So Long, Chester Wheeler(22)

Chapter Seven:




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Scrape Them

I woke again and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling for a time, thinking. Then I grabbed my phone off the bedside table and called Ellie.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said back.

We had grown surprisingly comfortable with each other.

“So, look,” I began. Then I stalled, and did not immediately tell her what it was we’d be looking at. “I’m not saying I’m actually going to do it. I’m not committing to any of this. So don’t hold me to it. I’m just asking. Let’s say, just for the sake of conversation, that I did agree to drive him to Arizona. What would we be driving? I hate to put that kind of miles on my car. Does he have a dependable car?”

“Oh,” she said, obviously surprised. “I didn’t realize you were even thinking about that. It’s kind of you to even consider it.”

“I can’t really justify why a road trip would be any worse than just sitting in that musty house with him, doing nothing.”

“I guess that’s true,” she said. “I would imagine you’d be taking his Winnebago.”

“Chester has a Winnebago? Where?”

“He stores it somewhere, but I don’t know exactly where. He’d have to tell you that.”

“Is it roadworthy?”

“I think so. I know he took meticulous care of it. Better than he took of his family, believe me. But I think it’s at least twelve years old.”

“I guess we could have a mechanic look it over and offer an opinion. Who would be paying for all that gas?”

“I’d cover your expenses.”

“Interesting. I guess I’ll have to think about that.”

“It’s kind of you,” she said.

“But I don’t know for a fact that I’ll do it.”

“It’s kind of you to even consider doing it.”

“Well,” I said. “It is a man’s dying wish. I’m not really sure how you say no to a man’s dying wish.”

“Think it over and let me know what you decide.”

I agreed that I would, then clicked off the call.

I rose, dressed, and walked over to Chester’s house, even though it was earlier than I needed to be there. I knew if I did, I could leave work early that evening, which already sounded appealing.

I stuck my head into his bedroom.

He was lying on his back in bed, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He had a look on his face . . . I’m not sure how to describe it. Almost like someone who didn’t hate everybody and everything on the planet.

He turned to look at me, and he smiled. And not a smile pasted on over stress and hatred, like the last one. An actual, genuine smile.

“I underestimated you, Lewis,” he said.

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m happy because you’re going to take me to Arizona.”

“I never said I was going to take you to Arizona.”

“You said you were thinking about it.”

“When did I say that?”

“Just a minute or two ago.”

The realization came upon me slowly, accompanied by a sickening dread.

“Oh no,” I said. “Oh crap. I’m supposed to be able to set that intercom so I can hear you but you can’t hear me.”

“Good luck with that,” he said. “You haven’t got it right yet.”

“Well, if you heard me, then you heard me say I haven’t decided.”

“But you’ll decide to do it. I know you will. Because it’s the last wish of a dying man, and you don’t know how to say no to the last wish of a dying man.”

“You know what’s interesting?” I asked him. “It’s interesting how you’ve caught on that I’m a decent human being, and you have no qualms about using that against me.”

“Whatever gets me to Arizona,” Chester said.



I stood in the dirt parking lot of what appeared to be an auto body shop—or maybe a wrecking yard—about fifteen miles outside of town. It appeared deserted, and I was waiting for someone to notice I was there.

Chester was still in the passenger seat of my car, which was idling behind me, out of my field of view. Getting him in there had not been easy. Believe it.

The horn of my own car blared, causing me to jump.

I spun around to see that Chester had leaned over and was doing the honking.

“Stop that!” I shouted. “Try to behave for a minute.”

I turned back and found myself face to face with a guy named Marshall. I knew his name was Marshall because it said so over the breast pocket of his work shirt. My life hadn’t used to be filled with guys whose names were sewn onto their shirts. Clearly my life had changed.

“Oh,” I said. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said in return. He had short black hair, and he was wiping his hands on a blue shop rag. He looked past me to my car and waved at its inhabitant. “You a friend of Chester’s?”

“‘Friend’ is a strong word,” I said.

And he laughed.

He seemed young to own a place like that. I took him to be in his thirties. Maybe it was his father’s place. Or maybe he just went after what he wanted young in life. Or maybe I just tended to spend too much time trying to dissect details like that when they clearly didn’t matter anyway. How did I even know he owned that business? I didn’t. He was just “walking around like he owned the place,” which was a thought out of context, because I hadn’t even seen him walk yet.