Learning to Live Again

by Marie Kinneer

  When exactly?

  In the shed again, he found the hard bristled brush they’d used to scrub away stubborn build-up and brought it and a stool back with him to the can.

  “Leave it soak, Sam. What’s your hurry? It ain’t even snowin’ yet,” Sam said the words, hearing the chuckle in his dad’s voice, as he brought a piece of the carburetor out of the can and began brushing.

  A cool breeze caressed the back of Sam’s neck and carried the scent of baking bread to his nose, telling him it was lunchtime and he was hungry. The wonderful aroma was blowing up the hill from the diner on Main Street below. He put the pieces back in the can to soak; he decided to wash up at the house and go to the diner for lunch.

  Sam washed his hands, but machine grime clung to the underside of his fingernails. He hunted through the vanity drawers under the sink for his dad’s knuckle brush, but it wasn’t in the drawer where it used to be kept. In fact, none of his dad’s things were in what used to be his dad’s drawer. Unlike the shed out back, the house appeared to be clean of the old man’s personal things, at least that was true of the bathroom.

  A feeling came over Sam, one he couldn’t identify with words. It was the same feeling that ran through him that night he heard on the answering machine that his dad had died. It was like a hole opened up in his chest, then filled with an ache that brought a sting to his eyes. He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes with a wet washcloth, and shuddered. Death was so final. No more chances to say, “I’m sorry,” or “I love you.”

  ******

  Margie loved the homey smell of bread baking in her kitchen. The old electric oven in the little house on the hill would not keep to temperature, and so she never baked, and rarely cooked anything that could not be made on top of the stove. She promised herself she would save for a new one, but there was always something that took the money before she had enough. This time it was going to be the down payment on the orthodontic work needed on Peter’s teeth. Peter’s mouth seemed to come from her side of the family, while his teeth were horse teeth like his father’s. Margie shook her head, a habit she developed to clear away thoughts of Peter’s father, and concentrated on the special to be offered that evening. Monday night was barbecued chicken.

  ******

  Sam walked the few blocks to the diner. The trees were starting their dress-up for Halloween. The thought made Sam smile. His sister, Rita, had made the observation when she was five and the trees began their call to leaf-peepers to come to Vermont to witness a glorious Indian summer. Reds and oranges and golds and yellows had begun painting the hills against a cloudless, clear blue sky.

  Thinking of Rita put a bounce in Sam’s step. He guessed they were about as close as a sister and brother who were five years and three thousand miles apart could be. They sent cards on birthdays and Christmas, and talked on the phone three or four times a year. Mostly, Rita called him, but there were a few times he thought to call. Too few. They hadn’t seen each other, except in photographs, in years. Fifteen, to be exact. Not since Sam’s marriage to Karen. Actually, his family ties were pretty well severed with his move to North Carolina. The distance was much further than the miles. Again, Sam tried to pin down the final event that shoved a permanent wedge between him and his father, but it stood, a silent apparition, out of reach.

  The diner was full at the counter with truck drivers, and in the booths with locals breaking for lunch. Sam saw a familiar face at the end of the counter by the soda machine. Peter sat on the last stool; books sat on the stool beside him. Sam squeezed past a couple of drivers paying at the cash register and walked to the book filled seat.

  “You suppose your friends would mind giving up the only seat in the house to a hungry customer?” Sam asked the boy whose head was propped up on an arm and facing an open book on the counter in front of him.

  “Huh?” Peter turned to look in the direction of the voice. “Oh.” Recognition showed in his eyes. He surprised Sam with a smile. “Crowded today, ain’t it? Just pile ‘em on the floor. Never mind. I’ll do it.”

  Peter slid off the stool and picked up the books in one quick motion. After stacking them on the floor against the wall, he sat back down next to Sam.

  “What is it you do for real? For a living, I mean?” With his elbows on the counter, and one hand bracing his head, he watched Sam.

  “What’ll it be?” the new waitress, Brenda, stood behind the counter, pad and pen in hand.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “I love Margie’s meat loaf. The special tonight is barbequed chicken, but I don’t think there’s any ready yet,” Brenda answered.

  “Hannah makes a great Western,” Peter piped in.

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll have a Western on wheat, and iced tea.” Sam looked at Peter for approval, but saw hunger. He called after Brenda “Make that two of … ” he turned back to Peter. “Add French fries?”

  A sheepish grin spread across Peter’s face.

  “Everything with an order of French fries.”

  They both started to speak at once.

  “You go,” Peter said.

  “I was going to ask you how you’re feeling.” Sam’s eyes searched Peter’s face. “Your nose looks okay.”

  “I’m fine. Mom worries too much. I told her I tripped over that bucket we couldn’t find in the field.”

  “Yeah, well save that story for your mom. Mrs. Gear and I found you. You might have stumbled over a bucket, but that was only because you were running from whoever beat up on you.”

  “Man, I only got one story. It’s the truth. Anyway that was two weeks ago. History.” Peter kneaded the palms of his hands together, while staring at a spot on the wall in front of him. “You can believe it or not.”

  Brenda brought their food. “That do it for now?”

  “Thank you,” Sam said a little too curtly. Something about the woman irritated him. She never minded interrupting. Sam chided himself for his lack of empathy. She was trying to do a job; give her a break.

  Sam picked up a corner of the cut sandwich and eyed the omelet stuffed with ham, cheese and green peppers before taking a bite. “Joe Piccolo a friend of yours?” he asked, between chews. “This is good.”

  “Hannah makes them better than anybody.” Peter took a large bite of his Western before he continued, pushing the food into a cheek. “Piccolo’s got no friends that I know of. He’s pretty weird, actually. Lisa Heathro, she’s this really cool girl in algebra, she’s got a crush on him. Go figure.”

  “He pick up prescriptions often without paying or signing for them?”

  “All the time. Mr. Smith used to make him or his dad sign, but he quit. Said he’d never get paid anyway, might as well write it off as shrinkage, save on taxes.”

  Sam noticed Peter peeking at him while he dipped a fry in catsup and wondered if he was being set up. Shrinkage, taxes. How old is this kid?

  “Smith talks to you about this stuff?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think he remembers how old I am. Actually, I don’t think he remembers anything much if it didn’t happen at least ten years ago. But then he’s a whiz. He can tell you all sorts of stuff you won’t find in any history books. I mean minute details and dates.”

  It struck Sam that Peter enjoyed an audience. He could probably sit here and talk all day as long as the subject did not include him.

  “So, what do you do for fun?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you do when you’re not working or going to school?”

  “Homework.”

  “Aw come on, what about summertime. You swim?”

  “Last summer I worked about fifty hours a week at the drugstore, painted the johns at the grade and high school, shucked corn at the diner. I went swimming couple a times.”

  “What do you do with all that money?”

  “Give half to Mom, save the rest. I’ll have me a car when I’m sixteen. And not some old wreck like Mom’s. And Mrs. Gear says I can have that old snowmobile in her old m
an’s shed, but it needs fixin’.”

  Damn it! “What do you know about snowmobiles? You ever operate one?” Sam didn’t mask his irritation at this new bit of news.

  “No sir.” Peter’s voice tripped along a melodic range from tenor to soprano, defending his position. “Mr. Browne has offered to teach me some. He thinks he can fix Mrs. Gear’s pretty cheap,” he said, looking Sam straight in the eye. “Says he probably needs to rebuild the carburetor. He’s real good at fixin’ ‘em. He’s got three of his own.”

  Sam managed a smile. “Brownie probably works on as many snowmobiles at his garage as he does cars in the winter.” He stared at his iced tea a moment, picked up the glass and finished off the contents. “I pulled out the old gal just this morning. Brownie’s right about the carb.” He looked at Peter. “I’ll have her running before the first snow flies.”

  “Oh, hey, that’s okay. I guess your mom just didn’t know you were going to come back here and want that snowmobile. I mean, she just offered it to me ‘cause it was getting no use at all, and she said that was a shame and all.” Peter wiped his mouth with his napkin and shook his head. “I got a big mouth.”

  “No harm done. Tell you what. I’ll get that old Ski-Do purring like a kitten and as soon as we get a good snow, I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Safety, maintenance, the whole nine yards. What do you say?”

  Peter’s eyes lit up, and his mouth spread wide in a toothy smile. “You won’t forget?”

  “I won’t forget.”

  ******

  “Margie, you’ll never guess who’s bought Peter lunch. They been sittin’ at the counter buzzing like two bees for half an hour now,” Hannah hissed, her hand holding the kitchen door ajar. “I been dying to get off that grill long enough to run back here and tell you to take a look see.”

  Hannah was back at the grill before Margie could digest the woman’s flash announcement. She couldn’t just walk out there big as you please. She walked to the Ladies Room. It was down the hall from the kitchen and around the corner from the soda machine and the stool where Peter usually sat. She flushed the toilet for the noise and soft soled her way down the short corridor to the east side of the dining area. She held her breath while finding a foothold in a cooling vent and stretched up on tip-toe to peer over the soda machine. He saw her. She dropped down to a squat, her heart pounding furiously. He’d think her a fool, or crazy. Maybe he was just looking her way. Maybe he only saw the top of her head and didn’t know it was her. Maybe he didn’t see anything at all.

  “Mom, what are you doing down there?” Peter was standing a foot away from her. “Mr. Gear said you were trying to get my attention.”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, scanning thoughts for something to say. “Are you working tonight?”

  Peter scrunched up his nose. “You know I’m working tonight. I always work on Monday night.

  Sam came up behind Peter and stood with his hands folded in front of him, his back leaning against the wall, listening. “You all right?” he asked Margie.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  A slow grin played along Sam’s lips. “You fall down there?”

  Margie stood up, brushed at her apron, ignored the question. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and Sam’s eyes watching her. What is it about this man that makes my insides quiver so?

  “Sam’s promised to teach me snowmobiling,” Peter blurted, clearing up the awkwardness of the moment.

  “Really?” Margie looked up at Sam.

  The smile was gone. Still leaning against the wall, his eyes were fixed upon her face. “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Hey, Margie, where are you?” Hannah’s voice carried from the grill.

  “See you later,” Margie said, practically running from the spot to the safety of the kitchen.

  ******

  Peter stared after his mother in amazement. He turned to look at Sam and what was going on here, but Sam was on his way back to the dining area. “Hey, wait up,” he said, and hurried after him.

  “How long you gonna be here? I mean, for the whole winter? Do you hunt deer? Mr. Browne’s always sayin’ he’s gonna take me, but then he gets busy. Some guys hunt moose. Even elk. And hunting season comes usually before much snow. So if you’re getting bored, you might want to …” Peter paused for a breath catching up with Sam at the cash register.

  “You could kill a deer?”

  “Yeah, sure … maybe … I think so.” Peter thought a minute. “Everybody does.”

  Sam changed the subject. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Half a day today. Some water leak or something.”

  Sam paid his bill, shook his head when Brenda tried to give him his change and turned to leave. “So what are you going to do now? When do you go to work?”

  “Four.”

  “I’m working on the Ski-Doo. You have two hours, want to help?”

  Before Peter could answer, two boys entered the diner. The taller one with a crew cut top and a long black braid stopped in front of Peter. “How’s it going, Merryhill?”

  Sam watched Peter’s Adam’s apple bob up and down, but the boy remained silent, moving his eyes to the door. Scared, Sam thought.

  “Excuse us, son,” Sam said, grabbing Peter’s elbow and steering him around the teenage barricade.

  Outside Sam asked, “Who were those strange looking boys?”

  The hair styles and dress marked them as “not from around here.”

  “Flatlanders from upstate New York somewhere.” Peter said as they started the walk to Sam’s house. “Michelson brothers. Their mom is the new waitress, Brenda, and their dad is the new math teacher.”

  “How long have they been in town?”

  “Too long.”

  “They in any of your classes?”

  “No. They’re older than me. As a matter of fact, I don’t know them at all. Don’t want to either.”

  “Because they’re flatlanders?”

  “’Cause they think they’re tough guys. They wear those leather gang jackets and sunglasses to school.”

  They passed Brownie’s Garage and waved at Art Browne inside his shop. “Joe Piccolo has Billy Michelson in a couple of his classes. Says he’s a wise-ass. Got sent to the Principal’s office twice in one week. Joe says he bets the Michelsons are responsible for the water leak.”

  “Sounds like you and Piccolo are chums.”

  “He’s all the time in the drug store picking up stuff for his folks. We talk sometimes if I’m not too busy. Anyway, I knew Joe was the same age as Billy Michelson so I asked him what he knew about Billy.”

  They walked awhile in silence. Their breath made tiny clouds of steam while the day turned older and colder as they climbed the dirt road to home.

  “I’ll tell you one thing though. Those boys better not mess with Joe Piccolo. I mean, he doesn’t bother anyone who doesn’t bother him, but you don’t want to get in his face. Ha, I’d like to see those boys mess with old Joe.”

  Sam started to say something, but Peter continued.

  “I bet your ears are ringing, Mr. Gear. I don’t ever talk this much. Jesum Crow, I haven’t shut up since we left the diner.”

  “My dad used to say, ‘If you haven’t anything to say, don’t. But if you do, let’s hear it.’ I guess you just had a lot to say.”

  Sam and Peter worked on the snowmobile until Peter had to go to work. There was no more talk of the Michelson boys until Peter started down the hill. “Bet you’re wondering if it was those Michelson boys who beat me up?” Peter called over his shoulder.

  “Nope, I figured you fell over that bucket out in the field,” Sam yelled.

  Peter gave Sam a thumbs up sign and continued on down the road.

  CHAPTER IX

  A chill was in the air, the kind that sliced at her intake of breath and pressed an icicle jab to her chest—a promise of snow. She hadn’t dressed warm enough. She wanted to stop at Brownie’s Garage before she was due to report to work. It was a
spur-of-the-moment decision, although she’d been considering it since the apple pie. She shivered in her thin jacket and hugged herself.

  She found Brownie lying on a creeper with wheels under a sports van. “H’lo, Brownie,” she called, crouching down so he could see her face. “Got a minute? You don’t have to come out from under there or anything. I just need to ask you something.”

  “Margie-girl! What’s that weather doing? Felt like snow to me this morning.”

  “Nothing yet. Almost feels too cold for snow.” Margie watched puffs of breath form as she spoke. “How well do you know Sam Gear? I mean as a person. Like what kind of man is he? For instance, is he like what I’ve read about called an alpha male? Thinks he has to hunt—kill deer or moose or elk?” She stood up, but continued her prattle. “And why doesn’t he have kids? Does he like dogs?” She stared at Brownie’s legs, all she could see of him. Mud was caked in the cleated bottoms of his work boots. He must be thinking; she waited for an answer.

  “What in the sam-hill?” Brownie slid out from under the truck. Still lying on the pallet, he stared up at her, his expression grim. “Why all the sudden interest in Sam Gear?”

  Margie started pacing. “It’s not a sudden interest. It’s not even interest exactly.” Margie stopped and hugged herself, her attention somewhere on the far wall.

  “There is that photo of him on the mantle in Allison’s living room. I mean, I thought it was a photograph of Garth Brooks when I first saw it. The hair’s the wrong color, and he’s … ” she made a gesture with her hand and shook her head. She turned to face Brownie. “I don’t know, Brownie. I have this feeling …” she pressed her hand to her heart. “Something happens when I look at him, something familiar, but that I’ve never felt before.” She crouched down again beside the prone Brownie. “I’m not making any sense.”

  Brownie sat up. “Makes perfect sense.” Brownie removed his cap, rubbed at his ear and put his cap back on. “Sammy Gear, eh?” He smiled, chuckled.

  “Well, now, I know he don’t hunt. His old man dragged him along a couple times during deer season. Said he just didn’t have the stomach for it. I member one time I was plowing the road up Hiker Hill. I saw Sammy, he must have been about eight, chasin’ a eight pointer out of his yard with a broom. ‘Get outa’ here,’ he was yelling, ‘You want my dad to shoot you?’” Brownie laughed. “It’s a wonder that buck didn’t ram him.