Chapter 9 - THE MECHANIC'S HANDS
The walk back down the platform felt different.
The wind was still cold, but it didn't bite anymore. Jack walked beside me, his steps a little lighter, his shoulders not quite so bowed.
We drove back to his house in comfortable silence.
When we walked inside, the kitchen was still a mess of aluminum trays and cold Thanksgiving food.
“Well,” Jack said, looking at the spread. “It’s ruined.”
I smiled. “Nothing a microwave can't fix.”
For the next hour, we stood in that small, faded kitchen. We heated up the dry turkey. We microwaved the mashed potatoes until they were dangerously hot. We scooped the cold cranberry sauce out of the can.
We sat down at the small laminate table.
I poured us both a glass of cheap tap water.
We didn't say grace. We didn't need to. The grace was in the quiet breathing across the table, in the fact that we were both still here.
Halfway through the meal, Jack reached into his pocket.
He set something on the table and pushed it toward me.
It was the gold Waltham pocket watch.
I stared at it. “How did you get this back?”
“Arthur threw it at me when I went to his house to sign the final papers,” Jack said quietly. “Said it smelled like grease.”
I picked up the heavy gold timepiece. The metal was worn, carrying the history of three generations of Dalton men. It didn't smell like grease. It smelled like hard work. Like survival.
“It’s yours, Ricky. Like I promised.”
I slipped the watch into my pocket. It felt like a stone of pure gold, grounding me to the earth.
The next morning, the police arrived at the Pierce estate. Arthur was arrested on his front lawn in his silk bathrobe, screaming about his lawyers. Karen was taken from a luxury hotel downtown.
The Horizon Development deal fell through immediately. The deed to the shop reverted back to my father.
Three months later, the divorce was finalized. Karen got nothing. The judge saw the forgery evidence and stripped her of any claim to my business.
It’s been a year since that Thanksgiving.
I sold my house in the suburbs. I bought a smaller place, closer to town. Closer to the garage.
Because Jack didn't lease the shop out again.
On a bright, cold Tuesday in November, I pulled my truck up to the corner of 4th and Elm. The garage doors were wide open. The smell of oil and metal drifted out into the street.
I walked inside.
My father was standing under the hydraulic lift, wiping a wrench with an old red rag. He looked up and smiled.
“You’re late,” he said.
May you like
I grabbed a rag from the bench. I looked at the old man, breathing in the scent of the garage.
“Sorry, boss,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”
