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There's a can of tuna in the cupboard or maybe some cheese would appeal to the little fuzzball.
When I try to back out, I realize I'm stuck. My shoulder is pinched between the wooden edge of the porch and the ground. I try again. This can't be happening. I stretch my arm out all the way, cringing as it slides further into the mucky darkness beneath the porch, trying to flatten out my shoulder but it makes no difference except to push my face down into the dirt.
Have I gained that much weight eating frozen waffles and Pop Tarts?
I wiggle some more, but it's no use.
I get my face out of the dirt and consider my options.
The kitten comes close and licks my nose. Great. Just fucking great.
* * *
CALEB
"I think we got that rattle fixed, but you should probably take it for a test drive just to be sure. Maybe get the speed up a bit and see how it feels." Roger slams the hood of the truck closed. "Glad your dad took such good care of this truck, makes it a little easier to maintain it now."
"But," he says, turning to me with the expression of a doctor who's about to give some bad news, "There's still only so much we can do to combat time. This truck's older than both of us."
"Hey!" I say. "I'm only twenty-six. You make it sound like I'm ready for a retirement home and I'm not even thirty."
Roger laughs. "Sorry," he says, then sobers. "Mostly, I'm sorry about the truck. It's looking as good as it can, but..."
"I know." My heart sinks. It's been seven years since we lost Mom and Dad. And Eddie. Sometimes it seems like decades have passed since then and other times the wound is as fresh and raw as when it first happened. Roger's words, though well intended, give the wound a good rip.
"Uncle Caleb," Willow, my six-year-old niece, comes running into the shop where we've been working on the truck, she stops and looks it over. "Wow," she says. "Is that from pioneer days? We learned about that in school. Were you alive then?"
Roger chokes back a laugh and then says, "Well, I'd better get back to working on the tractor."
"Can I help, Mr. Roger? I'm an excellent mechanic. I took apart my backhoe and put it all back together and I think it goes faster now."
Roger pauses to gaze down at Willow. He's fond of her. Everyone is. "Willow, it's okay if you just call me Roger. When you call me Mr. Roger I feel like I ought to be wearing a cardigan sweater and stopping to put on my slippers when I come into the shop."
She looks at him for a moment and then laughs. "Oh, you mean Mr. Rogers. Haha. That's funny. I like you, Roger. You're funny and you're a mechanic. Do you have a girlfriend?"
Roger, who is much more comfortable sticking his hands under the hood of a truck than inside a woman's blouse, looks incredibly uneasy and glances in my direction for some help.
"Hey, I thought I was your boyfriend," I say.
Willow spins and looks at me. "You're my uncle so you can't be my boyfriend. Besides, you're too old. So is Roger. But he should have a girlfriend. So should you."
Now I'm the one feeling uneasy, though an image of a girl with lavender hair comes to mind.
"I see you've got this handled," Roger says, shaking his head and walking away.
I decide to change the subject. "So, Willow, what brings you down here?"
"Oh!" she says. "Aunt Midge sent me to tell you that you have a phone call at the house and it sounds important. I'm sorry. I should have said that part first."
"If it's so important, why didn't she call my cell or the phone down here?" I ask as Willow and I trot up the hill to the main house.
"She's making bread and she said," Willow starts gesturing with her hands like she's kneading dough and tilts her head like Midge does, "Go get Caleb and tell him to tell whoever it is to call him on his cell phone. I'm baking and not running a switchboard." Willow grabs my hand. "Uncle Caleb, what's a switchboard?"
"I'll explain later, honey. I'd better find out who's calling." I hurry to the kitchen where one of the few remaining landlines is and find the receiver resting on the counter. Midge is up to her elbows in bread dough.
"Hello?" I pick up the receiver. I have no idea who it could be, but for a fleeting second I wonder if maybe it's Alex, though of course she has no idea where I live and actually thinks I'm someone else. Idiot.
"Caleb? Oh, thank goodness. It's me, Caleb." He sounds panicked and my heart speeds up.
