Maybe you should get in the damn car.”

  I climb in, fastening the seat belt before I shut the door.

  “Thanks for the ride—”

  “You can thank me by not spewing in this car.”

  “Why are you so mean?” I ask, sounding a little whiny even to my own ears. “I thought you said you knew my mother.”

  “I never said I liked her.”

  He pulls out of the lot and heads back the way we came. The chickens are back out in the street and JJ honks at them again. As the car passes the flock, the rooster and I lock eyes. I have a funny feeling that Minnie might just be right this time. Maybe my chicken finally has come home to roast.

  CHAPTER 10

  JJ slows the car and turns onto a neighborhood street. The homes are older and small, but look well taken care of, their neatly manicured lawns lining up one after the other. A sidewalk runs along each side, clean and straight except for a few buckled spots where tree roots have fought for space and won. We pull into the driveway of a tidy two-story tan-brick house. JJ turns off the car and opens his door the same time I open mine.

  “Thanks for the ride. I’ve got it from here,” I tell him.

  “Got what?”

  I gather up all my crap and climb out of the car. “I can take it from here.”

  “Take what?”

  Refusing to try again, I walk toward the house. I don’t notice until I am on the front porch that the numbers hanging next to the door don’t match the house numbers on my little scrap of paper. I turn around to tell JJ that we’re at the wrong house, only to find him standing directly behind me.

  “This isn’t it.”

  He steps around me, swings open the storm door and puts a key in the doorknob, giving it a twist. From inside there’s the sound of dogs barking that grows louder as he pushes the door open and starts edging in.

  “This is your house?”

  “Yup,” he replies.

  “But I thought you were taking me to my grandmother’s—”

  “Right there.” JJ points at the house next door.

  “That’s her house?”

  “Yup.”

  “You live next door?”

  He nods. “You’d better do something about your lawn, by the way. Your dandelions are going to seed.”

  “My lawn? My dandelions?”

  “And now that you’re here, I’m sure the dogs would like to go back home.”

  “Wait a minute, nobody said anything about taking care—”

  JJ shuts the door. I hear the lock turn.

  “Shit!” I pound on the door, but the only thing that gets me is a chorus of barks from within. Wonderful. I stomp off the porch and walk next door.

  My grandmother’s house is similar in size to JJ’s except that it’s redbrick rather than tan, and the porch steps and trim could use a coat of paint. And of course the yard needs to be mowed by someone who isn’t me. But there’s a wide, welcoming porch, windows with shutters, and a big maple tree in the front. It looks like what a kindergartener would draw if handed a box of crayons and instructed to draw a house. All that’s missing is scribbled smoke rising from the chimney.

  The lock opens easily, and with a nervous flutter in my belly, I step inside. I find myself trying to be quiet; this feels like breaking and entering, not coming home.

  I flip the switch near the door and am relieved to find the electricity still on. I open the drapes and a window to let in some light and fresh air. There’s a small blue sofa, a wingback chair upholstered in a floral brocade, and next to that an old sewing machine. A grand piano takes up the rest of the small living room. Everything looks mostly clean, but there’s a faint odor of mothballs and something sweet, Fig Newtons maybe? Whatever it is, it smells like old people.

  I dump my stuff on the coffee table and make the downstairs circle—living room to dining room to kitchen. Through the window over the kitchen sink, I notice a detached garage, and let out a little “Whoop!” Everyone knows what belongs in a garage, right? I hurry outside and after several minutes at the fence, struggling with an extremely uncooperative gate, I open the garage door.

  Shit. No car. Half of the garage is filled with lawn and garden supplies, the other half—the one that, judging from the oil stain, did at some point house a car—now holds only a bike, pink with a banana seat and a white basket on its wide handlebars. Un-fucking-believable. Standing here in this dimly lit garage, it takes very little imagination to hear Queeg’s voice whispering, Now you’re up a creek without a paddle. His voice in my head is laughing as he says this, by the way.

  When I step back outside, I’m unpleasantly surprised to see JJ in his backyard, standing next to the chain-link fence that separates the properties.

  “Did you find the lawnmower?” he asks.

  I fight my way through the weeds to him, saying, “I think the yard looks fine. If you don’t like it, feel free to mow it.” In truth, the yard is a mess—weeds, old piles of dog crap, cigarette butts. I’d never admit that to him of course. When I finally get to the fence, I point at the two squatty animals standing at JJ’s feet. “What exactly are those supposed to be?”

  “Dogs.”

  “They’re pretty ugly.”

  “The smallest one farts a lot.”

  “Great.”

  “Are you ready for me to bring them over? I’ll just grab their food—”

  “No no, not now. I have some things to do.”

  “Things? What sort of things?”

  “Errands.”

  He gives me an unpleasant smile. “How’re you going to manage that?”

  “Fuck you. I’m very resourceful.”

  Cue dramatic exit. I spin on my heel and take a few quick steps toward the house, only to discover that my feet have somehow become tragically tangled in an evil spiky vine that winds through the tall grass. I lift up a knee, and the barbs embedded in my jeans pull a whole wad of greenery along with me. Next step, the same.

  I look back at the neighbor-from-hell. He’s grinning like an idiot.

  “You were right,” he says. “Your yard looks great.”

  I resume my graceless march, responding only with a single-finger salute over my shoulder.

  He laughs. “I’m headed back to work,” he calls out. “I’ll bring the Winstons over when I get home.”

  As much as I hate repeating myself, I flip him off again, only to hear more laughter followed by the sound of a door closing. Step by slow step I struggle across the lawn, cursing, trying to rip the green creeping bastard off my legs without making too many holes in my hands or my jeans. Once I manage to reach the patio and fight my way free of the last few grasping tendrils, I glance over at JJ’s house. I see a curtain move. What a douche.

  Back in the kitchen, I take a few deep breaths and decide to reconnoiter. The very first thing I notice is the little opening in the base of the door I just used. It’s a small dog door, maybe a foot and a half tall, its plastic flap grubby from use. Hopefully this means that if I really do end up with those ridiculous dogs for a couple days, the only bowel and bladder issues I need to worry about are my own, which is, in my opinion, exactly how it should be.

  The refrigerator is empty and the freezer contains only ice trays and a few frost-coated TV dinners. There’s a small pantry with a collection of dusty soup cans and half-empty cracker and cereal boxes. Sigh. I’m relieved that nobody cleaned out the kitchen; obviously, I’m not going to starve to death. But mealtimes are going to be pretty grim unless I can scare up some pity-food.

  I dig in my pocket for the card given to me by Father Barnes and punch in the numbers.

  His phone rings, once, twice. The plastic flap of the dog door clicks open then shut with each gust of the wind. Ring, click, ring, click . . . three rings . . . four . . . five. The sun cuts a bright rectangle across the blue Formica countertop and as I stand here with the phone pressed to my ear, everything takes on a slow, dreamlike quality. On the wall just inside the pantry do
or I see a series of pencil marks, horizontal lines with initials and dates. Two sets, I think, one more faded than the other, suggesting that two generations grew up right here, in this house. The flap on the dog door clicks again, the Father’s phone rings again, and I’m having a hard time looking away from those penciled-in lines. Until I was fourteen years old, I’d never lived anyplace longer than six months.

  An answering machine finally picks up, and although I’ve already mentally rehearsed a humorously pathetic plea for a dinner date, when I open my mouth to speak, it’s all I can do to squeeze my name past an unexpected lump in my throat. I end the call, deeply embarrassed to have left a message so authentically pathetic.

  After a handful of stale crackers, I get up the nerve to go upstairs. Each step creaks softly as I ascend. To the left is a bedroom that, judging from the fussy chenille bedspread and an abundance of potpourri in little bowls, must have been my grandmother’s. On the dresser is a jewelry box that looks both full of shiny objects and small enough to fit in the bike basket. I pull the pillowcase off my grandmother’s pillow and drop the box inside.

  In addition to the bathroom there are two other rooms upstairs, their doors closed. I open the first door. It’s a bedroom, surely my mother’s room. I stare in amazement at the dozens of black-and-white photographs pinned to the walls. Not once had my mother ever mentioned taking pictures as a hobby. She made it clear to me that photography was her job, not something she enjoyed. I never saw her take a picture she wasn’t getting paid for. Not even of me.

  There are tie-dyed drapes at the window, a denim bedspread, a Pink Floyd poster on the closet door, and a healthy-looking spider plant hanging from a macramé plant holder in front of the window. A pair of brown sandals is on the floor next to the bed, and I walk over and pick one up—size seven, my mother’s size. I drop the shoe and back out of the room, my heart pounding. This is a museum—a fucking time capsule. The edges of the photos on the walls are curled, and the curtains and the side of the bedspread closest to the window are faded, but otherwise I have a feeling that the room looks as if my mother had just stepped out for a minute. Thirty-five years ago.