supply chain, he said instead. Everything’s backed up. Supply chain? Hector repeated flat. That’s what you said last week. Because it was true last week, too. More silence. All right, man. Just let me know. I will. Hector hung up. Ethan put the phone down and took another bite of his sandwich. The peanut butter was sticking to the roof of his mouth.
He should have bought the better brand, but the better brand was a dollar more. And a dollar was a dollar. Lily came out of the house around 1:00, backpack over one shoulder. Summer school. Not because she was behind. She was one of the sharpest kids in her class, but because the school offered a free lunch program during the summer session, and Ethan had quietly signed her up for it in May.
Lily didn’t know that was the reason. She thought she was going because of the advanced reading elective. He let her think that. I’m going, she said, stopping at the edge of the driveway. Got your water bottle? She held it up. Dented metal things she’d had since third grade, covered in stickers from places she’d never been.
New York, London, Tokyo. She collected them from the souvenir rack at the gas station whenever she had a spare quarter. Bus at 3:30, he asked. 3:15. Right, I’ll be here. She started to walk, then turned back. Dad. Yeah. The lady who owns the diner came by this morning while you were in the garage. She said she needs the Jeep by 2 because her dishwasher quit and she’s got to drive to Prescott for a new one.
It’s done. I’ll call her again. I already told her. She said she’d send her nephew to pick it up. Ethan looked at his daughter, 12 years old and already running half his customer service. Thanks, Lily. You should charge her extra for the rush. And it wasn’t a rush. She didn’t know that. Lily adjusted her backpack strap and turned toward the road. See you at 3:15.
He watched her walk until she rounded the bend and disappeared behind the old Peterson fence. The Peterson house had been empty for 2 years. The fence was falling down. Nobody was fixing it because nobody was there. Ethan went back inside the garage and stood in front of bay 1, Hector’s truck. He stared at the dismantled engine and felt the familiar tightness in his chest that came when he thought about money, or rather the absence of money.
He had $412 in his checking account. Rent on the house was $600, due in 9 days. The electric bill was $180. Lily’s school supply list for the fall was already posted online, and he’d looked at it once and then closed the browser because the total made his stomach hurt. He could sell the Mustang. The thought came and went the way it always did.
Quick, quiet, immediately dismissed. He could sell it. Some collector would probably pay decent money for a 68 fastback, even in rough shape. Maybe 30, 40,000. Enough to clear the debts, fix the fan, fix the fridge, get Hector’s parts in, and breathe for a few months. But it was his father’s car.
That was the end of the conversation. Every time. Around 2:30, Donna’s nephew showed up in a beat up sedan to collect the Jeep. He was a kid, maybe 19, with a sunburn and a baseball cap turned backward. He handed Ethan 420s cash, which was good because checks from the diner had a tendency to take scenic routes through the banking system. Donna says, “Thanks.
” The kid said, “Tell her she’s welcome.” She also says, “Your sign out front is falling down.” Ethan looked toward the road. The wooden sign that read cross auto repairs and service was in fact tilting about 15° to the right. One of the posts had rotted at the base. I know, Ethan said. She says it makes the whole street look bad.
Tell Donna I appreciate her concern. The kid drove off in the Jeep. Ethan stood there with $80 in his hand and a leaning sign at the end of his driveway. He folded the bills, put them in his pocket, and walked back inside. At 3:15, Lily’s bus dropped her off. She came into the garage with a library book under her arm and sat on the stool by the workbench.
“What’d you learn?” Ethan asked. Mrs. Hayward says, “The universe is expanding.” “Good for it.” She says, “Eventually, everything will be so far apart that nothing will be able to reach anything else. Every star, every planet, just alone in the dark.” Ethan looked at her. “That’s what they’re teaching you in summer school? It’s the advanced reading elective about the universe dying. It’s a book about cosmology.
It’s actually really interesting. She opened the library book and started reading then without looking up. Also, I think the fridge is getting worse. He didn’t answer. He was already thinking about it. That evening after dinner, scrambled eggs and toast because eggs were cheap and Lily wasn’t complaining.
Ethan went back out to the garage, not to work, to think. He pulled the tarp aside again and looked at the Mustang. His father had never talked much about the car. That was one of the things Ethan was only beginning to understand. Henry Cross talked about everything. The weather, the news, the customers, the Diamondback’s pitching rotation, the proper torque specs for a Chevy 350, but when it came to the Mustang, he went quiet.
If someone asked about it, he’d say, “Just an old car.” and change the subject. If someone offered to buy it, he’d smile and say, “Not for sale.” And that was the end of it. Ethan had asked once when he was maybe 16. “Dad, why do you keep that thing? You never drive it. You never work on it. It just sits there.” Henry had been cleaning a carburetor at the time, hands black with solvent, a cigarette tucked behind his ear that he never actually smoked.
He’d looked at Ethan for a long moment, then said, “Some things are worth more sitting still than they’d ever be moving.” Ethan hadn’t understood that at 16. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood it now. But 3 months ago, something had changed. He’d been cleaning out the back of the garage, the corner behind bay 3, where his father had piled 30 years worth of manuals, cataloges, and old magazines.
