The animals stayed, since the asphalt was hot. Heat caused more pain than bitter cold. They did move to the rear of the back to watch as Reverend Jones and Harry—one carrying a large garbage bag, the other a carton—approached the 1994 Chevy half-ton.
Herb had brought his extra key. He unlocked the driver’s door, then walked around to unlock the passenger door. “Shouldn’t be too much work.”
It wasn’t. Harry removed his gloves, maps, a small air-pressure gauge from the compartment on the driver’s door.
Reverend Jones opened the glove compartment to take out papers, leaving the manual behind. He put the extra key in there. His good sunglasses greeted him. “Ah, thought they might be here.”
“You lose more gloves and glasses.”
“Doesn’t everyone? Why do you think children’s mittens are attached to their coat sleeves?”
“Got a point there, Reverend.”
Within fifteen minutes, they’d cleaned out both the debris and the more-useful items. Harry, alert per usual, pulled down the visors, removing a few papers and one bright goldfinch feather. She held it up, the light hitting the brilliant yellow edged in deep black.
“Ah.” Herb took it from her fingers.
“Think he killed it?” Pewter asked, eyeing the reverend. Was he a bird killer?
Tucker replied, “He can’t even kill a cockroach. He found it on the ground.”
“Maybe Cazenovia killed it.” Pewter grinned, ever hopeful for avian murder.
“Possible.” Mrs. Murphy nodded. “What could he have left in the engine?”
Harry, leaning into the engine, was carefully studying the old but good V8. For decades, General Motors had manufactured sturdy, long-lasting truck engines. In the old days, the rap on the GM truck motors was they were more complicated to fix. You had to pull out the Chevy engine, because things were hard to get to. The Fords proved less difficult; hence, the service bills were lower. That, however, had changed toward the end of the twentieth century. With today’s computer readouts, all any mechanic had to do was hook up to the mobile unit. Ninety-nine percent of the time, a precise diagnosis made the task of repairing the fault much easier and the engine no longer needed to be removed to identify the malfunction. That one percent of the time when it did was when a garage needed someone’s special talents, like the late Walt Richardson’s feel for an engine.
Harry lacked that feel, but she possessed mechanical sense and some real ability.
“Dead?” Reverend Jones sighed.
“The engine? No. It’s your radiator that’s done for. Let’s take your stuff back to the Volvo. I brought my toolbox. All I want to do is lift out this radiator.”
“Why?”
“Won’t take long. I’m curious as to what’s behind the radiator. I can’t see that anything has pierced it from the front. It’s rare, but a part can dislodge or something could be stuck behind the radiator. A radiator is easy to pierce compared to an engine. The radiator is exposed. Your pistons are not.”
Reverend Jones didn’t give a fig about the radiator, but he assented.
Within minutes Harry was half in, half out of the engine. Standing on a broken concrete block she’d found, she had unbolted the radiator. Lifting it up, she put it on the ground. Then she checked the bolt holes. Next she examined the radiator. Didn’t look smashed.
Jason Brundige had seen her from the garage, its bay open for the cooling breeze. He hadn’t been informed by Kyle that Reverend Jones and Harry would be cleaning out the truck.
He placed his large screwdriver on his toolbox and strode out purposefully.
Sammy Collona observed this. Went back to work.
Jason walked up to Harry. “What in the hell are you doing?”
“We cleaned out Reverend Jones’s truck.”
“What’s that got to do with the radiator?”
Herb, ever the gentleman, came to Harry’s rescue. “I informed Kyle that I had left personal items in the truck and told him when we’d be here.”
“Like I said to her, what’s the radiator got to do with it? I put that radiator in your truck two years ago.” A note of defensiveness crept into Jason’s now-too-loud voice.
Sammy, hearing this, hurried inside to Victor’s office. Fortunately, it was a day when Victor was in the Charlottesville shop.
“I’ll take care of this.” Victor dismissed a now-worried Sammy and quickly walked back to the parking lot. “Apart from his mouth”—he indicated Jason—“is everything all right?” Victor apologized to Reverend Jones and Harry.
“Fine. I didn’t mean to cause upset.” Reverend Jones’s voice soothed.
“I know that. Jason’s a watchdog type and everyone’s a little edgy.” Victor glanced at the radiator on the ground. “You’re not taking that, are you?” He laughed.
“No.” Harry took a step toward him. “My curiosity got the better of me. It’s a two-year-old radiator, so I just wanted to look it over. Looks okay, but I’d need to study it better.”
Victor knelt down. “It does look okay. Well, I’m sorry for your inconvenience, Reverend Jones. Latigo told me he wrote this off as totaled so you might be able to buy a newer truck. Good as these old babies are, this one’s been hard used.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I really did seem to get under Jason’s skin.”
“No apologies necessary.” Victor stood up. “Reverend, tell me what you buy. CarMax down in Richmond has very good deals on used cars and the histories of every vehicle. Now, if you want a new truck, there are a lot of choices right here in Charlottesville.”
“Yes, there are. I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Victor walked back, stopped in the garage. “Jason, don’t ever embarrass me like that in front of Reverend Jones.”
“How was I to know?” he moaned. “She’s a nosy bitch. She’ll cause trouble.”
“First of all, Harry Haristeen is not a bitch. Nosy, she is. Causing trouble?” He shrugged. “I hope not, but she’s one of those people who can’t leave well enough alone once her curiosity is triggered.”
“Right,” Jason mumbled as Sammy looked on.
Victor returned to the front of the building.
Sammy said, “Jason, all you did was call attention to the damned radiator. That was pretty stupid.”
After the cold front passed through over the weekend, everyone enjoyed the perfect weather. But then on Monday, the heat shot back up. The stifling temperature and the close, humid air dispirited one and all.
Harry, bush hogging on her repaired tractor, stopped in the middle of the large pasture behind the crops, the smell of the new-cut hay field filling her nostrils. Cursing herself for saving the big pastures for later, she turned off the motor, stepped down—hand on what she always called the “Jesus bar”—and swung to the earth. Her soaked T-shirt clung to her. She might have won a wet-T-shirt contest, although Harry’s mind never worked that way. If someone else brought it up she might make a crack about it, indulge in a little sexual innuendo, but she wasn’t a person who thought a lot about erotic things. It’s doubtful she would have been different if born male. “Tunnel vision” best described her way of seeing her day.
Focusing now, she lifted off a long polo whip that she affixed by the tractor seat with two welded small “U”s. She’d slip the whip through them and secure it with rawhide.
The cats sat high in the hayloft. The upper hayloft doors were open, as were all the downstairs doors and every stall door, just in hopes of catching the hint of a breeze. They watched as Harry walked through the mid-thigh orchard grass, with white clover underneath.