“Nawh!” Douglas’s hand slapped the table. “You’re kidding?”
“Yep, one and the same. ’57 Chevy Bel Air wagon, clean cut and he mentioned God.”
Douglas laughed. “Wait ‘til Gary hears about this.”
Hands in her lap, Missy took it all in.
“You said he looked like Jerry Lewis.” Daddy eyed her across the table. “He’s a dead ringer.”
“You’re kidding.” Douglas shook his head.
“Nope.” Daddy forked a slice of Margarine into the dry rice. “Something about him, makes me think he’s gonna go far.”
“He doesn’t even know what a coil wire is, and he’s going to try and sell you one.” Missy gripped her hands in her lap.
Daddy’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know if Rick Baker or Bill Blanchard knows either. I’ve never asked ‘em.”
“Course they do. He’s a dummy, Daddy. The fella has an old wagon, but he doesn’t carry any tools.”
“Not everyone’s been raised by somebody who knows how to fix stuff.” Daddy’s cock of his brow told her to watch her attitude.
“Has he fixed his fuel filter yet?” she asked.
“No, he hasn’t.”
Douglas chuckled. “Gonna set a Guinness world record for stupidity.”
“He has charisma. I can say that for him.” Daddy appeared thoughtful as he carved off a bite of pork chop. “You remember the story about the fella who tried to sell your Grandma Jane a thousand dollar vacuum?”
“Nope.” Like always, Douglas’s face was a blank.
“Grandma said he made her want the vacuum so bad that she was going to trade their little Datsun pickup for it. Luckily, Granddad got home before it was a done deal.” Daddy shook his head. “Missy, is this pork or chicken?” He held up a forkful of meat.
“Pork.” She sliced into her piece. How could he even ask that? She took a bite, and chewed. It was awfully dry. Hmmm... maybe the rack had been too close to the broiler.
“Where’s the ketchup?” Douglas asked.
Just once she’d like to sit down for a meal and have no one ask for ketchup.
After dinner, Missy drove south on Seward Road to Rick and Jean Baker’s old place. Due to their divorce, it was now Rick’s place. She parked her truck in their aggregate driveway and turned off the engine. The grass was summer brown, and rolled-up newspapers littered the front porch. What had once been an inviting home now looked abandoned.
She unlocked the front door and tossed the newspapers inside the hallway.
“Who’s there?” Martha said from the front room.
“Just me, Missy.” At the base of the pedestal cage, birdfeed and light green feathers peppered the rust shag carpeting.
“Who’s been feeding and checking in on you?” Missy asked. The feeder was empty; only a half inch of water remained in the feeding tube.
“Rick stinks,” Martha said. The lime green parrot, cocked her head, and looked at Missy peripherally with one beady black eye.
“Yes, Rick stinks.” Missy agreed. “This is the second divorce you’ve gone through with him, isn’t it?” If Martha hadn’t been Rick’s to begin with, Jean would probably have fought for her.
“You’re going to live with us for a couple days until your old man gets back. Do you remember Big John and Douglas?”
Martha flapped her wings and side-stepped back and forth across the center bar.
In the cab of her truck, Missy put a towel over Martha’s dome shaped cage. She stretched the passenger seatbelt around it, and clicked it into place. Martha was quiet as they drove home.
It was difficult to go to the Bakers and not think about Gary, Rick’s eldest son. She’d grown up camping and fishing with Gary and his family. He was the one and only guy she’d ever imagined herself to be in love with. She sighed.
Once home, Missy set the cage on the Formica countertop in the kitchen before placing the pedestal in the corner behind the table. In the living room, Daddy used the clicker to change channels.
“How is she?” he asked.
“There were five newspapers on the front steps.” Missy leaned in the doorway and shrugged. “Baker’s been out of town at least that long. Doesn’t look like he had anyone taking care of Martha. She was out of food and almost out of water. Where is he anyway?”
“Who knows? He’s foot loose and fancy free again.” Daddy pushed himself out of the old corduroy recliner and walked into the kitchen. Bending forward, he peered at Martha. “I’m going to have a long talk with Baker when he gets back,” he said in his softest voice, usually reserved for children.
“Rick stinks,” Martha said, without a blink of an eye.
Daddy’s booming laugh filled their boxy kitchen.
“That’s the third time she’s said it.”
“I’m going to enjoy having her around,” Daddy said.
Missy changed the dirtied newspapers on the floor of the birdcage, refilled the water tube and put pellets in the feed tray. Lastly, she called Jean.
“Hi, Jean, it’s Missy.”
“Hi, Missy.”
“Martha’s here on our kitchen counter. I’ve refilled her water and pellets. Is there anything else I should do?”
“She can’t have any avocado, coffee, alcohol, fatty foods, or dairy.”
“What foods can I give her?”
“Fruit, bread, vegetables, bananas.”
Missy wrote them down on a scrap of paper as she recited them aloud.
“Banana,” Martha said.
“Do you like bananas?” Missy looked at Martha. “I’m talking to Jean right now and she’s telling me what to feed you.”
Martha flew to the front of the cage and gripped the bars with her feet.
“Awh... tell Martha, I miss her,” Jean said.
“Here, Jean, I’ll let you tell her yourself.” Missy held the receiver closer to Martha’s cage.
“Hello, Martha. I miss you. I’m sorry that Rick hasn’t been taking good care of you.”
“Rick stinks.”
“Did you teach her that, Jean?”
“Why yes, I did. I take full responsibility.”
Missy laughed. Another female in the kitchen would sure be nice for a change.
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday afternoon, Robert pulled into the Stuarts’ gravel drive. He was a half-hour earlier than Big John expected him, but the appointment hadn’t been mutually agreed on anyway. He drove past the fourth bay and parked in the shade. Today’s goals were to try and create a relationship in Rick Baker’s absence, make sure John had the basics—spark plugs, oil filters, shop rags—and then get out of his way.
He tucked his catalog under one arm, and made his way past the open four-bay shop. In the bay nearest the office, he saw Missy checking the air pressure on the tires of a white Impala. The girl knew what she was doing; he could give her credit for that. His Bic filter had made it a good hundred miles so far, which reminded him to pray. Lord, please keep my car running until at least my next paycheck. After whispering, “Amen,” he paused in the office’s open doorway.
Seated across the desk from Big John, a lean, elderly woman searched her purse. Robert gave them space by waiting outside. Never interrupt the regular flow of business, he recalled Al’s advice.
“I’m pretty positive we can find a solid used radiator on our property,” John told the woman. “We have a ‘65 Dodge Dart behind the barn. We can save you fifty, maybe sixty dollars. I’ll give you a call tomorrow and let you know. In the meantime, I’ll have Missy take you home.”
“I’m out of milk, eggs, stamps... oh, and shampoo, too.”
“Missy can drive you to town. I’ll throw in her time for free.”
“That’s neighborly of you.”
John strode from the office into the garage. Mumbled words were exchanged before his voice rose loud and clear. “Well, I forgot about the Impala; I’ll take care of it.”
Wearing short-sleeved, dark blue coveralls similar to her father’s, Mis
sy strolled out of the first bay, and rolled her eyes as she passed Robert on her way inside the office. Her hands were greasy, her cheeks flushed, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a long ponytail.
“Hi, Betty. I’ll go scrub up and grab my keys.”
“Thanks, Missy. I’ll buy you a burger.”
As John’s daughter brushed past him a second time, she mumbled, “You’re wasting your time.”
Something had definitely been missing during the girl’s childhood, maybe a whipping stick. And then he recalled what Al had told him: Ten years ago, while John was working in the shop, his wife had died of a bee sting in their kitchen. What had been missing for Missy was her mother.
Robert sighed.
“Bobby, park your wagon in the second bay,” John bellowed from inside the open garage.
“Maybe next month after I get paid.” Robert stepped from bright sunlight into the shade of the first bay. Fluorescent lights lit the long, cavernous room. The smell of oil, grease, and tires mixed together into one stifling thick stew that he could almost taste in his mouth.
“Mr. Blankenship is coming here at four o’clock, Daddy.” Missy bee-lined straight for the second bay.
“I’ll finish it.” John shook his head.
She jangled a wad of keys in her right hand. The girl was going to town in her dark blue coveralls and steel-toed boots. If she wasn’t so monkey wrench snarly, she might actually be pretty. Real pretty.
“And I haven’t started anything for supper, Daddy.”
“I’ll remember that at supper time.”
“And I haven’t called Baker.”
“I’ll call him.”
Missy assisted the elderly woman from the office to her truck, opened the passenger door, and gently but firmly closed it behind her. Her older Dodge pickup started on a dime, and unlike its owner, purred like a kitten.
Robert leaned against a fender pad that had been placed on the passenger side of the Impala while John poured the contents of a can of oil into the reservoir.
“Do you have everything you need with Rick Baker out of town?”
“Now’s not a good time, Bobby. My son’s fishing. My daughter’s shopping. This Impala needs attention and—” The office phone rang. “Crab!” he bellowed.
The word is a family expletive. Maybe it’s the heat, but John Stuart doesn’t handle stress very well.
“Want me to get it for you?” Robert asked.
“I’ll get it. Finish this.” John shoved the can of oil at him. A metal spout stuck out the top. On John’s way toward the office, an extension cord curled up like a snake on the concrete snagged his foot. The large man hopped on one leg and yelled a near profanity.
“Double crab!”
Robert picked up the pile of green cord and set it on the back counter. With the oil can in hand, he returned to the Impala, and realized there were two funnels inserted into different reservoirs. Too bad he hadn’t been paying close attention. He didn’t want to guess and be wrong. He strolled to the office, set the oil can on top of a small cardboard box on John’s cluttered desk and sat down.
With the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, John paced behind his desk. “Yeah, I can take care of a flat tire. Where are you?” He paused a moment while the person on the other end of the line spoke. “Uh-huh, you’re only two miles east of my place. I’ll be there in five, ten minutes.” He hung up, looked at the can of oil and then at Robert.
“I got business up the road. You’re going to have to cover the phone for me while I’m gone. Do you have any other appointments?”
“No, Sir.”
“The Impala needs another two and a half quarts of oil.” John nodded toward the quart Robert had set on the desk. “Why didn’t you throw it away?”
Robert swallowed.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know where it goes.”
“There were two funnels.”
“Don’t touch anything while I’m gone but the phone.” Big John inhaled deeply. “I need to make a phone call.” He sat down in his swivel chair, and used the eraser end of a pencil to dial. “Anita, Big John here. Is the old man in?” John’s chest visibly rose. “The next time Baker checks in, tell him he needs to get his rear over here—even if he has to catch a plane to do it. I’m low on oil filters, and...” He rubbed his forehead. “He hasn’t been here for weeks.” His gaze zeroed in on Robert. “Uh-huh. He’s working on a big account. Well, tell him I’ve heard that line before, and I have a younger salesman with a bigger catalog working on me.” He slammed down the phone.
“Baker.” John groaned and grabbed his keys off the top of the filing cabinet. “Don’t touch anything while I’m gone but the phone.”
The tall stories Robert had heard about Big John now seemed believable. Unfortunately, his daughter was just like him—a product of her environment.
In John’s absence, Robert stayed on the customer side of the desk and tallied his second order for Carl Meyers in Woodland. Being a good rep wasn’t only about customer service; it was also about staying on top of paperwork. He yawned and closed his briefcase. Even though the door was open, the office felt stuffy.
While he waited for the phone to ring, it dawned on him that he should take a little inventory. When would he ever have John’s business entirely to himself again? Taking mental notes, Robert strode out of the office area and past the Impala. The second bay was empty. The third bay, also known as the pit, had a car-sized hole in the ground. On the back wall of the fourth bay, fan belts hung from pegs. A surprising amount of water pumps stood corralled in the metal racks. Boxes of various weight motor oils and air and oil filters were neatly shelved nearby. He looked again. There were only a handful of oil filters, not a good sign.
The phone rang. On his jog back to the office, it rang two more times before Robert was able to pick it up. “Big John’s Auto Repair, how may I help you?” he said, a little winded.
“Who is this?” a male voice asked.
“Robert Schoening. Big John’s out of the office at the moment. May I take a message?”
“This is Douglas; tell him we were skunked... not a bite.”
“Will do,” Robert said before the line went dead.
Hmm . . . he studied the phone. There were three different plastic buttons for three different lines. He’d only be tying up one line if he called Al. Facing the open doorway, he dialed the office.
“Is Al in?” he asked Norma, their office secretary.
“Yes, Robert. Please hold.”
When Al was on the line, Robert found himself whispering: “Al, this is Robert. I’m at Big John’s. It’s an odd situation.”
“It always is.” Al chuckled.
“He left me in charge of answering the phones while he went to fix a flat tire.”
“Are you saying you have the whole shop to yourself?”
“Yes.”
“The man’s unpredictable. It’s probably a test of some sort.”
“Well, I took a quick inventory. In Baker’s absence, he’s definitely low on oil filters.”
“Be careful; the last place you want him to find you is in his warehouse.”
Fifteen minutes later, John’s white Ford truck drove past the shop area. The crunch of gravel beneath his steel-toed boots announced the large man’s return. Robert remained rooted in the customer chair.
“Any calls?” John asked. Sweat beaded his brow and beneath his eyes.
“One. Douglas called and said they got skunked.”
He nodded. “Thanks for watching the place. My job was taken before I arrived. Some young punk who knew how to change a tire.”
“That’s too bad.”
John glanced from the can of oil to the clock. It was three fifteen. “I need to tend to the Impala, and it’s about time you learned where the oil reservoir is, Bobby Boy.”
“It’s Robert.” As he followed John to the first bay, he wondered if name calling was something that just ran deep in this family.
&
nbsp; John halted in front of the Impala. “This front funnel is for the oil reservoir.” He poured the gold hued liquid into the nearest upright funnel.
“Where’s the coil wire?” For the life of him, Robert couldn’t recall where Missy had pointed the other day.
“Right there.” John pointed toward the distributor cap with his left hand while he poured the oil with his right. “Douglas say when he’d be back?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“That means he’ll be back to work at closing time.” John shook his head. “Except for his time-off and his girlfriend, little motivates my oldest offspring. But I believe his next paycheck will.”
Robert nodded. His first paycheck in commission-only sales had been forty-nine dollars. Good thing he was living at home.
“Because of my salvage yard, I can offer my customers new or used parts. Take Mrs. Heiner for example, it was pure luck that her tire was leaking air, because her radiator was leaking too. It’s the nature of the business.” He tossed the empty oil can into the nearest barrel, a fifty gallon-sized oil drum. The loud thunk of metal on metal resonated through the shop as he rocked the pointed end of the spout into a new can.
“What do you know about spark plugs?” John asked, raising his thick dark brows.
“Not much, except Columbia Auto Parts carries every size available. To be honest, I haven’t had to understand them to sell them.”
“You do now. Listen closely, Bobby Boy. You need to learn about engines and shop talk or you’ll never survive. Now show me where the spark plugs are on Willy Blankenship’s ’69 Impala?”
Was John taking him under his wing, or was it some kind of test? He gnawed the inside of his lower lip, as he scanned the top of the engine. It was like a maze of intertwining parts, and he only recognized a few.
“They’re either on the side of an engine or on top of the engine,” John said. “It depends on the engine. This Impala’s got a V-8, which means the spark plugs could be on either side.” John pointed to the right side.
Only the middle of the spark plug was visible inside the housing. No wonder he hadn’t spotted them; he’d been looking for the nickel-sized heads.
Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance Page 3