The Repair Bill They Would Not Pay

Preston laughed. Not a big laugh. A small, comfortable one, the laugh of a man who has never once been worried about money in a room. He looked around my shop, the space heater, the coffee can of bolts, the water stain on the ceiling, the way Renee used to look at my work boots by the door.

“Wade,” he said, “do you have any idea what it does for a shop like this to have its work driven down Main Street under me, on the day I’m named Business Leader of the Year? Every dealer in the valley is going to be standing in that square. You couldn’t buy that kind of exposure. I’m handing it to you.” He smiled. “Call it even.”

“It’s not even,” I said. “I’m out the parts. Eleven hundred dollars of parts I bought on credit for your car.”

“Then you should have asked for a deposit,” he said, kindly, almost gently, like he was teaching me a lesson I would thank him for someday, and that gentleness was the cruelest thing in it. He was not angry. He was not even really paying attention. Taking four thousand dollars off a man was so small to him he could do it while thinking about something else.

That is when Renee stepped in, because even she saw my face change and wanted to close the door before I got through it.

“Wade.” That soft voice again. She came and stood a little in front of Preston, like she was protecting me from a scene. “Don’t make this a thing. It’s exposure, like he said. And honestly, think about it. You’re always telling me how tight money is. You really want to go to war with Preston over a bill? The kids see all that. You know how Tyler gets.” She tilted her head. “You still want your weekends, don’t you. Let’s not have a reason to look at all that again.”

There it was. Out loud, in my own shop, in front of Earl and Buck, who had both gone very still in the corner. She did not even bother to say it quiet. That is the part I could not get past afterward. She said it in front of witnesses because witnesses did not matter. Who was Earl Mabry going to tell. Who was Buck Hollis. Nobody that could touch Preston Vance.

Preston put his hand on the small of her back. “We’re good here,” he said, like he was releasing me. He picked the invoice up off the floor, folded it twice, and set it on my workbench, smoothing it flat with two fingers in a way I still see when I close my eyes. Then he got in my week of work and started it up and let it idle a second, listening, and I watched him enjoy the sound I had built, and saw that it had never once crossed his mind that he had stolen it. He backed the GTO out of my bay, Renee followed in her SUV, and they went up Route 7 toward Ryerton, and I stood in the oil stain where they had parked and did not say a word for a long time.

Earl said it for me. “That,” he said, “is a sorry excuse for a man.”