keep the thought in mind.
Claymore, which was twenty three miles from where Olivia had abandoned
the convertible, had two gas stations but only one was equipped to repair
automobiles. And, as fate would have it, their mechanic was off on vacation for
the remainder of the week. “But,” Olivia moaned, “…surely there’s someone
else?”
“Not till Monday,” the clerk repeated.
Olivia’s eyes welled with tears as she turned and walked out into the
street. It seemed things were going from horrible to even worse, helpings of
bad luck stacking up like dirty dishes. W hatever had she gotten
herself into? When she got to the corner, Olivia turned, whether it had
been right or left, she’d be hard pressed to say because by then she was
without direction. The sky turned dusky as she tromped aimlessly up one street
and down another. She passed by a Boy Scout who rattled a tin can in her face
and called out that it was time to help the poor. “I’m the one who’s poor,”
Olivia mumbled and continued to move one foot in front of the other. She took
no notice of anything, until, she found herself standing in front of a brightly
lit Ford showroom. Right there in the window was the answer to her prayers—a
shiny new black sedan. That was the kind of car a woman of her nature should
have—something solid and dependable, something with a roof that didn’t fold up
like a hankie, something black , not a frivolous shade of powder blue.
Without a second thought, she walked in.
“Do you take trade-ins?” she asked the young man standing behind the
counter.
“Yes indeed.”
“Even if the car’s got a broken hose?”
“No problem.”
“How about if it’s stuck out on the highway?”
“Hmm,” the young man twitched his mouth to the right in a mannerism
quite like Charlie’s, which immediately gave Olivia a good feeling. “We could
send a tow truck, but that’s an extra charge.”
“An extra charge?” Olivia repeated. She was about to ask how much that
charge would be when the salesman held up his hand.
“Okay, okay,” he groaned playfully, “you’ve twisted my arm—no extra
charge if we do the deal right now!”
“Right now? But, I still have my things in the trunk.” It was not like
Olivia to go about blabbing her business, so she felt no need to explain
Charlie’s death but she did nonetheless feel ashamed about including him under
the heading of things .
“No problem,” the salesman
said, “We’ll have your old car towed back here you can take whatever you want.”
T wo days later, Olivia arrived
back in Wyattsville driving a Ford Fairlane, equipped with air conditioning, a
static free radio and customized floor mats. “Where’s Charlie?” the neighbors
asked. “What have you done with his lovely convertible?”
When Olivia explained how Charlie died of a massive heart attack and
had to be brought home bottled up inside a silver urn, everyone raised an
eyebrow.
“Charlie was never sick a day!” Clara Bowman said.
“A day?” Maggie Cooper sneered, “Why, not even five minutes!”
“And what about his convertible?” Henry Myerson asked. “Charlie loved that
car. Are we supposed to believe that died too?”
“It did,” Olivia answered. “Not died exactly, but boiled over in such a
way I thought it was going to explode.” She was about to explain how she found
herself stranded at the side of the road in North Carolina and had no choice
other than to trade Charlie’s car in for a more practical replacement, but by
then all the neighbors had turned and walked away. “I’m sorry,” she sighed
tearfully, but no one was listening.
Olivia pulled the luggage from the car and tugged it through the lobby
of the building. She heaved and pushed to maneuver the things into the
elevator, then one by one dragged the suitcases and cartons of souvenirs to the
far end of the seventh floor hallway. Not a single person came to help—husbands
who suggested lending a hand would be
Claymore, which was twenty three miles from where Olivia had abandoned
the convertible, had two gas stations but only one was equipped to repair
automobiles. And, as fate would have it, their mechanic was off on vacation for
the remainder of the week. “But,” Olivia moaned, “…surely there’s someone
else?”
“Not till Monday,” the clerk repeated.
Olivia’s eyes welled with tears as she turned and walked out into the
street. It seemed things were going from horrible to even worse, helpings of
bad luck stacking up like dirty dishes. W hatever had she gotten
herself into? When she got to the corner, Olivia turned, whether it had
been right or left, she’d be hard pressed to say because by then she was
without direction. The sky turned dusky as she tromped aimlessly up one street
and down another. She passed by a Boy Scout who rattled a tin can in her face
and called out that it was time to help the poor. “I’m the one who’s poor,”
Olivia mumbled and continued to move one foot in front of the other. She took
no notice of anything, until, she found herself standing in front of a brightly
lit Ford showroom. Right there in the window was the answer to her prayers—a
shiny new black sedan. That was the kind of car a woman of her nature should
have—something solid and dependable, something with a roof that didn’t fold up
like a hankie, something black , not a frivolous shade of powder blue.
Without a second thought, she walked in.
“Do you take trade-ins?” she asked the young man standing behind the
counter.
“Yes indeed.”
“Even if the car’s got a broken hose?”
“No problem.”
“How about if it’s stuck out on the highway?”
“Hmm,” the young man twitched his mouth to the right in a mannerism
quite like Charlie’s, which immediately gave Olivia a good feeling. “We could
send a tow truck, but that’s an extra charge.”
“An extra charge?” Olivia repeated. She was about to ask how much that
charge would be when the salesman held up his hand.
“Okay, okay,” he groaned playfully, “you’ve twisted my arm—no extra
charge if we do the deal right now!”
“Right now? But, I still have my things in the trunk.” It was not like
Olivia to go about blabbing her business, so she felt no need to explain
Charlie’s death but she did nonetheless feel ashamed about including him under
the heading of things .
“No problem,” the salesman
said, “We’ll have your old car towed back here you can take whatever you want.”
T wo days later, Olivia arrived
back in Wyattsville driving a Ford Fairlane, equipped with air conditioning, a
static free radio and customized floor mats. “Where’s Charlie?” the neighbors
asked. “What have you done with his lovely convertible?”
When Olivia explained how Charlie died of a massive heart attack and
had to be brought home bottled up inside a silver urn, everyone raised an
eyebrow.
“Charlie was never sick a day!” Clara Bowman said.
“A day?” Maggie Cooper sneered, “Why, not even five minutes!”
“And what about his convertible?” Henry Myerson asked. “Charlie loved that
car. Are we supposed to believe that died too?”
“It did,” Olivia answered. “Not died exactly, but boiled over in such a
way I thought it was going to explode.” She was about to explain how she found
herself stranded at the side of the road in North Carolina and had no choice
other than to trade Charlie’s car in for a more practical replacement, but by
then all the neighbors had turned and walked away. “I’m sorry,” she sighed
tearfully, but no one was listening.
Olivia pulled the luggage from the car and tugged it through the lobby
of the building. She heaved and pushed to maneuver the things into the
elevator, then one by one dragged the suitcases and cartons of souvenirs to the
far end of the seventh floor hallway. Not a single person came to help—husbands
who suggested lending a hand would be
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