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“All right, well. Give me just a moment.”
When he comes back after moving his truck and attaching a chain to it, he also brings a dark green hooded sweatshirt,Granger Masonry, in large letters on the back. “I promise, it’s clean.”
“Thank you.” I pull the hoodie on and when it’s a little tighter than I prefer for my hooded sweatshirts, I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Max gives me instructions and it isn’t long before Geraldine is back on the side of the road. The driver’s side door opens roughly, but at least it isn’t permanently jammed.
The car, unfortunately, still doesn’t turn over.
Max offers to let me ride with him to and from the shop but in the end, I decide it’s better to stay with the car.
“You know, in case someone on this busy highway decides to take my things,” I joke, looking down the empty roadway. With as few cars that have passed in the time since my single-car accident took place, I realize more and more how lucky I am that Max happened to be driving by.
“I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” he promises. He gives me his phone number before leaving–going as far as calling himself, so I know it’s a legitimate number. “B-R-B.”
When his truck pulls away, I pray I’m not being stupid for accepting help from a stranger.
Yet wait on him, all the same.
THREE
BEN
Old Man Winkler honks his horn twice as he pulls out of the bay. Through the clear glass windows of the newer model Buick Regal his kids made him get, he lifts a weathered hand and waves as he drives off.
Grinning, I wipe my hands on the shop rag that’s always on my person.
Jerry Winkler was good friends with my grandfather and has been coming to my family’s auto shop since Grandpa opened it sixty years ago.
When Grandpa passed away, it became my dad’s, but it only stayed in his name for a few years. When Mom was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer my tenth grade year, I dropped out of school to help. It wasn’t a rarity in our small ranching town. Kids left school often to help keep the family legacy going.
But when Mom passed away, Dad could no longer focus on the shop to the degree in which he knew Grandpa wanted.
So it became mine.
Before I can head back inside to clean up, my tow truck comes into view.
Max Granger is one of my best friends from high school. I don’t make it a habit to let random folks from town take my tow truck to help someone, but any one of my close friends?
Not a problem.
If anything, it helped me so I didn’t have to rush through Jerry’s service.
I step into the garage enough to toss the shop rag onto a blue plastic chair and wave the truck over.
There’s a passenger in the cab of the truck. Probably the car owner.
But my attention is on the car hooked to the rig.
It’s a gray Corolla.
My eyes narrow as a night a few weeks ago hits front and center.
When Max slows the truck, I let curiosity win and walk to the back. I take off my cap only to put it back on backwards.
Ellie’s car was a gray Corolla.
I know better than to expect to see a yellow bumper sticker on the back, announcing “The dog is learning to drive.” But I still look for it.
