This is a good kitchen. There’s enough space for two people to move comfortably around each other. A tiny circular table is tucked next to the sliding glass door. Cabinets the color of the sky just before a rain draws the eye toward the massive farmhouse sink set under a big, bright window. If I ever have enough money to buy a house for my mom, that isexactlythe sink I’d put in her kitchen.
“I love your sink,” I say when the old man returns with a cordless phone in his hand.
He sends a critical eye to the sink and huffs. “My wife did too. She was more excited ’bout that damn sink thanany gift I ever got her. Think she might have been more excited ’bout that sink than our kid getting into Brown.”
He hands over the cordless phone, and I thank him. I put the hatchet down on the table, careful not to scratch the surface, then sit. His back is to me as he fiddles around on the other side of the kitchen. Ripley stays standing next to me, her side pressed to my leg, her tail loose, and her eyes on the man. She’s like me: initially suspicious, but generally friendly once she’s had a chance to warm up to new company.
My phone’s screen is dark when I fish it out of my pocket. It can’t be dead, can it? The battery was full the last time I looked at it. It flashes when I restart it, then goes black again. Two more tries give the same results.
“Everything alright?” He sets a glass of ice water on the table, and a bowl on the floor for Ripley, then backs away to lean against the counter.
There’s a water stain on his ceiling. I squint at it, then squint at the phone in my hand. This is starting to feel like a bad horror movie.
“My phone isn’t working. The only number I have memorized is my mom’s, but she’s sick and… I can’t call her.” Knuckling my eyes doesn’t take away the gritty feeling. I’ve been meaning to memorize Emma’s for the last few years. I just… haven’t.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lou.”
“’M Clarence.” He pulls out the seat opposite and sits. “I could look up triple-A’s number. Like you said, I doubt theycome all the way out here. Might be better off with the local mechanic in that case. I got his number in my Rolodex.”
“Not sure a mechanic can fix my problem…” I trail off, extremely aware of coming off hysterical or paranoid, and settle on just facts. “I think maybe, I mean I’m not sure, but… I think someone drilled a hole in my gas tank.”
Clarence clicks his tongue. “Well, no. A mechanic wouldn’t be able to help you with that problem. The sheriff, now. That might be an option.”
The idea of talking to a cop with Ripley by my side makes my skin crawl.
Growing up in trailer parks inhabited by people who are very, very poor and almost always marginalized in one way or several has instilled within me a healthy fear of, and deep anger at, the police. Being in a crisis where I am afraid and Ripley is stressed and there’s a cop in front of us who’s probably in fear for his life for no good reason at all seems like a terrible idea.
I nod anyway. It’s the only option that might not result in Emma yelling at me. And honestly, what else am I supposed to do? This is what they’re supposed to befor, right? Maybe having Clarence with us will be enough of a shield to keep the situation from escalating.
Clarence gets up to retrieve a much-creased copy of the local yellow pages. He flips to the page with the sheriff’s number and turns it to face me. “You want to dial them? No speaker on this phone.”
I smile. I can’t help it. Clarence raises his bushy eyebrows in question.
“Felt pretty stupid not knocking on that house down the road. I’m glad I didn’t.”
He makes a face like he sucked a lemon. “I got no idea who woulda opened it. It’s a rental. People comin’ and goin’ all the goddamn time.”
I tell him he can dial, then listen as he speaks to someone about getting Sheriff Cory on the line, then to him breathing while he waits. Ripley finally relaxes enough to flop down on her side. She jerks her legs at me until I scratch at the soft skin of her belly.
Clarence hangs up and frowns out the sliding glass doors. “He’ll be down in thirty, an hour tops.”
“Anhour?”
“That’s what he said. Never met a man of the law that I liked, but this one is something special. Even his daddy was better, and he had a mind like a bucket of rocks.” He fixes me a look, his eyebrows drawn down. “You want me to drive you up there so you don’t have to wait?”
“Maybe?” I knuckle my eyes. “I didn’t really want to talk to the cops in the first place. Do you have Wi-Fi? I could use your computer to message my friend?”
He shakes his head and pulls an actual flip phone out of his pocket. “No Internet out here. If I need it, I go to the library. They got computers you can use. I could take you there.”
I hesitate. I don’t know which is the right choice.
Clarence regards me. “How ’bout this. You lemme see if I got a charger for that phone. If I do, you plug it in, get your friend’s number, and then you make a decision. If Idon’t got a charger or your phone don’t work, I drive you up to the library.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”
Clarence rises from the table like a creaky doll unwinding its parts. When he comes back, he has three different charging cables and a USB port in his hands.
