The Day the VFW Filled the Showroom

Rodney had found the number on the bill of sale on Friday evening and called it from his kitchen. He had not told anyone, not even Vern.

Dustin walked slowly up the aisle, past the rows of caps, turning his own in his hands. “Ma’am, Mr. Brandt says that truck I bought belongs to your grandson. A soldier.”

“Specialist Ryan Tuttle,” I said. “He’s in Kuwait.”

“I didn’t know that.” Dustin turned and looked at Stan, and something hard came into his face. “He told me the fella wanted out of the payments.”

“There were no payments. Ryan paid cash.”

Dustin was quiet a moment. “I thought the price was low for the miles,” he said. “I figured I was lucky.” He looked down at the girl. “Emma, show the lady what you found.”

The little girl let go of his coat. She had been holding her other hand shut in a fist, and she walked up to me, serious as a judge, and opened it.

In her palm sat a small green plastic soldier, the cheap kind that comes in a bucket of fifty, with one arm bent up in a salute and the paint rubbed off its helmet.

“It was stuck on the dashboard,” Emma said. “Daddy said I wasn’t supposed to touch it.”

I knew that army man. Wendell had given it to Ryan when he was five years old, the day Ryan said he wanted to be a soldier like his grandpa. Ryan carried it in his pocket until the paint wore off, and when he bought the truck he stuck it to the dash with a dab of putty and told me, laughing, that it was his copilot.

I took it out of her hand and set it on top of the thermos in my lap. “Thank you, Emma,” I said. “It belongs to my grandson.”

“Okay,” she said, and went back to her father’s coat.

“Ma’am, that truck is parked right out front, and I’m not taking another mile in it,” Dustin said. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sick about the money. I’ve got 22,400 dollars in it, and 8,000 of that is my wife’s folks’ savings.”

“Dustin, you bought it in good faith. Nobody here blames you.”

“No, ma’am. But somebody owes me, and I’d like to know who and when.”

He was looking at Stan when he said it. It was Rodney who answered.

“The dealership owes you, Mr. Rehm, and I’ll see your name on the check run myself. But Stan signed that title, so Stan’s money pays it, not the till.”

“I’ll have it by Friday,” Stan said. He kept his eyes on Dustin and nowhere else, and his voice came out dry and flat. “I’ve got the bass boat, and I’ve got a camper I’ve used twice. Cashier’s check, the whole 22,400, and your wife’s folks’ share with interest. If I’m a day late, you call Vern.”

“I’ll call Vern,” Dustin said, and nodded, and that was all he said to him.

Dustin held out the key to me. It was on a plain ring with a Kessler Motors tag. I took it, and he put his cap back on.