“It’s what everyone calls people who aren’t from here. If you’re from away then your mom drops you off. The bus isn’t good enough for those kids.”
“I hope you’re not making fun of those kids, Joe.”
“No, Dad. Except for taking the bus, I am one of those kids.”
“Do the other kids make fun of you?”
“I’m friends with Lee. Nobody makes fun of Lee’s friends.”
“Okay,” Alan said as the bus pulled to a stop.
“Bye, Dad.”
Alan waited for the bus to pull away before he turned the green truck around. He pulled into the barn and left wet tire tracks on the packed-dirt floor. Rain splashed from the door as he shut it behind himself. Alan wondered if the Colonel had ever taken the green truck out in the rain. He glanced around the solid posts that held up the barn and wondered if somewhere there was a towel labeled “truck rag,” hanging from one of them.
He returned to his shed. In the little alcove near the door, Alan had set up his operating room. He had the big sheet laid out and all the outboard motor parts arranged again. He replaced them with the new parts from the kit. In a special place on top of a bench, the binder was open to the section describing the rebuild process. Alan was working on the third step. He was supposed to guarantee the flatness of the cylinder head assembly. A big sheet of glass was his reference surface and he worked the metal across a sheet of sandpaper to try to bring it back to flat.
“I think that’s pretty good,” Alan said, checking the metal against a flat bar of metal.
Alan moved to step four.
The process itself wasn’t difficult or even very time-consuming, but the manual assumed a level of expertise that Alan didn’t posses. Each step and sub step required Alan to retreat to online videos and further research before he could fully understand what was expected of him. He scanned ahead. The next few steps looked easy.
Alan turned on the radio and zoned out. Now that everything was cleaned and prepared, the assembly progressed quickly. His array of parts on the sheet evaporated and the engine came together. As he waited for the gasket sealant to dry, Alan had a brainstorm. He put on his slicker and rolled the big plastic trash can out to the driveway under the shed’s gutter. All the rain collected from the shed’s gutter pounded into the can. Alan went back into the shed and mounted some scrap wood to the handles of his dolly.
His stomach and the clock agreed—it was lunch time. Alan only had one more big step. He had to torque the nuts for the cylinder. He walked in a circle around the engine as he thought. He could guess at the torque, but that wasn’t the right thing to do. He didn’t have any feel for how tight those nuts should be, and he suspected they all wanted to be approximately the same tightness for the engine to work properly. He could go into town and buy a torque wrench. It seemed like a silly expense for one minor job. For a fraction of a second he considered trucking the whole thing over to Roger Clough’s shop to have him torque the bolts. He laughed the thought away as it formed.
Alan’s eyes stopped on a little metal box sitting on the rail of the wall’s framing. It was roughly the same color as the unfinished wood. It must have been overlooked by whatever cousin had made off with the Colonel’s tools, Alan figured as he pulled it down to his bench. He flipped the clasp and looked at a long socket wrench. One end had a dial, marked in foot-pounds.
“Dumb fucking luck,” Alan whispered. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see a laughing prankster, waiting for his reaction.
Alan fitted his extension and socket on the wrench and set the proper torque. In a few minutes, the engine was done. He snapped the cover back on and plucked a dirty rag from his bench. He folded it over to a clean spot and wiped the word “piston” from the cover.
He checked on his trash can. It had only collected about six inches of water—not nearly enough. Alan wheeled it back into the shed and then ran back out for the hose. He let the trash can fill with water as he mixed up some fresh gas and gave the outboard engine a little sip. He parked the dolly under the trash can and then wrestled the engine into place. This was another trick he’d picked up from an online video. Your outboard engine needed the water to cool itself, but it was much easier to test it in a trash can at the house than drag it all the way down to the lake.
Alan filled the trash can up above the engine’s inlet and then crossed his fingers. The cord was tough to pull with the outboard mounted on a dolly. On his first couple pulls, the whole thing threatened to spill over. Alan popped the cover and gave the carb a shot of ether. He was about to put the lid back when he noticed his rookie mistake—he hadn’t connected the plug wires. Alan smirked and seated the caps.
His next pull was magic.
The engine only ran for a second, but the puffs of blue smoke and coughing sputters made Alan beam. He set the choke to half and pulled again. The engine buzzed to life. In the trash can the water bubbled noisily and some sloshed out onto the shed floor.
Silently, Alan shot his arms up into a V and lowered his head. He was smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. He goosed the throttle, putting the engine in gear. That experiment was short-lived. The water splashed and the dolly started to tip. Alan had to kill the engine to keep the thing upright. He put it back in neutral and started it again with one pull. He let the engine run and danced around the shed, putting away his tools.
As he shut the engine off, Alan said, “There you go, Colonel. I fixed your damn piston.”
With the noise of the engine gone, Alan heard the phone ringing inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
Joe
ALAN DROVE THE LITTLE Toyota out to the school. After they met with the Vice Principal—the man in charge of kicking ass and taking names, apparently—Joe followed Alan back through the parking lot. The boy had his book bag clutched to his chest.
“Get in back,” Alan said as Joe reached for the passenger’s door.
“But I ride in front in the truck,” Joe said.
“You ride in front because the truck doesn’t have a back seat,” Alan said. He didn’t like the way his own voice sounded—clipped and angry—but he couldn’t help it. His voice was an accurate reflection of the way he felt.
Joe got in the back seat and closed the door softly.
After slamming his own door, Alan spun in his seat.
“You care to explain to me exactly what just happened in there?” Alan asked. He felt the blood rushing to his forehead and ears. He saw his own rage reflected in Joe’s wide eyes.
“I told you,” Joe said. His voice was pitched up from his normal tone.
“Look at me,” Alan said. “Don’t tell me it was an accident again. They have cameras in the stairwell, Joe. I saw the video.”
Joe was looking straight down. Alan saw fat tears dropping onto his shirt. Alan started the car and backed out of his parking spot.
“You’re lucky they didn’t expel you,” Alan said as he took a left at the stop sign. His right foot wanted to slam the pedal to the floor, but they were driving through Kingston Depot where the speed limit was twenty-five. They passed between old houses. Some were converted into small shops and some were divided up into apartments. Alan didn’t like these houses. They’d been built as proud residences for big families, but now they’d been rolled through the dirt and gnawed to the core. They looked used up and forgotten. He’d almost rather see them plowed under and replaced with prefab houses with no history. At least a clean start would erase the years of neglect these old buildings showed.
The Toyota bumped over the railroad tracks.
Alan took a right. He made short work of the rest of the trip. The car dragged to a halt on the dirt floor of the barn.