Читать книгу Another Song For Me - Jean Castaing - Страница 6

I stuck my head out the window to see what Grandpa was looking at. I didn’t know if it was the creature that had emerged from the woods, beating a path through the snow, or the freezing air that caused a sharp pain to shoot through my chest.

Grandpa let out a soft whistle. He reached into the bed of the truck and grabbed his shotgun.

“Grandpa! No!”

“Might need to get off a warning shot. It’ll turn tail.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and hopped out of the truck to get a better look. But by the time my feet hit the ground, I decided I had not made a wise choice. A crazy-looking man, waving his arms like windshield wipers staggered towards us. I pulled my jacket tight.

Grandpa narrowed his eyes and aimed his gun. He looked scared, which made me even more scared. Here we were: stuck beside a frozen field in the middle of nowhere, in a dead pickup, with a madman stumbling our way.

The man threw his arms straight up in the air. “Put that thing down, old man.” His voice echoed as if it were rising from a well. “I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he hollered and continued traipsing through the fresh snow.

“Dang fool looks like he’s doin’ a little dance,” Grandpa said, but waited to lower his gun until the man was practically on top of us.

When I looked at the pathetic sight that stood before me, every ounce of fright vanished. A black sweater cap, the kind that could make Einstein look stupid, sat at a cock-eyed angle on his head. Tangled strands of gray hair stuck to his reddened ears, and every finger on his right hand poked through his knitted glove. He was wrapped in a ratty long black coat with tarnished buttons pushed through the wrong holes. He was so skinny he looked like a walking clarinet. A worn out leather satchel hung over his shoulder. His grimy face was pretty much hidden by scraggy whiskers, so it was hard to tell how old he was, but he sure didn’t have wrinkles like Grandpa. He gave me a curious look, cleared his throat, then ran his hand across his mouth.

“All I want is a ride to town,” he said in a scratchy voice. “Been walking all night. Can’t believe they threw me off the train in this miserable weather. Pretty hungry.”

“Grandpa slapped the truck fender. What’s the matter with you fella? You think I’d be standing next to this heap if it was working?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Tell ya what. Let me have a look. If I fix it, you give me twenty bucks and a ride to town.”

“And if you don’t?”

He shrugged. “We freeze together.”

He dropped his satchel on the ground, stuck his head under the hood and thumped on everything he could reach until he straightened up and let out a disgusting, gargley cough. I flinched and got back in the truck.

He nodded at Grandpa. “Got a wrench?”

“Tool box is in the back.”

The man returned with a wrench the size of a sledgehammer and started pounding so hard I expected our truck to be reduced to a pile of bolts. I winced, thinking that come spring, a breaking news banner would flash, ‘Nightmare in Harriman. Three decomposed bodies discovered by local sheriff.”

Finally he hollered, “Get inside and turn her over.”

“Won’t do no good,” Grandpa said, but climbed in and turned the key. The motor started to grind then fizzled. I heard more bangs.

“Try her again. Give her some gas this time.”

Grandpa pushed the pedal to the floor. The pickup rattled again as black smoke belched from the tail pipe. I looked out to see if a fender had come loose. The grime-covered man, who stood out like a soot covered sculpture in the snowy field, slammed the hood shut, slapped his gloved hands together and blew out a frosty breath.

“Don’t know much about cars, do ya?” he said. “A hose came loose and the battery connections are crusted over. That’s why it wouldn’t start. But, I gotta tell ya, that engine looks like junkyard feed.”

“Junkyard feed my foot.” Grandpa grunted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

“Glad to be of service. Name’s Oil Can Henri. Worked at darn near every filling station up and down the Mississippi. Anyone around here need help? There’s nothing O.C. Henri can’t do.”

“Doubt it.” Grandpa chuckled. “Not everyone takes to roaming mechanics as easy as me.” He revved the motor. “Jump in the back. We’re goin’ fishin’ and I sure ain’t gonna turn around and drive you clear back to town. We’ll grab some coffee and doughnuts at the bait house.”

Oil Can scrunched his shoulders forward. His teeth chattered. “Guess it beats eating bait.” He shuffled through the snow and climbed into the truck bed.

I grabbed Grandpa’s hand. “You can’t make him ride back there. He’ll freeze to death. Is that a way to treat a man that saved our lives? Besides, it’s against the law. There aren’t any seat belts.”

“Now listen here, Maddie, just ‘cause some lunatic fixed my truck don’t make him okay, and it sure don’t make him your best friend. He ain’t sitting up front with us and that’s all there is to it.” Grandpa shook his head. “Never should have promised him a ride.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out a worn blanket. “Toss him this if it’ll make you feel better.”

I tucked the blanket under my arm and hurried back to Oil Can. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, one arm tucked under his head, the other hanging loose at his side. I climbed into the truck bed. “Here, Mr. Henri. This should keep you warm.” He didn’t answer. I tossed the blanket over him. He didn’t move. I jiggled his foot. “Mr. Henri.” He still didn’t move. But I jumped out of that truck faster than a grasshopper. “Grandpa,” I screamed. “He’s dead. Oil Can’s dead.”

Before I took two breaths, Grandpa was standing next to me. He didn’t remotely resemble the take-charge Layton Clayton I knew. “What are we gonna do?” I asked.

He scratched the back of his head, then climbed up next to Oil Can and moved his fingers around his wrist, all the while complaining how our fishing trip was blown.

“Check his pulse,” I said. “See if he’s dead.”

“What do you think I’m doing here? Holding hands with the guy?”

Grandpa unbuttoned Oil Can’s coat and sweaters then pressed his ear against his naked chest. “Heart’s still thumpin’. He ain’t a gonner yet. This dang fool better not croak in my truck.”

I climbed back into the truck, slipped my jacket under Oil Can’s head and covered him with the blanket. “Darn it, Grandpa. Why do you like to pretend you’re mean? He’s a nice man. And he must be pretty lonely. You’re making me sad.” I ran my hand across my cheek.

“Aw, no. Don’t start your cryin’. We don’t have time for cryin’. Hand me that satchel. He might have some pills in there he needs.”

I slid the satchel to Grandpa and he frantically started rummaging inside. He pulled out a harmonica, a mouth piece for a musical instrument, and a bunch of junk food wrappers. He reached in again. “Well lookie here. Prescription forms. Get moving, Maddie. You better hope we make it to the hospital on time.