Morgan obliges.
“There. Now you’ve got my number.”
“Great,” Morgan says. “I thought maybe you’d had a change of heart and thrown me over.”
“To be honest, I did, but maybe that was a mistake. I seem to be making a ton of those lately. Does that matter?”
“Not really.”
Lacy turns back. “Dad!O.C.Zoe!”
“I want to see you, but just as friends. Until I figure some stuff out.”
“Whatever you need,” Morgan says, and then he’s gone, feetpounding the pavement, his keys jangling a merry tune from his belt loop. Ahead, in the patchy darkness, Lacy laughs, easy and ephemeral. Cece stays in the street until they turn to shadow, and then she continues toward the river, thinking about how absurd and farcical life can be in spite of itself.
11
When Santiago pulls into the gravel lot for work on Tuesday morning at Rayburn Oyster Company, Cece is there, seated on the rear bumper of her car, rubber waders on, hair tucked under a baseball cap. Before he can turn off his truck, she’s standing, gloved hands on her hips, eyes shaded by sunglasses. Santiago pretends to look for something in his console—probably toying with the loose coins and candy bar wrappers. Cece watches him intently. He grumbles under his breath, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and steps out.
Cece puts herself in front of him. She doesn’t want to walk and talk. This is too important. Insist on yourself!
“I figured you’d quit when you didn’t show up yesterday,” he says.
“I had some business to take care of, but I’m here now.”
Santiago leans and spits. “I don’t think that’s how this whole employment thing works, but you can explain yourself to Richie. He’s stopping by later this afternoon to check out the grader. The one you broke, remember?”
Cece turns on her heels and strides to the warehouse without another word. She waits until Santiago heads out on the boat before enacting her plan. If successful, maybe she can garner a modicum of respect from Santiago and keep her job. And if she fails? She fails. It’s not like she can fall any further.
Gathering what she thinks are the necessary tools, Cece approaches the broken oyster grader with baseless optimism. Santiago’s wrapped it in caution tape, just in case there was any doubt about its functionality. After some searching, she locates a sticker, faded and peeling, with a customer service number. It takes a few guesses before she gets someone. On the other end, a youthful-sounding representative from Sorting Solutions Inc. named Brian. The morning heat is already palpable, and sweat pops and runs as Cece explains her situation. And while Brian sounds sympathetic, he reminds Cece that his job is only to order replacement parts and schedule maintenance.
“But you must know how these things work, right?” Cece says, undeterred. “I don’t have time to wait for a technician to come out and fix this thing. Surely you can walk me through some troubleshooting steps.”
“I have a general understanding of the products we sell, but I really don’t think I should be helping you. I’m not a certified tech. I’m just the guy who answers the phone.”
Cece yanks off the fluttering tape and stuffs it in her pocket. “The thing is, Brian, I need to fix this grader before my boss gets here, and if I don’t, I’ll be out of a job.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, but Brian hasn’t hung up. She can hear him thinking, mulling over her plight.
“Just give me fifteen minutes of your time,” she continues.“And if I can’t fix it, you’ll never hear from me again. If I break it, that’s on me. I won’t mention I called you guys.”
More silence and hesitation, the distant drone of an office air conditioner. Cece holds her breath.
“Is the grader disconnected from the power source?”
Cece wants to shout with glee and profess her immeasurable gratitude to Brian, but she controls herself. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Brian says cautiously, like he’s worried someone might be listening. “I can walk you through a few things.”
Cece explains what had happened when the grader broke. The grinding noise, the rollers coming loose.
“Sounds like a drive chain issue.”
“Okay, so what am I looking for?”
Without being able to show Brian what she’s seeing, the going is slow, and Cece knows she’s way out of her depth, but she’s already gone too far, caught in the current. There’s no going back. She successfully identifies the drive and elevator chains, and conveyor belts. They work backward. Process of elimination. Cece’s hands are slick with grease, but she doesn’t care, checking for bent or corroded teeth, debris, too much slack, too much tension. “It’s just like a bike chain,” Brian says over speakerphone. “Look for anything that would stop it from moving smoothly.”
At the sound of a boat motor, Cece’s eyes dart out to the water, but it isn’t Santiago. She’s still got time. “If it’s the gearbox,” Brian is saying, “you’re out of luck. I’m not messing with anything electrical.”
