Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

R elieved? Reverend Jones enjoyed the smooth ride of Harry’s Volvo station wagon as they left the church to go into town.

A silence followed this. “Yes. I was sure I was fine, but yes.” Harry waited another moment. “I have gained even more respect for doctors and nurses who deal with cancer.”

“It’s all around us. Our various church groups provide comfort. The men’s group surprised me.”

“You didn’t think they’d talk about how cancer affected them?”

“I thought the men who had been afflicted with cancer would. But the new group, the one for men whose spouses, family members, have cancer or have had it, that’s been the surprise. And your husband holds it all together.”

“He never talks to me about it.” Harry wasn’t offended by this.

“Sometimes, Harry, there are things a man can only say to another man, especially in a situation like this. To tell your wife, daughter, sister, best friend, of your fears while she’s in the middle of battling this disease, well, most men feel this would make it worse. They feel their job is to hold you up, not focus on fears.”

“I believe that. But Fair’s helping?”

“He has a knack for getting other men to open up.”

“Maybe because his patients can’t talk, he’s learned to read the signs. I think he can read people as well as he can read horses.”

“Can’t read me,” Pewter called from her snuggle bed behind the driver’s seat.

“Sure he can.” Mrs. Murphy, next to her, contradicted the gray cat. “All you want is tuna and catnip.”

“Mom,” Tucker whined from the back, “they’re at it again.”

Harry heard the slight snarl between the cats. “If I have to stop this car to break up a fight, there are going to be two unhappy cats. Do you hear me?”

There was not a peep, but Herb laughed loudly. “My three run the church and run me.” He paused. “They’re very faithful cats.”

“That’s because you don’t have a diva like Pewter.” The tiger couldn’t resist.

Harry looked at the rearview mirror just in time to see a gray paw swat the tiger on the side of the head. “Damn.”

Herb turned around, booming in his deepest preacher register, “That’s enough.”

The two culprits froze, deciding to call a temporary truce. Pewter was already plotting her revenge for when they got home.

“Thanks,” said Harry. “You even scared me.”

“Takes a lot to scare you, but you sure scare the rest of us. We never know what you’re going to get into.”

“The truth,” Pewter agreed.

Harry pulled onto the back ReNu lot, cruised the parked vehicles yet to be repaired. “Sure are a lot of accidents in Charlottesville. Look at all these cars and trucks.”

“Inattention. People take their eye off the road constantly. There’s cellphones and texting, but I actually think the worst is those maps.”

“What maps?” Harry’s eyebrows moved toward the middle for a moment.

“What do you call it? My truck’s so old, doesn’t have it. You know, a screen and a map pops up.”

“Navigation system. GPS.” Harry found Herb’s old truck and parked at the end of the row wherein it sat. “Each carmaker gives it a special name. BMW calls it iDrive, which performs more functions than a visible map. Mercedes has their name. Some makers call it a driver interaction system, which takes too long to say.”

The reverend unbuckled his seat belt. “Well, I say they’re responsible for a lot of accidents. If you don’t know where you’re going, pull over and look. Don’t do it while driving.”

“You’re right, but people aren’t going to do that. They’re going to look at that screen and bam! It only takes a split second.” She lifted the back door to let air in.

The animals stayed, since the asphalt was hot. Heat caused more pain than bitter cold. They did move to the rear of the back to watch as Reverend Jones and Harry—one carrying a large garbage bag, the other a carton—approached the 1994 Chevy half-ton.

Herb had brought his extra key. He unlocked the driver’s door, then walked around to unlock the passenger door. “Shouldn’t be too much work.”

It wasn’t. Harry removed his gloves, maps, a small air-pressure gauge from the compartment on the driver’s door.

Reverend Jones opened the glove compartment to take out papers, leaving the manual behind. He put the extra key in there. His good sunglasses greeted him. “Ah, thought they might be here.”

“You lose more gloves and glasses.”

“Doesn’t everyone? Why do you think children’s mittens are attached to their coat sleeves?”

“Got a point there, Reverend.”

Within fifteen minutes, they’d cleaned out both the debris and the more-useful items. Harry, alert per usual, pulled down the visors, removing a few papers and one bright goldfinch feather. She held it up, the light hitting the brilliant yellow edged in deep black.

“Ah.” Herb took it from her fingers.

“Think he killed it?” Pewter asked, eyeing the reverend. Was he a bird killer?

Tucker replied, “He can’t even kill a cockroach. He found it on the ground.”

“Maybe Cazenovia killed it.” Pewter grinned, ever hopeful for avian murder.

“Possible.” Mrs. Murphy nodded. “What could he have left in the engine?”

Harry, leaning into the engine, was carefully studying the old but good V8. For decades, General Motors had manufactured sturdy, long-lasting truck engines. In the old days, the rap on the GM truck motors was they were more complicated to fix. You had to pull out the Chevy engine, because things were hard to get to. The Fords proved less difficult; hence, the service bills were lower. That, however, had changed toward the end of the twentieth century. With today’s computer readouts, all any mechanic had to do was hook up to the mobile unit. Ninety-nine percent of the time, a precise diagnosis made the task of repairing the fault much easier and the engine no longer needed to be removed to identify the malfunction. That one percent of the time when it did was when a garage needed someone’s special talents, like the late Walt Richardson’s feel for an engine.

Harry lacked that feel, but she possessed mechanical sense and some real ability.

“Dead?” Reverend Jones sighed.

“The engine? No. It’s your radiator that’s done for. Let’s take your stuff back to the Volvo. I brought my toolbox. All I want to do is lift out this radiator.”

“Why?”

“Won’t take long. I’m curious as to what’s behind the radiator. I can’t see that anything has pierced it from the front. It’s rare, but a part can dislodge or something could be stuck behind the radiator. A radiator is easy to pierce compared to an engine. The radiator is exposed. Your pistons are not.”

Reverend Jones didn’t give a fig about the radiator, but he assented.

Within minutes Harry was half in, half out of the engine. Standing on a broken concrete block she’d found, she had unbolted the radiator. Lifting it up, she put it on the ground. Then she checked the bolt holes. Next she examined the radiator. Didn’t look smashed.

Jason Brundige had seen her from the garage, its bay open for the cooling breeze. He hadn’t been informed by Kyle that Reverend Jones and Harry would be cleaning out the truck.

He placed his large screwdriver on his toolbox and strode out purposefully.

Sammy Collona observed this. Went back to work.

Jason walked up to Harry. “What in the hell are you doing?”