Page 16 - WTP Vol. XI #2

I’m always doing for people on account of I can’t say no. Normally we do not extend phone privileges to the public but how can you turn away a man in busi- ness slacks whose car has just broken down in the desert sun some miles north of the city of Phoenix? While he’s making the call I keep a close watch near the front door. Out the kitchen window I see Mrs. Sanchez and Sonia in the playground. I figure if he starts any funny business they’ll hear me call out. I always keep the kitchen window cracked for the draw anyways.
I don’t mean to listen in on the conversation but how can you stop yourself from understanding plain English?
“Listen here, Tank,” he says. “A deal is a deal. I expect you to carry through with your part. Let me talk to Pete, will you? I haven’t got all day.”
He’s quiet for a minute while Tank goes to get Pete. I look out the kitchen window pretending to be busy wiping some dishes dry. Understand I have a dish- washer, standard size. With only me to cook for I hardly ever use it. Just one fork, one plate and so forth. I can wash and dry by hand just as easy as run up the power bill.
Out in the playground Mrs. Sanchez is pushing Sonia in the plastic carriage on one end of the swing set.
It pulls lopsided with only the one child in it. I think that’s how Sonia likes it. All alone in there she prob- ably thinks she’s the Queen of England or Cinderella in her ball gown. She’s a forward little thing, that one. She’s the kind of child who calls you by your first name and asks you for sweet things. She’s not even three years old.
Last winter I saw her playing there. She was dressed in a pink puffy jacket with the hood snugged up around her face. She looked just like a wand of cot- ton candy. I slid open the kitchen window and called out “Don’t you look cute today, Missy.” Well, she runs right up beneath my kitchen window flailing her pink fuzzy fists every which direction and shouts, “Shut that window! Shut it tight!” I guess she thought I was melting her snow.
There wasn’t any snow to melt! Never was. Just something she saw in a picture storybook. Forward little thing. That’s for sure. They say you get your personality traits from one parent or the other. With her they’ll never know, considering the circumstanc- es of her birth before she got adopted.
“I heard it all before,” the man says to Pete. “Just be ready for me when I get there.”
I keep rubbing the silverware dry. I think how funny it is that I know two of his friends’ names, but I do not even know his name. He does not say as is cus- tomary, “Hello, there, Such and Such. I’m So and So,” but jumps into the middle of the conversation as if he were on a pay phone, not in the middle of my home. At the same time I’m checking the clock because about this time everyday Mrs. Sanchez walks on down the road to the Circle K. She has to buy a little something every day even if it’s only a stamp or a can of pop.
Then all of a sudden he hangs up the phone. The way he hands it up—hard—makes me think he would have slammed it down if he were standing by him- self. He turns to me.
“Will that do, sir?” I say.
He doesn’t answer. He just stands there looking at me, looking through me, like I’m not really there any- more. His arms lift slightly from the sides of his body.
“There’s a station I know that gives a free tow any- where less than ten miles,” I say. “Lots of folks over- heat this time of year. Do you want me to call for you? I can let you make one more call.”
He still doesn’t answer. Then like he was in slow motion he drops to his knees, then with his arms up a bit he sinks to the floor of my trailer in a cold
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Sugar
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