Blind Spot

by Chris Fabry

  “Why’d you talk to my teachers?”

  She stopped and turned. “Tim, this is my job. I’m supposed to look out for you. Check on how you’re doing. I’m not the FBI. I’m on your side.”

  They walked a little farther. Some kids on skateboards rattled along the concrete path to the playground. Smaller kids played on swings and slides, their moms hovering.

  “How about home?” Lisa said. “You getting along okay with the Slades?” She chuckled. “What a name, huh?”

  Tim smirked. “I guess I’m doing as well as can be expected.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just hard living with people you’ve never known.”

  “Are they mean to you?”

  “Define mean.”

  “Do they watch TV with you? eat meals together? yell at you? throw stuff at you?” She looked at his jeans. “Let you buy new clothes?”

  “They’re sorta tight on the finances.”

  “Tim, they’re getting a check every month for the extra cost of taking care of you. That’s supposed to go to food and clothes and school supplies.”

  “Maybe the check hasn’t come yet.”

  Lisa sat on a bench and folded her arms. “I talked with your counselor too.”

  “Oh, boy.” Tim sat directly across from her and watched the kids on the playground.

  “He said you haven’t been there in at least a month.”

  “I was kinda sick.”

  She leaned forward. “There’s nothing that says you have to go to the counselor. Sometimes people don’t want to talk about stuff that brings up bad memories. I can understand that.”

  “I’m not scared of memories. I just don’t want to talk with that guy. Gives me the creeps.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s getting paid for talking to me. That’s all we do. Just talk. Seems weird to me.”

  “Is that what your cousin said?”

  Tim didn’t answer.

  Lisa sighed and hung her head. Finally she scooted to the edge of the bench. “Tim, you’ve been through the biggest change of your life. The counselor is there to help you through it. And I simply want you to have the best chance at life you can get.”

  “I’m doing all right. Don’t worry about me.”

  She stood and walked toward a winding path around the playground. “Come on—let’s keep walking.”

  He followed. A warm breeze blew through the palm trees, and a hint of moisture was in the air, as though there might be a thunderstorm coming. As Tim had learned, when a thunderstorm rolled in, you had to head inside fast.

  “What about your dad?” Lisa said. “You miss him?”

  “That’s a dumb question.”

  “Yeah, you got me on that. I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

  Tim stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. Dad probably wasn’t ever going to win awards for best father or anything like that. I know some people thought I shouldn’t be traveling with him and I ought to be in school. I learned a lot, though.”

  “Sure you did. And you probably wouldn’t trade that time for anything.”

  “You got that right. If I’d have been somewhere in a school, I’d probably never have known him.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?”

  “She ever get in touch? Do you hear anything about her?”

  “I haven’t seen her since I was little. She left when I was in third grade.”

  “No letter? No contact at all? Didn’t come to the funeral?”

  Tim shook his head.

  “Didn’t you find anything about her in your dad’s stuff?” Lisa asked. “An address? Phone number?”

  “I never got to look at any of it. Tyson said they didn’t have room for it here. They put it in some storage place over on Highway 27.”

  “And Tyson took your dad’s truck?”

  “Drives it to work. When his head’s not hurting too much.”

  “Does he have a medical problem?”

  “Yeah, it’s called Budweiser.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t want to get him in trouble or anything.”

  “You won’t. I just want a true picture, and I think I’m getting it. Your dad didn’t leave a will or a trust. Could it have been in that stuff?”

  Tim shrugged. “Almost everything he owned he carried in the truck.”

  “Maybe I can work it out for you to get access to his things.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  They walked a little farther to a gravel path that led to a pier overlooking a lake. Some kids tried to skip rocks, but they just plopped in the water. There was movement beneath them, and Tim didn’t like the look of those grayish green backs and the reptilian eyes on the water’s surface.

  “Season’s starting again soon,” he said. “Gonna be weird not going to Daytona.”

  “Have you heard from any of the crew? the guys you and your dad traveled with?”

  “No. I guess they’re busy getting new jobs. Overton retired after Homestead.” They began the long walk back toward the trailer, and Tim picked up a rock and tossed it into the water. “You know, it’s not so bad here. When I was out with my dad, I had about this much room I could call my own.” He held out his hands. “Now I’ve got about 10 times the space. I get three meals a day and a bed. It’s not the Hampton Inn, but it’s all right.”

  “You don’t have to protect them,” Lisa said.

  “I know. I just don’t think they’re the whole problem. Part of it’s me.”

  “You?” Lisa said, her forehead creased in disbelief. “You’re the one who lost your dad. You have a right to be ticked off at life.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not. I feel . . . I don’t know. Kinda numb. Like I’m walking through some big mall, but all the stores are locked. I don’t feel much about Dad except that I miss being on the road together. It’s almost like all that was just a dream.”

  “It wasn’t a dream, Tim. It was real. You two had a lot of good times. You did stuff kids can only dream about. I wish I had that kind of time with my dad when I was your age.”

  “What was he like?”

  “This is supposed to be about you, not me.” She bit her lip and stared at the setting sun. “He sold insurance. We moved about every year or two, so I’d make friends just in time to leave them. Kind of like a military family, I guess.”

  “He still living?”

  “Yeah. He and my stepmom are out in Arizona. My mom died of cancer a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Lisa turned to him. “There’s some stuff you don’t know. Stuff I can’t tell you yet. But there may be a way out of Apalachicola. If you had it, would you take it?”

  They were a stone’s throw from from the trailer park. His dad’s truck was in the parking space in front. Tyson was on the porch talking with Vera. When he saw them, he yelled, “Hey, I want to talk with you!”

  “Would you want to leave here if you could?” Lisa said to Tim.

  “Maybe,” Tim said. “I’d think hard about it.”

  Tim’s cousin stalked toward them, his boots cutting into the hard clay. He pushed his ball cap back on his head and dropped his hands to his sides. “He in trouble again?”

  “No, this is just a social visit, Mr. Slade,” Lisa said, flashing her white teeth.

  “I told him he’d better shape up or we’d have to send him off to the home for waywards.”

  “No need for that. Tim seems like a pretty good kid. What kind of trouble?”

  Tyson Slade’s face was scarred. Tim figured it was bad teenage acne that had never been treated. He wore sunglasses too. Tim guessed that was so his employer couldn’t see his bloodshot eyes.

  “Some neighborhood kids don’t care for him,” Tyson said. “I wonder if he hasn’t brought it on himself.”

  “And how would he do that?” Lisa said.

  Tyson cocked his head, as if her tone wa
sn’t appreciated. “Surely in your line of work you know how kids can be. They say something smart-alecky or get on people’s nerves. One thing leads to another.”

  Lisa nodded. “Yeah, I know. Have a good day, Mr. Slade.” She glanced at Tim. “I’ll get back to you soon about your options.”

  Tyson looked at Tim after Lisa left. “What options was she talking about?”

  Chapter 4

  Maxwell Motorsports

  JAMIE KNEW THE PREVIOUS year had not been good for her dad, Dale Maxwell—at least not in his sponsors’ eyes. His best finish was ninth at Martinsville, late in the season. Some engine trouble two weeks in a row and crashes at Daytona and Darlington had severely hurt his earnings. Then there was Talladega.

  Driving, as he had often told her, had been in his blood since he was a kid. His dad had told him that once he snapped the steering wheel in place, there was nothing he’d do that would even come close to the thrill of racing. It was a charge that would reach deep into his soul.

  Her grandfather had been right about him, and it looked like the heart of her father beat in her, too. It wasn’t that she wanted to prove she could make it in a guy’s sport. It wasn’t about a girl overcoming the odds. Jamie’s passion was speed, and her eyes sparkled every time she talked about NASCAR or her car or anything that had four wheels. She didn’t mind getting her hands dirty taking an engine apart. She never complained about the dirt of the tracks or the heat of the engine in the cockpit. She wondered if it was eerie for her dad to look at her—was it like looking in a mirror at himself, only with long hair and a pretty face? (At least, her dad said she had a pretty face.)

  She had always been his partner when she was young, his “little helper” as he called her, going to the garage or to time trials, watching his every move. The whole crew marveled at how much she knew about the sport.

  Now she could feel the distance. The older she got, the further she grew away from him. Because of his schedule during the season, he didn’t come to many of her races—part of the reason she drove the Legend car. It was much easier for her mom to tow with just the Suburban. Jamie wondered if perhaps her dad couldn’t stand the thought of his little girl getting hurt. Or maybe it was something else that made them grow apart.

  Jamie knew she was perceived as all girl at school and church. Feminine. Petite. She could spend an hour with her hair on Sunday mornings, and she had good taste in clothes. But given the choice, she’d choose jeans and a T-shirt, tie her hair in a ponytail, and slap on a racing hat. That was her favorite outfit—other than the fire suit.

  She knew her dad was proud of her. Especially of how she’d handled Chad Devalon. Her dad had the same problem with Chad’s father and said he dreaded seeing #13 in his rearview mirror.

  “You ought to tell her how you feel,” her mom had said to her dad one evening. Jamie was in the next room, listening. “She needs to hear what you think about her.”

  Words were difficult for her dad. He could stand in front of reporters and answer any question that came up with a wink and a nod and a smile. He could keep his cool after someone had bumped him into the wall with only a couple of laps to go. But the hardest thing in the world was talking to his teenage daughter. At least, that’s how Jamie figured it.

  Chapter 5

  Mrs. Ruby

  TIM CARHARDT SQUEEZED through the narrow back window of his room, balancing on the thin railing that ran above the concrete behind the trailer. It was overcast, and a light rain had begun. His foot slipped, and when he reached back for the window, he cut his hand on the rusty siding. He jumped down—into mud—then crawled to a chain-link fence leading to the highway.

  Tyson’s voice boomed through the thin walls and out the back window. He banged on Tim’s door and threatened to knock it down—kind of like the Big Bad Wolf, Tim thought. The guy even looked like a picture of a wolf in a book he’d read when he was a kid.

  Tim’s dad had also had a problem with the bottle years ago, but when Tim’s mother left, there had been a change. Tim couldn’t remember the last time he saw his father drinking beer or whiskey. He always told the other guys, “I’m a driver. I can’t afford to get drunk.”

  Not so with Tyson. He missed work, got into fights, and smashed up his car all because he drank too much.

  Something shattered inside. Sounded like glass. Vera wailed and cursed at Tyson.

  Tim pulled the hat his dad had given him low on his forehead and took out a handkerchief to wipe his bloody hand. His dad always said that a gentleman should carry a handkerchief, and Tim had thought it was kind of a dumb thing to do, but he obeyed anyway. Now he was glad.

  He let the rain wash the wound, then wrapped it tightly. He shoved his hands in his jeans and shivered in the chill. It was amazing how cold the rain could be, even in Florida. He wished he’d brought a jacket, but he hadn’t wanted to spend another minute with Tyson on the other side of the door. Plus, he was on a mission. During a fight with Tyson, he’d discovered where the man kept the key to his dad’s stuff.

  He walked along the side of 263, seeing signs pointing to Florida State University. Just about every car that passed had a Seminoles sticker on the back. Nobody wanted to pick him up and get him out of the rain, but he couldn’t blame them. If he were driving, he wouldn’t pick up a wet rat like him either. He kept watch for Tyson in his dad’s truck.

  When the rain fell harder, Tim ducked under the cover of a convenience store awning. He stood between an ice cooler and some newspaper dispensers out of the rain. It was a winter rain without lightning that washed everything clean.

  A car drove in slowly, backed up, then pulled forward to a pump. A white-haired woman got out and stared at the instructions on the front of the pump before finally sliding a credit card. A man sat behind her waiting, shaking his head, talking to someone on his cell phone.

  When the woman fumbled with the gas cap, Tim walked through the rain to the island. “Need some help, ma’am?” he said.

  She looked up like a frightened pup. “No, I can get it,” she said, trying to convince herself.

  Her fingers were gnarled and twisted, like Charlie Hale’s, the hauler driver who used to work with Tim’s dad. “Is it Mr. Arthur?” Tim said, pointing to the woman’s hands. “That’s what a friend of mine used to call it. Arthur-itis.”

  She smiled and let go of the gas cap. “There’s a special way to get it off, and my husband could do it every time. . . .”

  The man behind her rolled down his window. “You gonna talk all day or get some gas?”

  “What a rude man,” the woman said.

  “Probably didn’t have a good upbringing like you and me,” Tim said.

  She grinned. “Well, if you could just put $15 in, I’d appreciate it. Unleaded regular. Try not to go over.”

  Tim snapped off the cap, showing her how to turn it, then flipped up the lever and started fueling.

  The man on the cell phone backed up and pulled into a space on the other side of the pump, grumbling, “Some old bat who shouldn’t even be allowed to drive . . .”

  “You live around here?” Tim said.

  “I’m on my way back home. My daughter and her husband live down in Woodville. Do you work here?”

  “No, ma’am. Just kinda hanging out till it stops raining.” Tim let go of the pump at $14.78 and clicked it up to $15 even. He replaced the nozzle and the cap and noticed a drip underneath the car. He knelt and reached a long arm under the engine block.

  “Is something wrong?” the woman said.

  Tim saw his dad’s truck slowly pass the station, and he stayed down. He held up a greasy finger. “Looks like antifreeze.”

  “Is that serious?”

  Tim popped the hood. “The reservoir’s almost empty, so you’d better get it looked at soon.”

  “What could it be?”

  “Crack in the tank. Maybe the freeze plug worked loose—”

  “The freeze plug! I just had one of those changed. At least that’s what the fe
llow at the shop told me was wrong. He said I had a bad one.”

  The man with the cell phone slammed his door and sped off.

  “Well, if they put it in crooked or didn’t get it all the way in, that could cause the problem,” Tim said. “If you want, I could fill it up for you so you don’t run out before you get home.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  She handed him a $20 bill, and he bought a gallon of antifreeze and topped off the tank. He handed her the change, but she said, “No, you keep it.”

  “I couldn’t do that, ma’am.” He stuffed the cash in her purse and put the antifreeze on the floor of the backseat.

  “Well, you’ve been helpful. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The sky had begun to clear a little, but the rain was still coming. Tim’s dad had always told him it was a bad idea to ever hitchhike, and he wouldn’t have taken a ride from just anybody, but an old woman on her way home seemed safe to him. “To tell you the truth, I’m trying to get to a place on Highway 27. You’re not going that far, are you?”

  A cloud came over her face. She looked at Tim’s wet clothes, then his hat. He stood a little straighter. “I’m sorry, but I have to be going.”

  Tim nodded. “I understand. You have a safe trip, ma’am.”

  He bought a Dr Pepper and waited. The rain slowed a little, and he figured if he didn’t start walking now, he wouldn’t make it home before midnight.

  He was only a half mile from the store, crossing another parking lot, when a car swerved over, barely missing him.

  The old woman rolled down her window and nodded to the passenger side. “You gonna get in, or are you going to swim to Highway 27?”

  Tim got in, took off his hat, and put it on the floor.

  “Buckle up, now.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t have to do this.”

  “I know it, and you shouldn’t be taking rides from strangers. There are some crazy people out here on these roads. You just never know about people these days.”

  “I could say the same thing to you. You shouldn’t be giving rides to strange teenagers. What made you turn around?”