called him Slick, for they had seen his rage, and witnessed his consuming power, and hadn’t understood it and never would. He was Timothy Kavanagh, not to be messed with.
Period.
He grinned, pulling around an RV from Texas. After that incident, Tommy Noles had become the best friend he had in the world, even if he had failed to hand over the nickel. Sometime, when he had nothing else to do, he’d calculate what Tommy would owe him today, given fifty-six years of accumulated interest on a nickel.
“I’m growing older,” said his eager wife, “just waiting to hear your nickname.”
“Slick,” he said, looking straight ahead.
He wasn’t surprised that she nearly doubled over with laughter. “Slick! Slick? ” Clearly, that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.
“Slick! That’s too wonderful! I can’t believe it!”
Ha, ha, ha, on and on. He would nip this in the bud. “So what was your nickname, Kavanagh?”
She stopped laughing.
Bingo, he thought.
“Must you know?”
“Cynthia, Cynthia . . . need you ask?”
“You won’t laugh?”
“Laugh? I’ll kill myself laughing. So tell me.”
She sighed deeply and tucked a strand of blond hair under the ball cap. “Tubs.”
“Tubs?” Marriage was a wonderful thing. It produced all sorts of ways to get even with somebody without necessarily going to jail. But seeing the look on her face, he couldn’t laugh.
“Tubby to begin, then shortened to Tubs. Fatter than fat, that was me.”
He couldn’t imagine it.
“You couldn’t even imagine,” she said. “When I was ten years old . . . do you remember those photographers who traveled around with a pony?”
He remembered.
“One took my picture and I waited for weeks for it to come in the mail. When we opened the envelope, I couldn’t believe my eyes, nor could anyone else. They all said I was . . . they said I was bigger than the pony.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, they raved about it ’til kingdom come, Tubs this and Tubs that. My mother and father loved having their picture taken, so they’d dashed in the house and come out looking like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. I, on the other hand, had been popped onto that sulking pony in a hideous dress, looking precisely like W. C. Fields.”
She peered at him. “If you ever mention that hideous name to a soul, I’ll murder you.”
“If you ever mention mine, same back.”
“Deal,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Deal,” he said, seeing a sign that said Williamston, 10 miles.
He was looking at his watch when a raindrop hit the crystal face.
Two-thirty, they should be there around six-thirty or seven o’clock, with plenty of daylight to unload the car and check out their new home.
The suddenness of the downpour was shocking. Without warning, a sheet of wind-driven rain was upon them, thundering out of darkened skies. He veered off the road and careened to a stop, the engine running. Dear God, he knew how to put the top down on this thing, but Dooley had been the one who put it up. He fumbled with the button on the console, but nothing happened.
“Timothy!” His wife was drenched, sopping.
“What do we do?” he shouted.
“I don’t know!” The wind carried her voice away.
He lunged to the right and felt in the glove compartment for the owner’s manual, as Barnabas, quaking with fear, leaped into Cynthia’s lap, which was already occupied by Violet.
“Back! Go back!” She was almost wholly concealed by his mass of streaming fur. Barnabas went back.
The force of the rain was unbelievable. It thudded against their skin and heads like so many small mallets. He shoved the manual under the dashboard on Cynthia’s side, his glasses running with rain. Index, page 391, not under “Top,” not under . . . there it was. “Convertible,” page 213. He managed to see the words Engage the parking brake before the book absorbed water like a sponge and the instructions ran together in a blur.
He pulled the brake,
Period.
He grinned, pulling around an RV from Texas. After that incident, Tommy Noles had become the best friend he had in the world, even if he had failed to hand over the nickel. Sometime, when he had nothing else to do, he’d calculate what Tommy would owe him today, given fifty-six years of accumulated interest on a nickel.
“I’m growing older,” said his eager wife, “just waiting to hear your nickname.”
“Slick,” he said, looking straight ahead.
He wasn’t surprised that she nearly doubled over with laughter. “Slick! Slick? ” Clearly, that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.
“Slick! That’s too wonderful! I can’t believe it!”
Ha, ha, ha, on and on. He would nip this in the bud. “So what was your nickname, Kavanagh?”
She stopped laughing.
Bingo, he thought.
“Must you know?”
“Cynthia, Cynthia . . . need you ask?”
“You won’t laugh?”
“Laugh? I’ll kill myself laughing. So tell me.”
She sighed deeply and tucked a strand of blond hair under the ball cap. “Tubs.”
“Tubs?” Marriage was a wonderful thing. It produced all sorts of ways to get even with somebody without necessarily going to jail. But seeing the look on her face, he couldn’t laugh.
“Tubby to begin, then shortened to Tubs. Fatter than fat, that was me.”
He couldn’t imagine it.
“You couldn’t even imagine,” she said. “When I was ten years old . . . do you remember those photographers who traveled around with a pony?”
He remembered.
“One took my picture and I waited for weeks for it to come in the mail. When we opened the envelope, I couldn’t believe my eyes, nor could anyone else. They all said I was . . . they said I was bigger than the pony.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, they raved about it ’til kingdom come, Tubs this and Tubs that. My mother and father loved having their picture taken, so they’d dashed in the house and come out looking like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. I, on the other hand, had been popped onto that sulking pony in a hideous dress, looking precisely like W. C. Fields.”
She peered at him. “If you ever mention that hideous name to a soul, I’ll murder you.”
“If you ever mention mine, same back.”
“Deal,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Deal,” he said, seeing a sign that said Williamston, 10 miles.
He was looking at his watch when a raindrop hit the crystal face.
Two-thirty, they should be there around six-thirty or seven o’clock, with plenty of daylight to unload the car and check out their new home.
The suddenness of the downpour was shocking. Without warning, a sheet of wind-driven rain was upon them, thundering out of darkened skies. He veered off the road and careened to a stop, the engine running. Dear God, he knew how to put the top down on this thing, but Dooley had been the one who put it up. He fumbled with the button on the console, but nothing happened.
“Timothy!” His wife was drenched, sopping.
“What do we do?” he shouted.
“I don’t know!” The wind carried her voice away.
He lunged to the right and felt in the glove compartment for the owner’s manual, as Barnabas, quaking with fear, leaped into Cynthia’s lap, which was already occupied by Violet.
“Back! Go back!” She was almost wholly concealed by his mass of streaming fur. Barnabas went back.
The force of the rain was unbelievable. It thudded against their skin and heads like so many small mallets. He shoved the manual under the dashboard on Cynthia’s side, his glasses running with rain. Index, page 391, not under “Top,” not under . . . there it was. “Convertible,” page 213. He managed to see the words Engage the parking brake before the book absorbed water like a sponge and the instructions ran together in a blur.
He pulled the brake,
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