Parlor Tricks

Chapter 4

Distraction clouded Hank the following day as he prepared tea and toast for his mother. The first two slices seemed to blacken the moment they dropped into the clutches of the toaster. He didn't mind; it afforded him a reason to eat them alone with milk in his tea. Clara imposed strict rules regarding tea and lemon as the only additives to the morning Earl Grey tea, even if Hank preferred the taste of milk. He loaded a tray with the second plate of properly toasted bread and tea before heading to the sitting room, where his mother fluttered through the newspaper. Hank traded the untouched dinner tray for the breakfast tray and took solace in knowing that she would at least nibble at this meal. He didn't bother to clear the dinner discards; instead, he dropped them in the kitchen and returned to his mother.

After a moment of heavy silence, Clara's impatience got the best of her. "Come, come; tell me all the gossip."

Hank had long accepted that he would be the carrier of the town's chatter. He recounted the stories of Sarah and Johnathan as his mother's eyes gleamed while she swished her spoon back and forth in her tea in anticipation of the next morsel. Hank was sure that she could sustain any hunger with even the tiniest bit of gossip. He couldn't match her enthusiasm and avoided any mention of Wendy.

"I should get to the garage. I have a new car coming in today." He left the breakfast tray for his mother to peck at, but cleared and cleaned the dinner tray before he departed.

He worked from the house's garage for years, but as more cars decayed around town, he found he needed a real lift. His shop was close to Willie's and equally dilapidated. Still, Hank found the garage more comfortable than the stifling of his neighborhood's mansion-rowed streets.

Hank watched the sun peek through the trees across the street as the bay door clanked open before turning to the '67 Austin-Healey before him.

"Heya" sliced through the air from behind him and damn near made him crack his head on the hood lingering above him.

He didn't have to turn to see the cherub root of the greeting, but he did. Behind her was a cream Ford Consul. Hank's mind pulled him to his father and the last car they finished together, a cream 1962 Ford Consul. He floated past her as if she were still a mirage of his mind, but the car was real.

"Where did you say you got this car?" Entranced, Hank let a finger slid across the hood of the car

"My mother left it to me. It's been running rough, like a wild horse that's trying to buck me." She was calling after him as if he were further from her than the few feet he paced.

Misfiring engine, Hank assessed, and the hood needed an alignment. Otherwise, a polish would bring it back to life.

"You said you worked on one of these before." The question was missing from her tone. His connection to the car was unmistakable.

"Yeah, I can take a look," he murmured as he headed back into the bay, but he stopped short as she climbed onto the lone high-top stool in the shop. "It may take a bit before I get to it, longer to fix."

"I got nowhere else to be and no way to get there if I did." She didn't bother to look at him for approval; she remained bent over a mandolin she must have brought with her.

He had one lone stool for a reason; he glowered in his head as he turned back to the Austin-Healey. "Well, I gotta close the doors so I can polish this one."

"I'm not claustrophobic, love." She was dismissive with every ounce: her words, her tone, even her demeanor.

Frustration flared in Hank, desperate for his solitude, but his practical side bit back the urge to argue. Instead, he clicked the button and let the doors clang down around them both before grabbing a fist full of polishing cloths with more vigor than necessary. The plucks of her mandolin stabbed at his thoughts as he eased long, straight strokes over the front of the car, clearing any fingerprints left during his work.

"Wouldn't it be faster to hose it down or at least a bucket and sponge?"

"Sponges scratch," his neck twitched irritably.

"So, you're just going to stroke off the whole damn thing?"

He didn't appreciate her mocking tone. "No," his voice came out like sandpaper as he tossed the rags in the trash can. "When I'm done, I'll tape it and wax it. It'll take most of the morning. If you're bored, there is a diner just up the block with terrible coffee." He shot a dagger in her direction, hoping she would get the hint and go away.

"Guess you're not a mute," she mused, but let him spend the rest of the morning working amid the plucks and strums of her mandolin.

He grew accustomed to it, even welcomed it as he stepped back from the dulling polish.

"Doesn't look so shiny," she surveyed from behind him.

"It's gotta dull before it can shine."

"Don't we all." She hopped from the stool. "Can I buy you a cup of terrible coffee?" The words formed a question, but the tone answered.

Hank scrubbed his hands raw and led her to the diner. A curt nod from Myrtle, the lone waitress, met them as they entered, who then directed them to an empty table with a nod of her head.

"Chatty town you have here," the bothersome pixie mumbled.

"Maybe you're keeping the wrong company."

"Seems like it. I spent the entire morning with you, and you still don't know my name. It's Josie, by the way, Josie King." She stared after him as though expecting a response. Whatever it was she was looking for, she was quick to give up. "What's good here?" She hid her face with the menu before adding, "aside from the coffee?"

"I get the pie."

"For lunch?" She flopped the menu down to accent her disapproval. He just gave her a shrug back.

She continued to inspect the menu as it lay on the table. Hank examined her further in the light of day. Her features were fine, and twists of auburn hair fell from behind her ear. She snapped her face up, catching him in his study. A shy smile crossed her face, broad and toothy; it made her look like a child. She chased it away with a more measured smile, but it was the toothy grin that etched in his mind like a photograph.

"So, you don't talk much, Hank Carroll," Josie asserted after their order. "Tell me about yourself. How did you get into cars?"

"My father and I worked on them when I was a boy." Her eyes gleamed like the first number of her lottery ticket matched.

"You mind working for the other side?" She nodded towards the east side of town, where his home sat.

"No," he didn't elaborate. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, I'm just an old-fashioned rag and bone girl. Mama died when I was young. My grandmother took me in, but we didn't sit well together. Been looking for my place since." Her words were breezy as she spoke of death and loneliness. It surrounded her so much she was immune to the sorrow. It suited her. She was too unreserved to have roots. She floated and fluttered like a dandelion gone to seed; nothing but a still day could settle her.

Hank's own feet shifted, envious of a root-free life. His words came quickly to quell the idea of movement. "Consul doesn't strike me as a ragman's car."

"You gotta work with what ya got." She dismissed his conversation as though he were diverting her from her goal. "One stool at the shop. Where's dear old dad these days?"

"Pine box." He studied her, expecting the familiar pity to cloud her face, or at least a wince, but it remained placid. "Who are you?" He pushed.

A false smile crossed her face; "Josie King, silly." Her eyes dipped from his, though. A moment to reset, he thought to himself.

He wouldn't let his gaze waver as he took a sip of sour coffee. The conversation took an artificial pitch for the rest of the meal, but Hank still found himself unwilling to drop his scrutiny. The lone tic through the remaining meal was her forsaking of her tuna melt for his pie. He complied, even pushing the plate to the center to allow her more accessible admission. He downed the last of his coffee and dropped a $20 bill on the table with no argument from Josie. Hank held a hand out to help her stand before letting it fall to the small of her back as he opened the door ahead of her.

"Quite the gentleman." But this was not in her poetic voice. The voice was more resonant and thick with thought, her authentic voice. The words spilled out while she was noting them to herself.