Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men)

by Connor, Eden

  “Oh, yeah? Nice of Lila to help you out like that. Think you’ll be able to stand living in the middle of nowhere?” Her dad shook his head. “I couldn’t wait to get off the farm.”

  “The price is right.” Feeling nervous always made her laugh, but she didn’t correct her father’s misinterpretation of her new living arrangements. “And it’s just for a few more weeks, till I graduate.” If I graduate. She hadn’t put much thought into Plan B for her community service project, because of the news about John Carpenter’s plea bargain. Not to mention trying to figure out why her spine went limp every time Eric looked at her a certain way.

  When her mom returned, Alice’s attention was glued to the small screen. Tucker wandered into the gym, to Amy’s extreme relief. Glancing at her watch, she decided she had time for another drink.

  “Los De Marco merecen todos sus problemas. Si tus ancestros hubieran intervenido para detener a su señor abeja de violar a inocentes, tu madre quizas estuviera viva.”

  Leaning over the cooler, Amy wrenched to look over her shoulder. She thought at first her mother was speaking, but with a sinking heart, she realized the words were coming from her phone.

  “Hey, these things do record. Barbara said hers did. I had no idea.” Alice frowned, tipping the phone in Amy’s direction. “Who is this?”

  Amy snatched her phone from her mother’s hand. The device had a mind of its own at times. If she didn’t pay attention, the auto-correct feature would substitute bizarre words she hadn’t typed. She supposed it was possible she’d somehow made the idiotic thing record. “I have no idea. Here, let me erase that.”

  The last thing she needed was for Alice to translate some shitty comments about her clothes made by some girl with the hots for Eric. Her mother’s Spanish was learned from working with her Adult Ed students. Many were Mexican immigrants. That might be why Alice’s Spanish was excellent and Amy’s sucked.

  Alice grabbed her wrist. “Wait a minute. Do you have any idea what this person said? It’s disturbing, Amy. Who is that?”

  “Why is it disturbing?” She didn’t really want her mom to answer. No doubt, it was something about the way she’d been dressed, or why a hunk like Eric had his arm around a chubby chick.

  “Play the clip again.”

  Alice wasn’t known for giving up easily. Amy pressed the button, grimacing. The rapid-fire Spanish sounded every bit as irate as she recalled. Her mother’s expression grew darker by the second. “Who is she talking about?” Alice demanded when Amy stopped the recording.

  “I assumed she meant either me or Eric De Marco, but I don’t know for sure. I ran into him in the mall parking lot. He went with me because the guy who manages the mall is his cousin.”

  “She’s talking about a bee keeper and she’s calling him a rapist.”

  “Oh, my God.” A rapist? She couldn’t mean Eric.

  Alice hefted a huge purse off the floor and dug out a pen. She ripped the masking tape off the sign advertising the price of admission and flipped the paper over.

  Amy sold a few tickets while Alice held the phone close to her ear, pen poised over the page. When her mom slid the paper to her, Amy read the words with a growing sense of disbelief.

  The De Marcos deserve their troubles. Maybe if your forefathers had stepped up to stop their bee man from raping innocents, your mother would still be alive.

  Not Eric. She breathed a sigh of relief. What the hell’s a bee man?

  “Who was this person?” Alice repeated.

  “I don’t know her name. I went to make an appointment with the manager to ask about hosting the exhibition. For my project, right?” Alice nodded, but her brow was furrowed. “I accidentally bumped into her. She might’ve been filling out a job application. My phone was in my back pocket. I guess it butt-recorded?”

  Alice’s eyes narrowed, no doubt at Amy’s use of a non-word. “Why’d she say this to you?” her mother asked. “Does she know Eric De Marco?”

  Amy shook her head. “He said he didn’t know her. The secretary mentioned his name. After that, this other girl just went off.”

  “That’s a serious accusation, Amy.” Alice got to her feet again, to Amy’s dismay. “He’s here, believe it or not. I sold him a ticket.”

  Fuck. Just... fuck. She didn’t know what Alice might do. “I invited him.”

  Alice leaned over her. “Listen to me. I know you and Lila are close these days, but I do not want you hanging out at her house. Do you understand?”

  Amy thought she was a couple years too old for this kind of talk. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down. It says ‘forefathers’, or did you translate that part wrong? So whoever she’s talking about has to be dead. The brothers don’t have any relatives except their nephew, Jonah.”

  Her dad poked his head through the door, gesturing at his watch. Nodding to show she was on her way, she grabbed her mother’s arm. “So this is between me and you, right?”

  “Whomever.”

  “Whatever.” Amy wanted to strangle her mom for using grammar to avoid promising to keep her mouth shut. She folded the sheet of paper Alice had written on and shoved it into her back pocket. “Do you want some unfounded accusation to be the thing that causes Lila to miscarry? They’ve been through Hell already. Who the hell knows what this woman’s ranting about? Don’t people keep bees for a hobby? It could be anyone.”

  Alice turned her eyes to the ceiling. “If bad news caused miscarriages, we’d have negative population growth. Peach blossoms have to be pollinated. A commercial farm can’t leave that to chance. They rent bees. Your father’s parents had a guy who came every year. He towed this huge trailer stacked with big boxes that held the bee colonies. He’d scatter them in the orchards.”

  Amy had a sickening hunch John Carpenter’s hobby wasn’t building dog houses.

  She thought about the lost expression on Eric’s face when he’d surprised her at the mall. She couldn’t add to his stress on a hunch. She just couldn’t. “Don’t erase that. I’ll go back to the mall and see if I can find her. We need more information. Promise me you’ll keep this between us?” Alice would get busy planning the wedding and forget about this. She hoped.

  “Amy! Hustle up,” her father yelled.

  * * * *

  Eric waited in line to buy a drink. A caramel-skinned black man in a green Army jacket turned, clutching a Pepsi and a bag of chips. It took Eric a moment to realize he knew the guy. “Maze Elliot, how the heck are ya?” They’d been good friends in high school, sharing more than one detention hall and every auto shop class.

  When the wary look in his eyes faded, the man looked more like the friend Eric recalled. Maze broke into a grin. “What the hell you doin’ here, De Marco? Last I recall, the only sport you were into was racin’.”

  “I know one of the refs. I thought I’d check out the game. Good to see you, dude. Didn’t know you were home.” Maze enlisted in the Army after graduation, and as far as Eric knew, he’d been in ever since.

  “Been out about two months.”

  While they chatted, he stepped to the table and ordered his drink and a candy bar. “Let’s grab a seat,” Eric suggested. Maze wanted to sit behind the red-shirted team’s bench. Amy and her father walked onto the court about the time they got settled.

  When she stepped between the players at center court, tossing the ball high into the air, Maze muttered. “They takin’ this equality thang too damn far.”

  Eric’s mouth fell open and he turned to stare.

  Though his father was black and had dark eyes, Maze’s eyes were green, like his blonde-haired mother’s, and brimming with humor, but Eric didn’t return the smile.

  While he split his time between watching the game and watching Amy, Maze second-guessed the coaching. “He needs to change up that defense, A-sap. They’re gettin’ picked apart.” Moments later, he bellowed, “Foul, ref!” just before Eric saw Amy’s cheeks expand around the whistle clenched between her teeth. That was so cute.

  Ma
ze clapped loudly. “I dunno where they found that little girl ref, but she ain’t lettin’ them boys get away with a damn thing.”

  Eric assumed that was her job. “What’re you doing now, Maze? You just kickin’ back before you reenlist?”

  The man’s smile twisted. “I’m home for good. I was thinkin’ about asking Dan for a job.”

  “We don’t need a mechanic.”

  Maze chuckled. “If you did, I wouldn’t even be in your league, De Marco. Folks say y’all bought a second rig for the wrecker service. Thought you might need some help with that. I don’t sleep much. I could sure use the money. Gotta find a new place to live. Too much noise goin’ on at all hours where I been stayin’. People arguin’, loud music playin’.” Something flashed in the man’s eyes. “I need to get somewhere peaceful.”

  When the regular driver was off duty, he and his brothers took turns having the calls forwarded to their phones. “Won’t hurt to ask. Dan does the hiring and firing.” Eric entered his friend’s phone number into his cell.

  The other man’s attention turned back to the game once the foul shot arced through the air. Eric was enchanted by the physical play. Adding wheels seemed an improvement to a sport he wasn’t all that passionate about.

  Eric relaxed and began to study the teams. The team in red shirts worked the ball to the red-haired guy who’d taken the hard foul earlier. Maze swore that the player had “hot hands”. The kid took an elbow to the arm, but got off the shot. Eric cringed when the player defending him nearly rolled into a back-peddling Amy. That damn number fifteen again.

  “She missed that call.” Maze cupped his hands around his mouth. “You been callin’ ‘em all night. Where were you that time, ref? Checkin’ yo’ makeup?”

  She cut Maze a glance, but Eric guessed she’d be used to that sort of comment. People razzed sports officials all the time. He still felt like punching the guy in his pearly whites.

  Overreacting seemed to be his specialty tonight.

  “I ran a team of vets playin’ in chairs when I was stationed in D.C. I sure would love to help coach this team. I wonder who’s in charge?”

  “I bet Amy knows. Too bad you just insulted her.”

  “So it’s like that, is it?” Maze studied him with a sly grin. “Maybe now I can get a date. Every woman I ask says she’s holding out for you.”

  “You’re welcome to ‘em.” Eric looked away from Maze’s quizzical stare.

  The coach waved frantically, signaling for a time out. Amy’s dad blew his whistle and play stopped. The red-haired player rolled his chair toward the bench, yanking on the circle of tubular metal mounted on the outside of the bicycle tire. The grab bar came loose in the guy’s hand. Small screws scattered on the hardwood.

  “Goddammit,” the player barked. “For two grand, you’d think this fucking chair would hold together.” He slammed a gloved palm on the thin tire. “Freaking tire’s goin’ flat, too.”

  Eric blinked. Two grand would buy a used car. He took a harder look at the wheelchair, but didn’t see anything that would cost two thousand dollars, not even accounting for a healthy profit margin.

  The coach seemed to be scribbling numbers on his clipboard. “Hey, ref!”

  Amy jogged across the court.

  “I got a problem,” the coach stated. “Kevin’s got equipment issues. Bill’s out of commission after that pile-up in the first half. Since my other two’s and three’s had to work tonight, I can’t make the math work out.”

  “You want to forfeit?” Amy asked, eyes rounding. So did Eric’s. HE glanced at the scoreboard. The team was up by four points.

  “What math?” He looked to Maze in confusion.

  “Player point limit is twelve. Each player gets classified by his degree of injury. The worse the injury, the lower the number assigned. That Kevin dude looks to me like a three, maybe a two-point-five. These two on the bench might be fours, since they seem to have some mobility in their legs. You’d be a five. No injury.”

  “Player point limit?” Eric still didn’t get it.

  “On the floor. Only a total of twelve points at a time. Rule’s to encourage coaches to utilize every level player.”

  The coach had to put five players on the floor, so Eric saw immediately, Kevin had to play.

  “Can you ask the other coach if he’ll give me time to work on our equipment?” the coach begged. Amy looked undecided.

  “I can get him back in the game,” Eric stated, rising.

  Amy’s father joined her on the sidelines. Looking at Eric, he asked, “How long will it take?”

  Eric hustled down the bleachers, trying to recall whether he had everything he’d need. He squatted and picked up one of the screws. “Say, thirty minutes?” The screw looked like a standard size, something he might have. If not, he could ream out the holes and use a larger gauge screw, but that would require some work on the chair later, to make the repair permanent.

  The player raised his chin in acknowledgment. “Hey, ‘preciate the thought, man, but the damn screws are worthless without lock nuts.” The guy snatched up a towel, wiped his face, and slung it onto the floor.

  Eric clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, I know that. I have those, or I can rig somethin’. I got a patch kit, too. You must have a hole in that inner tube. Y’all got a bicycle pump?” The coach nodded. Eric turned, jabbing a finger in the direction of his friend. “Maze, will you see if the concessions lady’ll give you a cup of water? Then grab some hand soap out of the bathroom to put in it.”

  “I’ll ask the away team’s coach if they’ll agree to the delay.” Amy turned to cross the gym. Her father raised a brow and gave Eric a hard look, before trotting after her.

  Without waiting for a decision, Eric raced to his truck. Yanking open the back door, he slid a hand down the side of the seat, grabbing the latch. The toolbox concealed behind the seat was heavy, since it held about seventy sizes of screws. He’d never bothered to put the box back in his garage after finishing the nursery addition for Colton.

  “Hey!” He turned to see Amy holding the fire exit door open. “The other team isn’t happy, but Daddy’s talking to them. They’re undefeated and don’t like the idea of our local boys handing them their asses. Now they smell blood in the water.” She scowled. “I’m supposed to be impartial, but damn, they’re being assholes.”

  Hurrying across the court, he laid out the tools he thought he’d need, admiring the nice foot pump waiting. The player had shifted onto the lowest bleacher. The other team still huddled on the far side of the court.

  Amy’s dad approached. “Ten minutes is the best I can do, coach. We have two more games after this and they’re calling for snow tonight. People gotta get home.”

  Eric grinned. “We’ll take it.” Grabbing the wheelchair, he winked at Maze, who now held a cup. “Time me.”

  “Still got NASCAR on the brain, I see.” Maze laughed, but raised his wrist.

  “A slow pit crew’s worse than no pit crew,” Eric retorted.

  The chair had a simple system to disconnect the wheel from the axle. Eric yanked the plastic lever. Once he had the tire off the chair, he clamped it between his legs. He loosened the rubber from the rim, using two putty knives to break the seal. He extracted the tube, but left it connected at the valve. If the tear was at the valve, they were screwed.

  “One minute,” Maze announced, holding out the cup. Eric dipped his fingers into the water, then fisted the soapy mixture around the slender tube. Swiping his hands on his jeans, he connected the pump and stepped on the lever.

  While he pumped, he dropped the screw in Maze’s hand. “Try the thirty-two gauge, half inch. If that’s the wrong size, find me the right one.” He jabbed a finger toward the tool box.

  “On it, boss man. There’s the hole.” Maze pointed, but Eric had already seen the bubbles, made by air leaking through the hole in the inner tube.

  Running his finger along the inside of the tire, he felt the problem. Grabbing a set of needl
e nose pliers, he extracted a thin piece of wire, dropping the scrap into his tool box. “Got it.”

  “Three minutes,” Maze intoned, barely raising his head from sorting through the toolbox.

  Nodding, Eric grabbed the small patch kit and dropped to his knees. Draping the rubber across his thigh, he sanded the seam on the inner tube flat, so the patch would stick.

  “Got ‘em!” Maze waved a small plastic container before setting the pack of screws on the bleachers.

  “Find the lock nuts. I know they’re in there.”

  He’d bought the patch kit because it had a cool feature, swabs that held denatured alcohol in the plastic tube connecting the two cotton tips. Snapping one end caused the alcohol to saturate the other tip. He swabbed the spot he’d sanded, blowing to help the liquid dry faster. Slapping the pre-glued patch in place, Eric kept his thumb on the circle of rubber for a moment, letting his body heat help the glue soften for a good bond.

  “Four minutes. Got your lock washers, brother.”

  “Grab that power screwdriver. Find me two bits that fit those screws,” Eric barked. He was certain to fumble one, since the quick-change driver bits were held in place by magnets and a short metal collar. One of the putty knives slipped off the rim, nearly jabbing Kevin in the knee. Slow down. Don’t fuck up. The blades were too wide for this job, but Eric kept them moving, forcing the rubber back into the channel.

  He had the tire and rim reassembled by the time Maze called the six-minute mark. He replaced the tire on the axle and jumped up to inflate the tube. At eight minutes, he was on his knees again, giving the tire an experimental spin. The axle seemed to drag, so he squirted a bit of powdered graphite in the joint.

  The gym’s heat had to be running wide open. Eric dragged his sleeve across his forehead. Grabbing the pump, he checked the air pressure. Looked good. Turning his attention to the grab wheel, he nodded to his helper. With Maze feeding him screws and lock nuts, the simple task took no time. With time to spare, he flipped the chair to check the pressure in the opposite tire and added about twenty pounds of air. “I think you’re running these too slack,” he explained to the player. “That adds drag.” He added the air and gave that axle a shot of graphite for good measure, though the uninjured tire seemed to spin smoothly.