Distribution Ch. 11

"We haven't...Gordon hasn't...we...actually...he doesn't know how you let a lucrative opportunity slip through your fingers yet."

Several questions swirled in my head, like tumbleweeds in a windstorm. 'Is Mr. McMahan good in bed? Are you a screamer? Does his mother interfere when you become noisy?' Instead, I stopped short of calling her and Mr. McMahan freeloaders.

"Don't change the subject. You've put me in bad light with the friends of the library by not making a distribution this week."

"Do the friends know that you haven't attended a meeting for weeks?"

Miss Dickens left abruptly, reminding me that I was about to be sued for incompetence on her way out the door.

I was tempted to drive over to Beach Street and watch Gordon McMahan, the flagman, direct traffic, but I picked up the ringing telephone and took calls for the next three hours. I told the callers that there were very few possessions of Mackey and Elsie left, and that I would place an ad in the paper sometime after Thanksgiving.

On Saturday, I wanted to talk to friends and family. I called everyone I knew, almost. The kids were excited about having a few days off from school. I avoided telling them that I was coming home, wanting my short visit to be a surprise. I did tell Henrietta that I was planning to make the trip. She cautioned me to drive safely and said that she was looking forward to seeing me. I warned my parents not to expect a check in the mail. They were obviously disappointed, but accepted my decision.

The one person I wanted to speak with the most was unreachable. Paige's mother told me that she was out.

"Is there a message you want me to pass on, Brian?" Mrs. Peoples asked.

"Just that I'm enjoying the dinners she put in the freezer for me," I said.

On Sunday, I busied myself by packing my bags for my trip home. Later, I drove to the water and walked along the deserted beaches. The water was choppy, and clouds in the sky made me think a storm was coming in. I must have walked a mile before returning to my truck.

Back at the house, the phone wouldn't stop ringing. I let it ring, becoming engrossed with the articles Mackey had written since his retirement. There were notes attached to the folders in Mackey's handwriting, indicating which newspaper had published the article or which paper had rejected it. I read the ones that had been rejected, trying to discern the reason for rejection. Mackey's writing was loaded with humor.

At dusk, I closed the file cabinet drawer and went downstairs to see what I could find to eat, only to be startled by the ringing phone.

"Hello," I said without trying to hide the irritation in my voice.

"It's me."

Those two words told me everything. They asked if I was okay. They said that she was sorry. There was need and caring in those two words. She didn't need to say more. I didn't answer. The sound of my breathing would tell her that I was waiting anxiously for what was to follow.

"I wanted to...I want to wish you a safe trip. When will you be coming back?"

"There's no rush. Not much is happening here until the middle of December. That's when the barn guy said he will be ready to start the job. I thought I would come back the middle of next week to make sure the high bidder for the Oldsmobile gets his car out of the barn."

"If you do...I mean...if you come back next week, will it be all right if...I mean, if you don't mind...I was thinking of coming for the weekend...you know...to do my part...and..."

"I'll be back by Wednesday, if not before," I said, cutting her off.

"I've been thinking, and there are some things we need to talk about."

"I'd like that. Will you come on Friday?"

"That's what I'm planning...I mean...if you're sure it's okay?"

I assured her that I would be waiting for her call and she hung up without saying more. I didn't get a chance to tell her about Miss Dickens' visit and her vow to sue me for incompetence. It didn't seem that important at that moment.

Paige was coming for the weekend. She would be here next Friday and I was walking on air until Monday morning when the phone rang.

"Mr. Driver, this is Matthew Dawkins."

Matthew Dawkins was the contractor who had been recommended by the lady from the historical society. Mrs. Avery had practically insisted that I use him to square up the barn.

"Yes Sir."

"We've had a change in schedule. We'll set up on Friday and start the job on Monday. Is everything out of the barn?"

"Friday? You'll be here the day after Thanksgiving?"

"That's correct. Are those cars out of the barn?"

"Ah, the Studebaker is gone. The Oldsmobile will be out before you get here. Everything else is cleared out."

"Are you sure? I don't want to park the equipment there on Friday and find out one of those cars is still in the barn."

Squaring up the barn was the only thing standing in the way of putting the property on the market, and Matthew Dawkins was the only man who could make that happen.

"The Oldsmobile will be out before you get here. This means the job will be finished by what, mid-December?"

"I estimated three weeks for the job, but don't put words in my mouth. It may take longer. It sure as hell won't take less time. We never know what we'll run into with these old structures."

I assured him that everything in the barn would be cleared out before Friday and Matthew Dawkins said he would be there before noon.

"Shit!" I said to myself as I dialed the number of the man who had placed the high bid for the antique Oldsmobile. In a way, this was the break I'd been looking for. If the construction was completed early it meant that I could leave. Still, Paige was coming for the weekend. Did that mean she'd continue to spend weekends with me? I was torn.

An answering machine informed me that his business would open at eight o'clock. That's when I remembered that it was still early on the west coast.

Mr. Avila was some sort of electronics tycoon. His check had cleared, but he was taking his time picking up his purchase. I would need to light a fire under him. He returned my call a few minutes after eleven. I explained the situation and he explained his situation. He had been unable to locate the wheels and tires that would fit the car.

I bluffed, offering to return his check, saying that I would contact the bidder who had come in second. Mr. Avila reminded me that I'd told him that he had until mid-December to take possession of his purchase. He threatened to sue the estate if the car was not there when he got good and ready to pick it up.

I appealed to his family instincts.

"Mr. Avila, it's been months since I've seen my family and now it looks like I won't make it home for Thanksgiving. They're expecting me. What do I tell a nine year old girl and a six year old boy?"

"Send them plane tickets. Have your wife bring them there for the holiday."

"I don't have a wife. Their mother died three years ago."

Silence on the line told me he must be thinking. "Find me four tires and wheels. Let me know when they're on the car. I'll be there in six hours after you call. Have a flatbed truck waiting when I get there," he offered.

I took that as his way of saying he was sorry for my loss. I wanted to do something to repay him. "Mr. Avila, I'll ship the car to you."

I'd only met the man the one time when he came to inspect the car and place his bid. I didn't like his abrupt personality, but I respected his achievements. "Mr. Driver, I'll take your word that your wife died three years ago, but it's imperative that I see that car loaded on the truck with my own eyes."

I got his cell and home numbers so I could reach him the minute I had the tires on the car and we said goodbye.

Now, all I had to do was find four tires for a nineteen-thirty-nine Oldsmobile, have them delivered and put them on the car. At least I'd been spared from having to tell Amanda and Phillip that I would not be home for Thanksgiving.