Nicola Griffith - Stay

The parking lot was half full: as many midsize American sedans as pickups. I found the Carpenters’ pale blue Ford and left the gas can and tubing in its cargo bed.

The congregation was singing a cappella, but they stopped just before I reached the entrance. The main doors stood wide, so did the inner doors, probably because of the overefficient heating system: even in the vestibule it was too hot. It looked like a full house, eighty or ninety people in their Sunday best, nodding every now and again, with the occasional “Amen!” or “Yes, Lord!” when the preacher hammered on his lectern for emphasis.

He was on a roll, voice following the rise-and-fall, call-and-response cadence first brought to this country by Africans torn from their homeland and now used by fundamentalists of all colors. It wasn’t easy to follow, but after a while, amid the litany of biblical references, I found that he was preaching a modern version of the Good Samaritan, only in his version it seemed that the Good Lord saw nothing wrong in the Samaritan getting paid for his kindness. “Now when the Lord says ‘Do unto others as you would be done by,’ He’s not sayin’ you should give away your pension, He’s not sayin’ take that money you saved to help out your son’s new wife who is in the family way and hand it over to some homeless person, no, He’s sayin’ play nicely with the other folks. You have to use your judgment, your God-given wisdom. Maybe that man is homeless for a reason, maybe it’s a punishment from God. Maybe he has some lessons to learn. And charity begins at home, with your own flesh and blood.”

I looked at the congregation, the nodding heads with their careful parts and poverty-dulled hair, and doubted more than five percent had the kind of job that came with a pension. It seemed more likely that the preacher was trying to convince himself; maybe when he counted up the takings every Sunday his conscience bothered him.

But I’d seen all I needed to see. If they were only as far along as the sermon, they would be there at least another thirty minutes. I only needed ten.

The Carpenters’ pickup was fifteen years old, made long before Detroit started building in all the electronic antitheft details that make modern vehicles a challenge to break into. It took less than ten seconds to pop the door, then the gas tank, and another five to feed in the thin hose. I always forgot how long it takes to suck, suck, suck on the tube and get the gas moving. At least with the clear plastic you could see the gas when it welled up; if you were quick and skilled, you didn’t get that stinging mouthful. While the can filled, I looked through the pickup’s cab and the toolbox in the bed: all my preparation would come to nothing if Jud had a can full of gas stowed away.

I’d brought a seven-gallon container but the gas kept coming. It crept past the three-quarters mark. I didn’t want to leave any in the tank, but I couldn’t just let it spill on the asphalt because the Carpenters would smell it, and the first thing they’d do was check the fuel gauge. I had begun to wonder if I’d have to break into the tan Chrysler next to the pickup and siphon the remaining gas into that tank when the flow stopped with an inch or two to spare. I moved the tube around a bit in the tank, just in case it sloped, and sucked again, but it was more or less dry. The old Fords were gas-guzzlers. The Carpenters wouldn’t get more than three or four miles before the engine gave out.

The full can probably weighed about forty pounds. I lugged it around the back of the church and hid it and the tubing by the Dumpster, where it was sure to be found in a day or so. By the time I was done, my knee had begun to ache.

I touched my throat through its concealing scarf. This was not New York. Everything would go smoothly, according to plan.

The blue pickup made it further than I’d expected before it sputtered and jerked and died: nearly five miles. A minor detail. I watched through the field glasses as Jud unscrewed the cap to the gas tank and peered in. Then he walked the two hundred yards they’d just covered, and back again, looking at the road. Then he got down on his hands and knees and peered up at the undercarriage. He did that for a long time. By the time he had the hood up, I was pulling in beside them and rolling down my window.

“Afternoon,” I said.

His face looked like a piece of old hardwood left too long in the sun, his eyes pools of baked tar. His suit was at least ten years old, and made for a wider man.

“Looks like you might be having a problem. Anything I can help with?”

Perhaps he found it hard to talk up to a woman in a big truck.

“Gas,” he said, eventually.

I climbed down, careful to let my legs bend a little to minimize my height. I nodded at Adeline and the two children, who peered at me from the truck. Luz, in a dark green dress that didn’t suit her, watched me steadily, but the boy’s eyes wandered after a moment. “Lonely out here. Not the best place to get stranded with your family.”

Adeline stuck her head out of the window. “He filled the tank just yesterday,” she said.

“I could run you or your wife to the nearest gas station, if that would help.” Jud looked at me with his dark, sticky eyes. “Or if you live nearby I could drive you home. If that would be easier.” If I read him right, he didn’t want his wife to be alone with a stranger, or to leave his family stranded in the middle of nowhere. But he didn’t say anything. Us standing in the middle of the road staring at each other was not part of the plan.

Adeline got out. “Luz, stay in the truck with Button.” She stepped between me and her husband. Like her husband’s, her clothes were old-fashioned, a matching dress and shoes in aquamarine: bought years ago, rarely worn, and looked after with care. Her bright red lipstick couldn’t hide the fatigue in her smile. “We live six, seven miles north and west of here, off of Route 10. We would be sorely grateful if you would give us all a ride back.”

“I’d be more than happy.”

She smiled again briefly. “Luz, bring my purse. Button, come on out. Into the nice lady’s truck. No, in the back, scoot up, leave room for me. Your daddy will sit in the front.”

Jud, moving very deliberately, dropped the hood, retrieved the ignition key, shut but didn’t lock the pickup doors, and got in next to me. I started the truck.

“Mile down the road,” he said. “Then take a right.” He laid both hands palm down on his thighs and stared steadily ahead, like the seated pharaonic statues at Luxor. His hands were tan on the back, with the flat tendons and knobbed joints of hard physical labor, and there was a trace of oil under two of his fingernails. When I glanced down again, he had put them in his lap, right hand uppermost; the knuckle on the third finger was crushed, long ago by the looks of it—the kind of thing that happens if you punch someone in the head, or hit a wall with your bare fist.

I drove. Two minutes later Jud said, “Here,” and we made the turn. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Nor, it seemed, could anyone else. The next ten minutes passed in silence, until I pulled up in front of their house. I turned the engine off.

“Obliged,” Jud said, and got out, and went into the house without another word.

Adeline paused, half out of her door. “It’s just his way,” she said, apologetic. “I hope you’ll still be willing to give him a ride to a gas station.”

“I’d be happy to.”

She hesitated, and I thought she was about to introduce herself, but then she said, “He might be a minute or two. Would the wait be too much trouble? You’ve been so kind.”

“It’s a nice enough day and I can’t say I’m in a hurry.” And the Good Samaritan will demand payment.