The Highway Kind(77)

Houston was on the other side of the house on a sixteen-footer, scraping. He was scared of heights and wouldn’t go any higher. He kept in the shade and worked steadily until Eddie came into view.

“It’s five thirty,” Eddie yelled. “Let’s call it.”

Houston nodded and came down. They locked the four ladders together and left them next to the house. They swept the old caulk and paint chips from the tarps, folded them, and set their tools in the garage. They both had cigarettes in their mouths when they walked from the house. In front of the work van Eddie took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to Houston.

Houston had been paid in increments for three years. Twenty dollars a day four days a week, and eighty dollars on Fridays. Once a month they’d stop by the post office and Eddie would buy money orders for Houston’s phone bill, electric bill, gas bill, and rent. He’d put them in envelopes and mail them off. Their next stop was the bank, where Houston put the rest of his money in a safe-deposit box. A box he could get to only on business days during office hours.

They had worked together for nine years with only two major lapses. The first was when Houston’s mother died and he traveled back to Wyoming to clean out her apartment. He told Eddie he would be gone a week and then went missing for five months. When he came back he was drinking a fifth a day and living in his car. The second time he just quit showing up. He didn’t answer his phone and wouldn’t answer his door. He fell into a three-month-long drunk and ended up losing his place and his car and living on the street. When Eddie finally found him, he was holed up near the river in an old camping tent. He let Houston live in his basement, got him back on his feet, and gave him startup money for an apartment.

Houston bummed another cigarette, got in his car, and left. Eddie finished his and walked down the two streets to the Le Mans. The car sat covered in dust and there was a large dent in the front right panel above the wheel well. The paint was faded and oxidized. A half a dozen spider cracks appeared along both sides of the car where bad Bondo patches had been attempted. The rims were cheap, aftermarket, and two of the tires were flat. The top wasn’t vinyl but metal painted white. It was oxidized also. He figured it to be a ’68 or ’69.

He took a small spiral notepad from his back pocket and wrote, I’d be interested in buying this car. I have cash. Eddie Wilkens. He left his number, put the note under the windshield wiper, walked back to his van, and drove home.


In the carport he found the kid, Russell, waiting on a lawn chair near the back door. The boy was eleven but looked much younger. He was small, had brown hair, and his ears were too big for his head, and even at that age he was getting picked on at school. He wore jeans, a red T-shirt, and black tennis shoes. He lived in the house next door with his grandmother, mother, and older half brother, Curtis.

“Where did you work today?” he asked timidly.

“We’re on the new job now,” said Eddie and opened the back door to his house. He yelled for Early, and an old black mutt got down from the couch and hobbled outside.

Russell went to the dog and began to pet it. “You’re done with the lady who had the orange fish?”

“We finished that on Friday.”

“Did she like the paint job?”

Eddie said, “Yep. She paid us and made us those cookies I gave you. Remember?”

The boy kept petting the dog. He nodded. “I remember now. So you don’t have any brushes for me to clean?”

“Not today,” said Eddie. “We’re scraping all week.”

“That’s the worst part of the job, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Did you eat dinner before you got home?”

“No,” Eddie said. “Your mom’s not around?”

Russell shook his head.

“What about your grandma?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Let me look at you,” said Eddie.

Russell smiled suddenly and stood up.

“Yep, I was right,” he said. “You look hungry.”

Russell laughed. “That’s what Monica used to say.”

Eddie nodded.

“Monica’s not coming back?”

“I don’t think so,” said Eddie.

“Why?”

“It’s a long story,” Eddie said and bent down and put his hand on the dog. “I know she misses you, though. She told me that the last time I talked to her. Anyway, you want something to eat?”

“I’m hungry if you’re hungry,” said the boy.

Eddie reached into his shirt pocket, took a cigarette from the pack, and lit it. “Get your bike and tell your grandma you’re going to the store. I’ll make a list. You go shopping and I’ll cook. Deal?”

The boy nodded and went back through the gate. He returned five minutes later pushing a bike with two flat tires. He leaned it against the house, opened Eddie’s back door, and walked up the steps into the kitchen. “I think Curtis let the air out of the tires...I can’t find the pump,” he said softly. His face was red and wet with tears.

Eddie took a drink of beer. “Why would he let the air out of your tires?”

“I don’t know,” Russell replied.

Eddie finished the grocery list, put out his cigarette, and stood up. “We’ll use the compressor in the garage. And remember, you can always leave your bike here if you want to protect it.” He handed the boy the list, forty dollars, and the old backpack he had Russell use to carry the groceries in. They went outside; Eddie unlocked the garage, turned on the compressor, and filled the bike tires.