Chapter 6: Shadows on the Wall
By Tuesday morning, the frost Clara had warned about had painted the gravel outside the garage a brilliant, biting white. The breath plumed white in the air as I rolled the heavy bay doors open an inch to let the draft clear out the overnight fumes from the kerosene heater I’d left running for Sarah and Leo.
Sarah was sleeping on the narrow cot in the back office now, wrapped in two wool blankets and my old riding jacket. Her breathing sounded clearer, but the pale, waxy tint of her skin hadn't faded. She was burning out like an old candle left in a drafty room, and we both knew it, even if neither of us was brave enough to say the words out loud.
Leo was sitting at the wooden workbench again, using a small brass wire brush to scrub the rust off an old rocker arm I’d pulled out of a junk box. He had my leather work gloves back on, the thick fingers flapping awkwardly as he dragged the bristles back and forth with fierce, serious dedication.
"Easy," I said, setting a steaming mug of black coffee down on the corner of the bench. "You're cleaning it, not killing it."
Leo looked up, grinning around the edge of the oversized cuff. "I'm helping."
"Yeah, you're helping," I muttered, grabbing a rag to wipe the heavy oil off my own knuckles.
Before I could pick up my wrench, the soft crunch of tires on the frosted gravel announced Clara’s Buick. She didn't bother honking; she just cut the engine and stepped out, her breath pluming in the cold morning air as she carried a brown paper sack under her arm and a small, battered metal thermos in her hand.
She pushed the side door open, letting in a sharp gust of wind before kicking it shut behind her. Her eyes went straight to the back office, checking on Sarah before walking over to the workbench and slamming the thermos down next to my coffee mug.
"Coffee for you, hot cocoa with actual milk for the boy," Clara announced, dropping the paper bag—filled with thick-cut cinnamon rolls from the bakery—onto the center of the workbench. She looked at me with that no-nonsense glare that usually meant she had spent the entire night worrying about my life. "And before you say a single word, Jackson Vance, I spoke to Tom at the county courthouse and my cousin Ray about the Maple Street house. It’s yours. Rent is forty bucks a month, payable in honest labor around Ray’s property whenever you've got time to spare."
I stared at her, the heavy ceramic mug cold against my palm despite the hot liquid inside. "Clara, I don't have forty dollars to spare every month for rent. You know what I pull in from these old bikes."
"Don't give me that poverty speech," she snapped, leaning her hands against the workbench and leaning in close. "You've got a jar buried under the floorboards behind the tire rack with enough cash to buy a half-interest in a used car, and you know it. I’ve known you since you were seventeen and too stubborn to buy a winter coat. Use the jar."
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell her about the debt collectors who still occasionally sent letters to my P.O. box in Pendleton, about the past I was trying to outrun, but the words stuck in my throat. I looked down at Leo. He was staring at the cinnamon rolls with wide, hungry eyes, trying very hard to pretend he wasn't starving because his mother had taught him to be polite in strangers' garages.
May you like
"Forty dollars," I said quietly. "And I fix Ray’s tractor whenever he breaks the linkage. Deal."
Clara’s expression softened, a brief, tired smile touching the corners of her mouth. "Deal. Now get those two out of this grease trap and into a house by sundown, or I’ll come back here with a broom and chase both of you out myself."
