Unexpected Up Ahead

Chapter 5

        In no time, Mrs. MacQuoid had us seated around a small card table with grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of tomato soup. 

        She demanded of her husband, "What were you doing, messing around?" He made no response, and instead stuffed his mouth with grilled cheese, taking great slurps of soup.

        I repeated my question from earlier. "Who's Lucy?"

       "The truck, of course." Mrs MacQuoid smiled fondly. "Oh you never knew, of course, but it used to be quite famous. My parents, in fact, traveled around with your great-grandfather in it the year before they were married. They traveled all over the country-the world, in fact, serving lunch to those who were hungry." Mr. MacQuoid tipped his bowl up and drained it of the last drops of soup. "Your great-grandfather was a quite a good chef, from what they told me. They helped with cooking, driving, setting up-those kinds of things. At night, the truck's side pulls out to form a bed with a cover, and they would sleep in those, or outside in sleeping bags if the weather was nice." She stood up and began clearing the plates from the table. Mr. MacQuoid had barely leaned back in his chair before she put a dishrag in his hands and pointed at the sink. Sitting in her chair again, Mrs. MacQuoid looked at me. "So when will you be starting off?" 

       "I...I don't think..." I tugged on my eyebrow. "Honestly, I don't have the foggiest idea how to run a food truck and I'd have to hire someone to help and I really can't-" The numbers in black marker appeared in the corner of my vision, and I was silent for a moment.

        Mrs. MacQuoid followed my eyes to the numbers. Turning her head sideways, she read them. Then she suddenly got up and left the room. When she came back, she was holding a small black book, flipping through it until she got to the page she wanted. 

       "I see you've met Alf?" She turned the book so that it was facing me. There, grinning back at me was, indeed, Alf. His black hair was even messier than when I'd seen it, and his coffee-colored skin appeared slightly sunburnt. Next to the photo was scrawled Alfred Kanaan and the same number that was on my arm. "We've had him for dinner several times. Max met him at-what was it, dear?"

        Mr. MacQuoid, never looking up from his scrubbing, said, "Juvie." 

         I recoiled. "He's been to juvie? What did he do?"

        "Oh, yes. You were there for the Turn-Around Presentation."

        "Yep." He flicked a soapsud from his arm. "They didn't invite me back after that time, though."

        I drew my eyebrows together. "Seriously, what did he do?"

         "Well, these days he mostly just pesters restaurants until they let him try to cook. He's got a talent for that."

        "Pestering?"

        Mrs. MacQuoid laughed. "No, cooking. Last time he was here, he nearly burnt the house down making a crème brûlée."

        "Best I ever tasted," her husband added. "The fire department thought so, too."

        "And he wrote his number on your arm?" I could see her ming beginning to whir, matchmaking mechanisms going a thousand miles per hour.

        "Because he wanted me to hire him!" I defended.

        "Oh perfect!" Mrs. MacQuoid beamed.

        "But he seems...less than trustworthy..." Before either MacQuoid could defend Alf's dubious reputation, I added, "I think I'm supposed to be at work really soon, so thanks for lunch, it was delicious, but I have to leave, no, I don't need leftovers, thank you, yes, no, bye!" I closed the door and leaned back on it, sighing.