Between Sisters

Meghann barely listened as his voice droned on and on about a zillion details. Lighting. Flowers. Table dressings. Grooms’ cakes, for goodness’ sake.

She had definitely made the right decision in coming here. All she had to do was write the checks.

Joe was elbow-deep in the undercarriage of an old Kubota tractor, changing the oil, when he heard a car drive up. He listened for Smitty’s booming voice, always loud when he welcomed customers to the garage, but now there was nothing except the tinny, scratchy strains of an old Hank Williams song on the radio.

“Anyone here?” someone called out. “Smitty?”

Joe rolled out from under the tractor and got to his feet. He was just putting his baseball cap on, pulling the brim low on his eyes, when a florid, heavyset man walked into the garage.

Joe recognized the man. It was Reb Tribbs, an old-time logger who’d lost an arm on the job.

Joe pulled his cap down lower and didn’t make eye contact. “What can I do for you?”

“My truck’s dyin’ again. I just brought the damn thing to Smitty. He said he fixed it. Some job, he done. I ain’t payin’ for it till it runs. ”

“You’ll have to take that up with Smitty. But if you want to drive into the garage, I’ll—”

“Do I know you?” Reb frowned, pushed the cowboy hat back on his head, and stepped closer. “I don’t never forget a voice. Can’t see for shit, but I got the hearin’ of a damn wolf. ”

Do I know you? It was the question Joe had heard in every town in Washington. “I’ve got one of those faces. People always think they know me. Now, if you’ll bring the truck around—”

“Joe Wyatt. Ho-ly shit. ” Reb made a whistling sound. “It’s you, ain’t it?”

Joe sighed, beaten. “Hey, Reb. ”

There was a long pause, during which Reb studied Joe, his head cocked to the side as if he were listening to someone. “You got some nerve comin’ back here, boy. Folks around here remember what you done. Hell, I thought you were in prison. ”

“No. ” Joe fought the urge to walk away. Instead, he stood there, listening. He deserved every word.

“You’d best get a move on. Her daddy don’t need to hear that you’re back in town. ”

“I haven’t seen her dad. ”

“Course not. Chickenshit piece of crap like you don’t have the guts. You’d best move on, Joe Wyatt. This town doesn’t need a man like you. ”

“That’s enough, Reb. ” It was Smitty’s voice. He stood at the open garage door, holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a can of Coke in the other.

“I can’t believe you’d hire this piece of garbage,” Reb said.

“I said, that’s enough. ”

“I won’t bring my truck here if he’s gonna work on it. ”

“I imagine I can lose your business and still survive,” Smitty said.

Reb made a sputtering sound, then turned on his heel and marched out. As he got into his truck, he yelled out, “You’ll be sorry, Zeb Smith. Trash like him don’t belong in this town. ”

After he drove away, Smitty placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “He’s the trash, Joe. Always has been. Mean as a badger. ”

Joe stared out the window, saw the beat-up red truck buck down the road. “You’ll lose customers when word gets out that I’m here. ”

“Don’t matter. My house is paid for. My land’s paid for. I own a rental house in town that brings in five hundred a month. Helga and I both have Social Security. I don’t need a single damn customer. Ever. ”

“Still. Your reputation is important. ”

Smitty squeezed his shoulder. “Last Helga and I heard about our Philly, he was living in Seattle. Under the Viaduct. Heroin. Every day I hope someone offers him a helping hand. ”

Joe nodded. He didn’t know what to say.