The Manager by Caroline Stellings Page A

then,” offered Jesse, turning to Tina, “I guess we know which one of the seven dwarves you are. And it isn’t Bashful.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    W e’d driven about fifteen miles past the diner, and must have been at least twenty from the next town when it happened. I heard what sounded like a small explosion in the engine, then Brandy went thunk thunk thunk and Jesse turned off the highway and down a country road. He pulled onto the shoulder and wound up at the end of someone’s lane. The mailbox read, “Dot and Ellwood Valentine.”
    Weeds and brush and shrubs and bushes dominated the landscape, but there was a house in there, its roof barely peeping over the greenery.
    Brandy needed time to cool off before we could even look at her engine. Jesse checked the trunk for extra coolant. The jug was almost empty.
    â€œOh, God,” said Tina. “What are we going to do now?”
    â€œDon’t have too many options.” Jesse unfurled the convertible top and locked the car doors. “We’ll see if these people have some coolant; if not, we’ll have to call for help.”
    We marched up the long, overgrown lane. The sky was clear and blue overhead, with billowy white clouds floating effortlessly across the sky. On either side of the driveway a row of bored-looking pine trees grew so idly, you’d swear they were yawning as you passed by.
    A few buildings became visible once we were halfway up the lane. The square white clapboard house looked like if you blew hard enough, it would come down in pieces. Several barns in various stages of disintegration stood precariously among the weeds, and we had to skirt around so many old cars and parts of old cars that I thought the place must have previously been a junkyard or the terminus of a dead-end road from which some poor souls had never returned. The only other explanation was that the Valentines’ farm had been the landing site of the refuse from a passing tornado; broken lawn chairs, bicycles and tricycles and steering wheels and fenders were strewn a half mile in every direction from the house.
    The tornado must have hit the house, too, because part of the roof had blown off, and shingles were lodged in the grass, hanging from trees and caught in bramble bushes.
    We kept walking, and before long the front porch was visible. Across it sat an entire family: Mom and Dad and what appeared to be about seven or eight kids – you couldn’t tell because the younger ones kept chasing each other in and out the front door. The parents and two teenaged daughters looked comfortable, reclined in an old car seat that served as a dandy couch. From the same era as Brandy, it was long and red, made of vinyl and cloth and had holes along the edge where white stuff was sticking out.
    When the family saw us, the whole bunch of them waved. Not one of those quick little “I wonder who that could be coming up our lane” kind of waves, but rather a greeting normally reserved for a friend you’ve known forever but haven’t seen in years.
    I waved back, but Tina and Jesse chose instead to simply nod their heads and plod forward. They were more concerned with getting the car fixed and getting to Portland; I was fascinated by the Valentines.
    The one who I figured must be Dot was a large woman in a dirty housedress; her legs were thick and looked like they’d been driven into her shoes. She had long, straight hair that hadn’t been trimmed in twenty years. And you could see clear divisions: the oldest swatch was bleached yellow; it ran from her waist almost up to her chest. The next was auburn, then came a greyer version of the auburn and the rest of her hair was just grey. In her right hand was a beer and in her left a cigarette and in her lap was a half-eaten bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. Beside her on the car seat was a copy of True Confessions magazine.
    â€œHow are you?” she bellowed, and the kids