The Axles From the Fifty Eight Derby

Darrell

He looked up at the announcer’s stand. Then he looked up the hill at Lonnie. Then he looked over at me, and I saw his face do something I had not seen it do since our daddy’s funeral.

I did not go to him. I did not wave him over or turn away from him.

I just stood on the sidewalk and let him look at me. I did not have anything to say that the street had not already said.

Beckett did not see any of it. He was out of the car by then, trying to get the helmet off over his ears, and when he finally got it off and looked around, the first person he saw was his uncle.

“Uncle Darrell!” he yelled. “Did you see? Third! On the fifty-eight wheels!”

The Bales

Darrell came across the street. He walked slowly, like a man walking into cold water.

When he got to the car, he did not say anything at first. He got down on one knee beside the back axle, and he looked at it.

Beckett got down next to him and pointed. “That’s Mose,” he said. “Mr. Lonnie’s brother. He scratched it so it would know whose it was.”

Darrell put his thumb on it. Right where Beckett’s had been, and Lonnie’s before that. He kept it there a long time.

“Buddy,” he said finally, and his voice was not right. “I’m sorry I took your wheels.”

“It’s okay,” Beckett said. “Your mower was broke. You had yards.”

That is my son. I did not teach him that. I do not know who did. Maybe the welder. Maybe Lonnie. Maybe it was just in him.

Lonnie Comes Down the Hill

Lonnie came down the sidewalk then, slow on the slope, one hand on the storefronts. People moved out of his way.

A couple of them clapped him on the shoulder as he went by, and he nodded at each one like a man at a funeral home.

He got to the bottom and stood there by the bales, looking down at my brother kneeling by the car.

Darrell stood up. He is a big man, and Lonnie is not much taller than me anymore, but Darrell looked smaller standing there.

“Mr. Fite,” Darrell said. “I don’t know what to say.”

Lonnie looked at him for a while. I was afraid of what he would say. He has a temper, everybody knows it, and he did not have to be kind.

“You’ll say it with your hands, I imagine,” Lonnie said. “That’s how your granddaddy said everything. My yard needs mowing, by the way. Front and back. It’s been two weeks.”

Darrell let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yes sir,” he said. “Monday.”

“Monday’s fine,” said Lonnie. “Bring your own mower. If you’ve got one.”