by Teagan Kade
I drain what’s left of my drink and signal the bartender for a refill.
“Well, I have thought about opening my own automotive repair shop. It’s always been a hobby of mine, classic cars and that sort of thing, something I used to do with my Pop. He was from the old school, a different kind of Beckett.”
Selena smiles wickedly. “Well, you’ve certainly got some skilled hands, but I’m having a hard time picturing you sweating under a car… a woman, yes, but a car? Harder image to conjure.”
“Exactly,” I say, the idea starting to take hold. “No one would expect it. I could find some little backwater town and just disappear… as much as I could ever hope to, anyway.”
Selena is looking a little concerned as she downs the last of her cocktail.
“Moving to the boondocks seems a bit drastic. Maybe you just need a good lay?” she suggests.
I quirk a brow. “Why? You offering?”
“Don’t you and that third arm of yours go tempting me. Liza is into this monogamy shit,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What can I say? Good girls do have a special appeal.”
“Yeah? Well, it wouldn’t be our first three-way, or have you forgotten Boston?”
“I still walk funny from that weekend,” she laughs, “but I’ll have to pass, big boy. Liza’s not into dangling bits, but she loves to eat out. I’ll stick with what’s on menu for now.”
“Another drink, ma’am?” The bartender asks as he refills my own.
“Thanks, but no more for me tonight,” she replies. “Speaking of menus, I need to get home. I promised Liza I’d be there in time for a late dinner.”
“Shit, Selena, turning down Gibsons and three-ways, rushing to meet curfew… She’s got you on the leash, huh?”
“Hey, some of us like leashes,” she smiles suggestively, pulling on her coat to leave. “You should try it sometime.”
I lean back. “No, thanks. Chicks like that, no offense, they expect too much. They always have a list, expectations for you to meet, and if you don’t, they want to want to ‘help’ you meet them. It’s too much trouble and I have enough shit to deal with. As wrecked as I am from this career and my fucked-up family, there is no fixing me.”
“Oh, Mason,” she sighs, “I have faith that someday some pretty little idiot is going to leash you up good and leave you begging for more.”
CHAPTER TWO
JEANIE
“All right, all right, I’m ready for my daily poison,” Uncle Jerry grumbles as he sinks down into his favorite faded leather recliner.
Jerry and his recliner—an unsung love story if ever there was one.
“Well, if it helps any, I made Aunt Lola’s scratch molasses muffins to wash it down,” I say, smiling down at him as I bring the tray over.
His eyes light up when I mention her name, a wistful smile touching his lips.
“You’re spoilin’ me again, Jeanie dear.”
“Say that again after you drink this.” I smile back, handing him the measuring cup of bitter brown medicine.
“Slàinte!” he says, tossing it back with a grimace. “Ack, that is awful. Let me have one of those muffins, will ya?” He’s smacking his mouth from the dry, sour flavor.
I hand him the small plate off the tray next to his recliner. I’ve noticed he’s moving less and less these days. Not that I mind helping him. In fact, it’s nice to finally feel like I can do something for him after everything he’s done for me.
Still, he can barely make it from the bedroom to the living room without the walker lately. He’s stopped going down to the local Legion Post completely. I’m telling myself it’s because he doesn’t like the fellas seeing him with the walker, but I know there’s more to it.
Even Jinx, that darn black cat that’s going to outlive us all, seems to be more attentive and careful with him, curling in his lap and staying there all afternoon while he naps.
“Well, I know I’m sensible enough to remember what these ought to taste like, and this sure isn’t it,” he says, placing the muffin back on the plate. He’s coughing now.
I watch worriedly, waiting for the fit to pass. “Well I modified the recipe a little, to fit with your diet. I used coconut and tapioca flour instead, replaced most of the molasses with date sugar, and swapped the butter for unsweetened applesauce,” I explain.
I break off a crumb and taste it. It is a little dry. Alright, a lot dry, but the flavor is pretty close. From the look on his face, though, I’m thinking it’s probably better not to mention the pureed sweet potato.
“Hmph, sounds more like a fruit cake if you ask me, and not the good, soaked-in-bourbon variety. Next time, warn me,” he says, drinking the coffee I hand him before sputtering. “Good lord, girlie! When I said poison, I was joking! Can’t I just enjoy a good old cuppa anymore?”
“Oh, right, I mixed in some flax oil. It’s got all those good omega fatty acids. Doc says they’re good for your heart.”
I have to admit, looking down at the oily sheen on the surface of his mug, it’s none too appetizing.
He tosses his head back against the chair. “I’m guessing it’s too much to ask for a good old bacon and egg sandwich?”
“Come on, Uncle Jer, you know what the doc said. If we get your cholesterol levels down, we can switch to a different blood thinner and your morning cocktail of ‘poisons’ won’t taste so terrible.”
“Hmph! I’m not sure the trade-off is worth it, my dear.”
It’s an argument we’ve had countless times and, if I’m lucky, we’ll keep having for many years to come.
Uncle Jerry’s been on a carefully curated diet since the stroke, at least when I can get him to eat it. Some of it I rather like, but some things, like carob chips and stevia leaf sweetener, just don’t compare with the real stuff—not that I’d ever admit it to Jerry.
“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” I tell him. “You drink half the coffee and eat five more bites of the muffin, and I’ll scramble you up one egg, but no butter, no salt, and I’m mixing in spinach. Deal?”
“Three bites and you got it,” he counters.
“Four and that’s my final offer.”
“Fine. Four it is. You know I’ve never been able to say no to those pretty green eyes of yours,” he says sweetly.
“Hmm, I happen to recall a certain request for blue hair you didn’t have any trouble saying no to,” I remind him.
“And you’re welcome for that!”
I laugh, walking back towards the kitchen to cook up his egg. He’s right, of course. I would have ended up frying my hair and having to chop it off just like my best friend Ava did.
I pour the beaten egg into the pan, listening to Matlock play on the television. Eggs cooking, I start cleaning things up. Jerry’s medications are sprawled all over the counter. There are dishes piled in the sink.
I worked a double shift yesterday at the diner and didn’t get home until after midnight. I look in the fridge and the dinner I made him is still sitting there, barely touched.
Taking the eggs over to him, I find him dozing off already.
“Got you some plain coffee too,” I say, handing it to him.
His face is pale. Even a few sips of the coffee don’t bring much color to his cheeks.
“There’s an awful lot of green in those eggs,” he says suspiciously.
“It’s the Dr. Seuss special,” I toss back, taking the remaining muffin and flax coffee back to the kitchen.
“Then where is my ham?”
“I see your ham and I’ll raise you some sautéed tofu.”
“Blegh!” He responds, as expected.
I start gathering up discarded newspapers and random socks, when I hear a thud. I turn and see Jerry’s head sunk down, fast asleep, the coffee cup dropped and spilling on the floor.
“Uncle Jerry!” I shout, rushing to him. “Wake up!” I shake his upper arms lightly, careful not to jerk him too much.
He comes to with a little start. “Oh! Sorry, dear, I guess I’m
just a little tired still,” he says groggily.
“Do you want me to call the doctor?” I ask, worry creasing my brow, my heart racing.
He’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open, but shakes his stubborn head anyway.
“No, no, I’m fine, really. I just didn’t sleep well last night. Must be getting a cold, that’s all.”
“Maybe we should talk to the doctor about that,” I contend.
“No, no, I’ll just go lay down for a bit and be good as new by the time John and Marlena are on,” he argues, and I don’t doubt that wild horses couldn’t keep him from his favorite Days of Our Lives love triangle.
I help him down the hall to his rose-covered bedroom. Pink roses were Lola’s favorite. The house has more pink rose accents than an English garden. Even the kitchen tiles have pink roses. Jerry did the work himself, anything to make Lola happy.
He looks at the picture of Lola on his night stand and I can tell he’s choking up.
“Look at me, old girl, sad state I’m in, huh? You deserved a hell of a lot more than a sorry fella like me,” he says quietly. I’m not sure he knows I’m there until he turns to me with startling eyes.
“Don’t settle, Jeanie. Wait for something special, that Earth-moving, life-altering kind of love. Life’s just not worth livin’ without it.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got my list and growing up with you and Lola, I’ve seen what true love looks like.”
He shakes his head. “We were both fools in love, even though she deserved more than me. If I have any regrets it’s that I couldn’t give her the life or the things she ought to have had…” he says, sighing and drifting off as I help him back against the pillows.
He’s asleep before I’ve even lifted his legs onto the bed, so I buffer him on the side with pillows, worried he might fall out, and tuck a light afghan around him.
His breathing is shallow and raspy. I want to just stand there and watch him, even in these mundane moments, taking in every detail, every moment I have left with him.
Finally, I remember the mess in the kitchen and tiptoe out as Jinx saunters in and leaps onto the bed beside him.
Walking the hall, I drag my fingers along the outdated wood paneling. These halls were my sanctuary, my home when I was a terrified little girl.
Pneumonia took Momma when I was four. She’d been working three jobs trying to support us while my drunk of a father ‘looked for work.’ She stubbornly refused to go to the doctor over that stupid cough.
My memories of her are few, just snippets clouded by time. Her long auburn curls tickling my face as it fell around her when she leaned in to kiss me goodnight before heading out to work cleaning offices twenty miles away in the dead of night. I remember, too, the smell of lemon cleaner that radiated from her. That smell haunted our house, clinging to the furniture, the walls, even after she’d passed.
I stop and look in at my room, the same room I’ve had since I was five. The walls are still the bubblegum pink I picked out with Lola when she and Jerry took me in, after ‘dad’ decided his life would be easier without the extra baggage of a motherless child. I remember giddily decorating it with her, the excitement making me forget the pain of the previous year.
I have daydreams of my own apartment, a cute little space to call my own hung with all the photographs I have run out of room here to display. Still, even before Jerry really started doing badly, I couldn’t bring myself to close the door on the only home I’d really ever known. That decision became even simpler one Jerry had the stroke.
My watch beeps reminding me I have a schedule to keep. I’ve got to work again tonight, which means I need to prep something for dinner now, and that kitchen isn’t going to clean itself.
I hurry back to do the dishes, washing them all by hand. It’s a pain, but the dishwasher broke ages ago and I don’t have the money to fix it. As I clean plates and cups, I realize how much food has been left on them. It’s not a good sign.
Uncle Jerry has always been a healthy eater, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that from these plates. I’d like to think it’s just this new, healthier diet, but my gut is telling me it’s something more.
The Grand Canyon postcard on the fridge catches my attention. I remember Jerry and Lola planning that vacation. They talked about it for years, but by the time they’d finally saved the money, Lola got sick and never got better. That postcard hangs like a ghostly reminder of unfulfilled dreams.
Maybe I should talk to the doctor, get him in for another appointment, I think.
I sag into a chair at the avocado green laminated kitchen table, pulling out the phone and dialing Dr. Harrington’s office. Because I’m not tired enough already, I’m put on hold, the dull, soporific sounds of their hold music lulling me to sleep.
But I need to stay awake. There’s too much to do. My hands search for something to doodle on, but there’s no pen. Instead, I pull the scattered paper towards me and I flip through the pages, looking for the crossword puzzle, until something catches my attention.
It seems someone’s finally bought that old, decrepit building down on Jefferson. I remember seeing trucks out front. The windows had been hung with paper tarps, shielding the construction from street view. No one around the diner had known anything more than rumors.
“Kelly Wilcox heard from Pete down at the Depot that it’s going to be one of those ‘occult stores,’ you know, fancy words for devil worshippers! They’ll probably sell love spells and curses or something awful like that,” Betty Harper had gossiped.
Eunice, her best friend, spat back, “Maybe you should go down there then. You could use a man in your life. Maybe if your saddle got some greasing you wouldn’t be burnin’ daylight complaining to me all the god damn time.”
Old man Hendersen had heard differently.
“I bet it’s going to be one of those blasted newfangled hippy food stores, the ones where they charge ya ten bucks for an organic banana from Australia,” he sniffed.
With any luck, Hendersen was right. It’d be so nice if I didn’t have to take the twenty-mile bus ride to Bakersville for Jerry’s dietary substitutes.
But reading the announcement in the Springs’ Herald, it looks like we were all wrong. Some out-of-towner has remodeled and ponied the space up to be an auto body shop, The Crank & Wrench. From the small picture, it looks like the interior has gotten a decent makeover.
A beep sounds and I realize I’ve been sent to the messaging system, just my luck. I rattle off my call back details and hang up. I won’t hear from them for at least two days.
Sighing, I look around at what’s left to do. The dishes are done, but now the trash can is full of half-eaten meals. I scoop it up and walk out the back door to the bins. Tossing the bag into the metal canister, I glance behind me, to the garage.
The door is open, the latch broken—yet another thing I can’t fix right now. Jerry’s prized 1967 Pontiac GTO slumbers.
It’s a beautiful car. I remember him out here waxing his baby in better days. She fell into disrepair when we were short on money, and she’s stayed there, waiting to be loved once more. He always says he’ll fix her back up, but now it’s looking more and more like he won’t have the chance, not with the way he’s been relegated to the walker. My heart aches at the thought. In response, an idea starts to bloom.
Imagine his face! Maybe he’ll even want to go back down to the Legion Post, show it off to the boys.
Jerry’s birthday is coming up. If I could get the GTO fixed up in time and take him for a ride, it might just turn this dark spell around.
My wheels are churning as I rush inside to plan.
CHAPTER THREE
MASON
“So basically, I want to soup ‘er up, get the max horsepower I can. I’m thinking up the compression ratio. Do you know what that is?”
I take a deep breath and remind myself I’ve got a business to establish and holding my tongue is going to be part of that. Cutting words and insults c
ome so easily courtesy of my many years in legal practice, but it’s going to get me nowhere in a small town like this where everyone knows everyone. Piss on the wrong person’s parade and this little experiment might just fail before it even gets on its feet.
But really, who goes into a mechanic and asks if they know what engine compression ratio is?
“Yeah, just so happens it’s my job to know what that is,” I say in place of the set-down my old self wants to deliver.
“Okay, cool, man. I just don’t want anyone fucking up my baby. I want to be able to put her into overboost mode and really make the boys shit themselves next month at the rally.”
It’s my first week open and a few clients have trickled in with minor repairs, tune-ups, simple stuff, but this is my first labor-heavy job to come through. Unfortunately, something about him, the condescension in his voice and the wide berth his ego demands, is rubbing me wrong.
Guy can’t be more than twenty-one or two, classic small-town jock with his gel-spiked hair, chin strap, and high-school jersey even though it’s clear he is well past graduation.
We’re standing beside his lifted Ford F-250 parked in the driveway in front of the shop. It’s a cheesy picture of jacked-up overcompensation with its ten-inch lift, mudflap girl decals, and faux testicles dangling off the back of his hitch.
Yes, his truck has literal balls.
I nod as I squat down to look at the undercarriage. “I’ll need to order bigger pistons to take her out of static compression and get the performance you’re looking for,” I tell him, snapping pictures with my phone.
“How much?” he asks.
“Ball park? Two to maybe three-and-half grand depending on who has the parts. That doable for you?”
“Yeah, that should work. My old man is payin’ for it, anyway,” he says, pulling out his phone as it chirps. “Well, alriiiight Jessica, lookin’ good. You’ve earned yourself a peek at the jewels.”
“Sorry, what’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, nothin’. Hey, man, can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s through the door and down the hall on your left,” I say, directing him back into the shop where I’m betting he’s about to take a series of highly unimpressive dick pics.