This kid had no business stealing a car, Hawley thought. A Ford should be easy. Hawley still remembered the model and make of his first—a Buick Skylark sedan—he was only fifteen when he hot-wired it, and he’d driven that clunky boat with the sticky gearshift all the way to Tennessee.
“Where’d you get that leash?” he asked. It still bothered him about the dog.
“Oh,” said the boy. “My dad ran Charley over in the driveway last year.”
“That sob story ever work?”
“Mostly,” said Charlie. “On girls.”
The storm was slowing, the rain turning into mist. Hawley tried to wipe the grease off his fingers. “Give me the spare.” The boy rolled the tire over. Hawley centered the wheel on the hub, fished the lugs out of his pocket and tightened them with his fingers.
“Sorry about the car,” said Charlie. “I just wanted to get out of here.”
Hawley leaned back on his heels. He picked up the flat and pressed a finger against the bullet hole. The rubber was soft where it was torn but hard everywhere else. One of his nails had ripped from working the screws. He stuck it in his mouth and tasted grease and blood and dirt.
“Well,” said Hawley. “I guess I know about that.”
Through the trees there was a flash of yellow, then Lily stepped out of the forest carrying the umbrella. Her face was resigned, the same way it got before she snapped on her rubber gloves and pulled out the bleach.
“Is she mad at you or something?” the boy asked.
“Just don’t tell her about the dog,” said Hawley.
Lily crossed the lot, the umbrella floating bright over her head like an idea. By the time she reached the truck the rain had stopped. She held her hand out, testing the air, then she pushed the button on the handle and the arms of the umbrella retracted, folding back.
“Finished?”
“Almost,” said Hawley.
“I need to talk to Charlie.”
The boy seemed more scared of Lily than of Hawley. He got off the ground reluctantly, wincing a bit. Together they walked a few paces away from the truck, until Hawley couldn’t hear them. Lily spoke and the kid nodded. Then she slipped something into his hand.
Hawley lowered the jack and the truck settled onto the spare with a sigh. With the tire iron he tightened the lug nuts. By the time he was finished, Lily and Charlie were done talking. They loaded the equipment in the back and everyone got into the truck. It took Hawley a couple of minutes to reattach the wires the kid had pulled. “These are for the radio, not the starter,” he said.
The boy sat in the backseat, beside a pile of broken glass. He still clutched his jaw, and with the other hand he cradled his ribs. He peered over the seat at the wires. “Which ones should I use?”
“The red is the battery,” said Hawley, “and this yellow one is the starter. Then you need the ignition wire.”
“You shouldn’t teach him that,” said Lily.
“He’s going to do it anyway. He might as well do it right.”
“Can we stop at McDonald’s?” Charlie asked. “I’m starving.”
Hawley turned the key and the engine caught. The clock on the dashboard had reset, blinking like a bomb about to go off. 12:00, 12:00, 12:00.
“Anyone know what time it is?”
“Three-thirty,” said the kid.
“Your mother,” said Hawley.
Lily took the Colt out of her pocket. She opened the cylinder and removed the bullets. She put the ammunition in the glove compartment and closed it and put the Colt back under the seat.
“No McDonald’s,” she said.
—
WHEN THEY PULLED into the train station Mabel Ridge was waiting, sitting on a bench next to a giant suitcase on wheels that was adorned with a name tag and a bright purple ribbon. Her hair was loose and wild. There were a number of sewing needles, of different sizes and lengths, woven into the collar of her sweater, like stripes on a soldier’s uniform.
“My little girl,” said Mabel.
“Mom,” said Lily. They put their arms around each other.
“This is Samuel Hawley,” said Lily. “This is my husband.”
Mabel Ridge took his hand. She had long fingers and a heavy grip. As he hefted her bag into the back of the truck, she pulled down the glasses that were propped on her forehead, and her eyes went straight to Hawley’s injured leg. He turned it behind him and the woman lifted her chin, fast. She had green eyes, just like her daughter. Beneath her gaze Hawley felt pulled open, straight to his bones.
“And who is this?” Mabel peered through the window.
Lily opened the door. She brushed some of the broken glass off the seat. “This is Charlie. We’re bringing him to the hospital.”
Lily’s mother considered the boy and his swollen face. “What happened to Charlie?”
“He lost his dog,” said Hawley.
The boy sighed and slid closer to the broken window. Mabel Ridge got in back next to him. Hawley took off his coat and tied it low around his waist, covering the blood on his pants.
“Why weren’t you here when I arrived?” Mabel asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“You said you were coming in at ten,” said Lily.
“I was always going to arrive at three o’clock,” said Mabel. “You probably didn’t write it down.”
“I did write it down.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes, then got onto the highway. The wind whipped through the car as they increased speed. The wheels hit a puddle on the far shoulder and a wave splashed the side of the car.
“Why don’t you shut the window?” Mabel Ridge said.
“It’s broken,” Lily said.
Their voices were similar. A musicality beneath the words that Hawley had always considered unique about Lily. As the women argued he watched and listened to them both. His wife seemed changed by her mother’s presence. Diminished, somehow. It made him wonder what kind of memories she was fighting off. And it made him feel protective, even though he knew Mabel Ridge had saved Lily from spinning down the drain.
He took the next exit. The wind in the car died as they slowed and stopped at a light. They were maybe twenty minutes out from the hospital. He kept glancing over at the clock on the dashboard, wishing the time to pass, but the numbers flashed 12:00, 12:00, like a record skipping, extending the moment, until Hawley felt as if the four of them had been trapped in the car forever.
“So.” Mabel Ridge took off her glasses and wiped them on her scarf. “I haven’t heard that much about you, Samuel Hawley.”
“I’ve heard about you,” said Hawley.
“I’m sure.” Mabel set an elbow on each of their headrests. “How did you two meet, again?”
“At a coffee shop,” said Lily.
“Really.”
“I told you before.”
“I must have forgotten,” said Mabel Ridge. “Like you forgot to invite me to your wedding.”
Hawley had met some tough broads over the years, but they were honed that way from rough living. Mabel was something else. Her hardness was built into her very foundation, and she rammed that hardness into others, like an oil tanker barreling through a fleet of rowboats. It made Hawley wonder about Lily’s father. From what he knew Gus was a real bum, but he must have had some balls to make love to a woman like Mabel Ridge.
“Mom,” said Lily.
“I deserved to be there. I deserve to know about your life. Don’t you think I deserve that?”