I saw the tattoo on his arm again, but he was too far away for me to make it out. "We need to fill it, but we never will."
"Why not?"
He glanced over to Delia's house. I could now see her coming down the walk. She had on a long skirt and a red T-shirt, her feet bare. "It's a family thing," he said. "Some people believe everything happens for a reason. Even massive holes."
"But you don't," I said.
"Nope," he said. He looked over my car at the hole, studying it for a second. I was watching him, not even aware of it until he glanced at me. "Anyway," he said, as I focused back on my steering wheel, "I'll see you around."
"Thanks again," I said, shifting into first.
"No problem. Just remember: left."
"Way left," I told him, and he nodded, then knocked the side of my bumper,
rap-rap
, and started back to the truck. As he climbed in, I turned my wheel and eased around the hole, then drove the fifty feet or so to Delia's driveway, where she was waiting for me. Right as I reached to open my door, Wes's truck blurred past in my rearview mirror: I could see him in silhouette, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights. Then he disappeared behind a row of trees, gravel crunching, and was gone.
"The thing about Wes," Delia said to me, unwrapping another package of turkey, "is that he thinks he can fix anything. And if he can't fix it, he can at least do something with the pieces of what's broken."
"That's bad?" I asked, dipping my spreader back into the huge, industrial-size jar of mayonnaise on the table in front of me.
"Not bad," she said. "Just—different."
We were in Delia's garage, which served as Wish Catering central. It was outfitted with two industrial-size ovens, a large fridge, and several stainless-steel tables, all of which were piled with cutting boards and various utensils. We were sitting on opposite sides of one of the tables, assembling sandwiches. The garage door was open, and outside I could hear crickets chirping.
"The way I see it," she continued, "is that some things are just meant to be the way they are."
"Like the hole," I said, remembering how he'd glanced at her, saying this.
She put down the turkey she was holding and looked at me. "I know what he told you," she said. "He said that I was the reason the hole was still there, and that if I'd just let him fill it we wouldn't have the postman pissed off to the point of sabotaging our mail, and I wouldn't be facing yet another bill from Lakeview Tire for some poor client who busted their Goodyear out there."
"No," I said slowly, spreading the mayonnaise in a thin layer on the bread in front of me, "he said that some people believe everything happens for a reason. And some people, well, don't."
She thought for a second. "It's not that I believe everything happens for a reason," she said. "It's just that… I just think that some things are meant to be broken. Imperfect. Chaotic. It's the universe's way of providing contrast, you know? There have to be a few holes in the road. It's how life
is
."
We were quiet for a second. Outside, the very last of the sunset, fading pink, was disappearing behind the trees.
"Still," I said, putting another slice of bread on the one in front of me, "it is a big hole."
"It's a huge hole," she conceded, reaching for the mayonnaise. "But that's kind of the point. I mean, I don't want to fix it because to me, it's not broken. It's just here, and I work around it. It's the same reason I refuse to trade in my car, even though, for some reason, the A/C won't work when I have the radio on. I just choose: music, or cold air. It's not that big of a deal."
"The A/C won't work when the radio is on?" I asked. "That's so weird."
"I know." She pulled out three more slices of bread, putting mayonnaise, then lettuce, on them assembly-line style. "On a bigger scale, it's the reason that I won't hire a partner to help me with the catering, even though it's been chaos on wheels with Wish gone. Yes, things are sort of
"Why not?"
He glanced over to Delia's house. I could now see her coming down the walk. She had on a long skirt and a red T-shirt, her feet bare. "It's a family thing," he said. "Some people believe everything happens for a reason. Even massive holes."
"But you don't," I said.
"Nope," he said. He looked over my car at the hole, studying it for a second. I was watching him, not even aware of it until he glanced at me. "Anyway," he said, as I focused back on my steering wheel, "I'll see you around."
"Thanks again," I said, shifting into first.
"No problem. Just remember: left."
"Way left," I told him, and he nodded, then knocked the side of my bumper,
rap-rap
, and started back to the truck. As he climbed in, I turned my wheel and eased around the hole, then drove the fifty feet or so to Delia's driveway, where she was waiting for me. Right as I reached to open my door, Wes's truck blurred past in my rearview mirror: I could see him in silhouette, his face illuminated by the dashboard lights. Then he disappeared behind a row of trees, gravel crunching, and was gone.
"The thing about Wes," Delia said to me, unwrapping another package of turkey, "is that he thinks he can fix anything. And if he can't fix it, he can at least do something with the pieces of what's broken."
"That's bad?" I asked, dipping my spreader back into the huge, industrial-size jar of mayonnaise on the table in front of me.
"Not bad," she said. "Just—different."
We were in Delia's garage, which served as Wish Catering central. It was outfitted with two industrial-size ovens, a large fridge, and several stainless-steel tables, all of which were piled with cutting boards and various utensils. We were sitting on opposite sides of one of the tables, assembling sandwiches. The garage door was open, and outside I could hear crickets chirping.
"The way I see it," she continued, "is that some things are just meant to be the way they are."
"Like the hole," I said, remembering how he'd glanced at her, saying this.
She put down the turkey she was holding and looked at me. "I know what he told you," she said. "He said that I was the reason the hole was still there, and that if I'd just let him fill it we wouldn't have the postman pissed off to the point of sabotaging our mail, and I wouldn't be facing yet another bill from Lakeview Tire for some poor client who busted their Goodyear out there."
"No," I said slowly, spreading the mayonnaise in a thin layer on the bread in front of me, "he said that some people believe everything happens for a reason. And some people, well, don't."
She thought for a second. "It's not that I believe everything happens for a reason," she said. "It's just that… I just think that some things are meant to be broken. Imperfect. Chaotic. It's the universe's way of providing contrast, you know? There have to be a few holes in the road. It's how life
is
."
We were quiet for a second. Outside, the very last of the sunset, fading pink, was disappearing behind the trees.
"Still," I said, putting another slice of bread on the one in front of me, "it is a big hole."
"It's a huge hole," she conceded, reaching for the mayonnaise. "But that's kind of the point. I mean, I don't want to fix it because to me, it's not broken. It's just here, and I work around it. It's the same reason I refuse to trade in my car, even though, for some reason, the A/C won't work when I have the radio on. I just choose: music, or cold air. It's not that big of a deal."
"The A/C won't work when the radio is on?" I asked. "That's so weird."
"I know." She pulled out three more slices of bread, putting mayonnaise, then lettuce, on them assembly-line style. "On a bigger scale, it's the reason that I won't hire a partner to help me with the catering, even though it's been chaos on wheels with Wish gone. Yes, things are sort of
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