“Doesn’t believe me that he’ll never get that seat post to move again.”
I shook my head. “I loaded that thing with penetrating oil. He can try pulling it with a tractor. It’s a bimetallic weld. Could have been avoided with a little lube. Rule Three.” I reached up to tap a finger on Dad’s One-Page Bible for Bike Mechanics. “‘An ounce of maintenance is worth a pound of repairs.’”
“Not my point,” Vince said.
“I know. But I had to go get these parts.” I stepped back from the shelves. “Didn’t we have a box of fourteen-gauge spokes? Vince, are you craving metals or something? Are you eating bike parts?” I tried to joke, but he just gave me a dirty look in return. I think he thought I was trying to change the subject. “Look,” I told him, “I’ll be here now. I promise.”
“You boys fighting?” Lil popped her head into the shop. She was carrying a bucket of rags and two cans of old paint, and she had several big brushes tucked under her arm.
“No,” said Vince. “One of us is slaving and one of us is telling lies .”
“Well, cut it out,” she said, but not like she really cared. She didn’t even stay long. She was on her way out to work on her mural. I hadn’t gone to see it, but I knew she’d been inching a scaffold along the side of the barn so she could reach the higher parts. It was huge fun for Angus and Eva, who loved to climb. They’d been talking about how soon they’d be able to climb the scaffold andmake it into the loft through the hay door.
It was probably eleven o’clock before I got on a roll. That was also about the time Vince dropped everything and went fishing. He had a job that had been giving him trouble all morning. I heard him swear in the paddock. Twice. He left a bike on the stand with the pedal set all apart. He tied his rod and tackle to his own bike and started away.
“You’ll remember to pick up the twins at camp?” I called after him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn around. He stuck out one arm, put a thumb up and kept pedaling away.
I wasn’t mad. He was sick of the shop and I knew it. There was no denying I would’ve loved to go hang my toes off the pier too. But we had sixteen bikes in and somebody had to be the embodiment of responsibility.
Too bad for Vince, just after he left, Mrs. Bertalli and her boys, Chris and Carl, arrived to pick up their bikes. I’d fudged the order of things just the littlest bit and had pushed them through. She was one of our favorite customers. Lil felt thesame way about her. She’d called Mrs. Bertalli “the patron saint of my art.”
“Hey, hey, Mrs. B!” I called.
“Hi, Dewey, sweetheart.” She waved. Then she stood outside the Bike Barn door gazing up at Lil’s smashed bicycle art while I wheeled her boys’ bikes out. Chris and Carl shouted, “Hooray! Pedal power!” They rode past the paddock, then out of sight as the pasture sloped downward.
I gave Mrs. Bertalli her invoice. She dug into the straw bag she carried on her handlebars and handed me a large bill. “This will do it,” she said. “The extra is a tip. Go spend it when the trucks finally make it to Shoreland’s Market.”
“Trucks. I’m looking forward to that,” I said. I explained that Mom and Dad were gone.
Mrs. Bertalli gasped. “You’re alone ? Oh, I had no idea!”
“Oh, we’re fine. We talk to them every night. If they can find a way, they’ll put Mom on a train back,” I said. “But they’re so far north that just getting her to one is a huge problem.”
“I saw a maddening report that they’re sellingtrain tickets two days ahead. Then not letting people on anyway! It’s dreadful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, but Dad has trucker’s ration cards. When there’s gas again they’ll be first in line,” I said. “Anyway, Lil is here all day. Did you know her art session’s been canceled?”
“Oh no! Her scholarship! Poor girl!”
“She’s keeping busy,” I said. “She’s painting
I shook my head. “I loaded that thing with penetrating oil. He can try pulling it with a tractor. It’s a bimetallic weld. Could have been avoided with a little lube. Rule Three.” I reached up to tap a finger on Dad’s One-Page Bible for Bike Mechanics. “‘An ounce of maintenance is worth a pound of repairs.’”
“Not my point,” Vince said.
“I know. But I had to go get these parts.” I stepped back from the shelves. “Didn’t we have a box of fourteen-gauge spokes? Vince, are you craving metals or something? Are you eating bike parts?” I tried to joke, but he just gave me a dirty look in return. I think he thought I was trying to change the subject. “Look,” I told him, “I’ll be here now. I promise.”
“You boys fighting?” Lil popped her head into the shop. She was carrying a bucket of rags and two cans of old paint, and she had several big brushes tucked under her arm.
“No,” said Vince. “One of us is slaving and one of us is telling lies .”
“Well, cut it out,” she said, but not like she really cared. She didn’t even stay long. She was on her way out to work on her mural. I hadn’t gone to see it, but I knew she’d been inching a scaffold along the side of the barn so she could reach the higher parts. It was huge fun for Angus and Eva, who loved to climb. They’d been talking about how soon they’d be able to climb the scaffold andmake it into the loft through the hay door.
It was probably eleven o’clock before I got on a roll. That was also about the time Vince dropped everything and went fishing. He had a job that had been giving him trouble all morning. I heard him swear in the paddock. Twice. He left a bike on the stand with the pedal set all apart. He tied his rod and tackle to his own bike and started away.
“You’ll remember to pick up the twins at camp?” I called after him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn around. He stuck out one arm, put a thumb up and kept pedaling away.
I wasn’t mad. He was sick of the shop and I knew it. There was no denying I would’ve loved to go hang my toes off the pier too. But we had sixteen bikes in and somebody had to be the embodiment of responsibility.
Too bad for Vince, just after he left, Mrs. Bertalli and her boys, Chris and Carl, arrived to pick up their bikes. I’d fudged the order of things just the littlest bit and had pushed them through. She was one of our favorite customers. Lil felt thesame way about her. She’d called Mrs. Bertalli “the patron saint of my art.”
“Hey, hey, Mrs. B!” I called.
“Hi, Dewey, sweetheart.” She waved. Then she stood outside the Bike Barn door gazing up at Lil’s smashed bicycle art while I wheeled her boys’ bikes out. Chris and Carl shouted, “Hooray! Pedal power!” They rode past the paddock, then out of sight as the pasture sloped downward.
I gave Mrs. Bertalli her invoice. She dug into the straw bag she carried on her handlebars and handed me a large bill. “This will do it,” she said. “The extra is a tip. Go spend it when the trucks finally make it to Shoreland’s Market.”
“Trucks. I’m looking forward to that,” I said. I explained that Mom and Dad were gone.
Mrs. Bertalli gasped. “You’re alone ? Oh, I had no idea!”
“Oh, we’re fine. We talk to them every night. If they can find a way, they’ll put Mom on a train back,” I said. “But they’re so far north that just getting her to one is a huge problem.”
“I saw a maddening report that they’re sellingtrain tickets two days ahead. Then not letting people on anyway! It’s dreadful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, but Dad has trucker’s ration cards. When there’s gas again they’ll be first in line,” I said. “Anyway, Lil is here all day. Did you know her art session’s been canceled?”
“Oh no! Her scholarship! Poor girl!”
“She’s keeping busy,” I said. “She’s painting
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