David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

He shrugged his shoulders. There was no answer except to try.

ON FRIDAY, HENRY ARRIVED home with a trailer hitched to the sedan. He got out and he knelt and, grinning at Edgar, let the dogs accost him. He gestured at the trailer, where four inflated tires lay.

“I had retreads put on the wheels for the Skyliner. Tomorrow, she’s gonna roll for the first time in, oh, fifteen years.” He pulled a bag of groceries from the passenger seat of his car. “Chicken on the spit and potato salad,” he said. “Ordinary or not ordinary?”

Ordinary, Edgar signed. But good.

They started the grill and put the chicken on and sat in the lawn chairs and looked out at the piles of junk.

“I’ve almost got used to seeing it there,” Henry said. “Putting the Skyliner in the shed: ordinary or not ordinary?”

Not ordinary, Edgar signed.

“Just checking,” Henry said. He was working a crossword puzzle.

“Six-letter word meaning ‘to stamp a coin.’ Starts with Q.”

Edgar looked at him.

I don’t know.

“Gotcha!” he said. “Only joking. It starts with an I.” He handed the newspaper over to Edgar.

Incuse, Edgar wrote on the paper and handed it back.

“Jesus,” Henry said. “That’s just plain scary.”

THE NEXT DAY THEY jacked up the Skyliner, mounted the tires, and dragged the cinder blocks away.

“Oh man,” Henry said. “Oh boy! Hold on, wait a second.” He ran to the barn, returned with a hammer, and folded the car’s top into the trunk again. When he finished, they coaxed all three dogs onto the front seat. It took the better part of an hour, laboriously pushing the car back and forth, to align it in front of the shed. The dogs had long since abandoned ship.

“Come back,” Henry cried as they fled. “That’s an honor!”

Then they pushed the car into the shed. Henry ran around front to keep it from rolling into the wall, since the brakes didn’t work. “Careful,” he said. “Just…a little…more…” And then the Skyliner was inside. They closed the now bright red doors and Henry dropped the bolt through the flap latch.

Henry fetched a beer and began to walk through the piles of junk sitting in the yard, scratching his head. He looked at the mirror and the stanchions. “Jeez, that’s a shame,” he said. Over a broken porcelain sink he moaned, “Whoa. Just imagine what happened to that.”

He walked to the stoop and sat down.

“I can’t do it,” he said.

Can’t do what?

“Haul that stuff away. It was here before I was.” He took a long swallow from the beer and held it up to the light. “Putting that stuff back in the shed: ordinary or not ordinary?”

Edgar looked at him.

I don’t know.

Henry made the decision.

They worked like maniacs. Not everything could go back in, but they rehung the hubcaps and the old tools on the walls. They found space in the rafters to lay the salvageable sheets of plywood. Edgar handed up the old broken sink and the pruning shears and they leaned two of the stanchions in a corner. When they had finished, the mirror graced the front wall of the shed, reflecting the Skyliner’s broad front bumper, and two of the wagon wheels leaned against the outside like wreaths of gray wood. The shed was jammed full. The Skyliner could roll out, but with inches to spare.

“That’s it,” Henry said, stepping back to look at what they’d done. “That feels right.”

It did feel right, Edgar thought. He watched the dogs sniff the wagon wheels as Henry backed the trailer up to the gravel apron. They hefted the old furnace and the transmission and the wringer washer onto its bed.

“What say we celebrate with a little ride?” Henry said.

Edgar shook his head. Not in the daylight.

“Oh, come on. Lighten up. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

Maybe it was the idea of Henry Lamb telling him to lighten up that made the request seem reasonable.

All right, he signed. Okay.

They unhitched the trailer, piled into the car, and barreled through the waves of heat rising over the blacktop. Henry took them daringly through the middle of Ashland, and Edgar felt, if not entirely carefree, more lighthearted than he had in a long time. They were heading back toward the open highway when the light on the railroad crossing started to flash and the thin striped crossing arms levered down. Henry brought the sedan to a stop and a flush of adrenaline went through Edgar. He slid down until he was hidden from the cars around them. That was safe enough, he thought. A man with three dogs in his car wasn’t that unusual. The train lumbered past. The crossing lights flashed and the bells pounded. Edgar lifted his head to see if the caboose was visible yet, then ventured a look around.

A young woman sat alone in the car next to them.

Edgar tapped Henry’s arm and pointed.

“Holy cow,” Henry said. “That’s Belva. Act natural.”

Edgar wasn’t sure what Henry meant by that. Edgar was acting natural. The dogs were acting natural. Henry, however, had immediately stopped acting natural. He sat ramrod straight and began whistling a little nervous tooty-toot-toot and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as if some pounding rock-and-roll ballad were playing on the radio, though in fact it was the weather forecast-partly cloudy today, the announcer droned, chance of severe thunderstorms tomorrow. Harvest weather, Edgar thought.

The woman must have glanced over and noticed Henry, for when Edgar lifted his head to look again, she too was turned forward, looking intently ahead. The train kept rolling along, car after car. There was plenty of time to read the letters and numbers on the sides. Finally, the woman leaned over and rolled down her passenger-side window and shouted, “Henry!”

Henry turned and looked at her, still whistling. Toot-toot-toot.

“Belva,” he shouted back.

“I’ve been meaning to call you!”

“Is that right?” Henry said. He glanced at Edgar and gave a little wink. “I guess you saw the sunflowers!”

“What?”

“The sunflowers! I guess you saw the sunflowers!”

“What sunflowers?”

“Oh,” he said. “Never mind!”

“I’m moving,” she shouted.

“What?”

“Moving. I’m moving to Madison.”

“How come?”

“Why are all those dogs with you?” she shouted, instead of answering his question.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Henry said, lamely. He pounded a fist on the steering wheel and looked down at Edgar, scootched below the windows.

Ordinary, Edgar signed up at him.

“Right,” Henry muttered. He turned back to Belva. “I just decided to get a dog. Uh. Three dogs.”

“Wow,” she said. “They’re really nice.”

Very ordinary, Edgar signed, rolling his eyes.

“Actually, they belong to my nephew,” he corrected. “I’m just looking after them.”

She laughed again. “You don’t have any nephews, Henry. You’re an only child.”

He looked stricken for a moment. “What’s that? No, no, not ‘nephew.’ Nathoo. They belong to my friend Nathoo. Say hello, Nathoo.” He waved Edgar up from the floorboards.

Edgar shook his head.

“Come on,” he hissed. “Help me out here.”

No.

“Who are you talking to?” Belva shouted.

“Nobody-just the dogs,” he said. “Why are you moving to Madison?”

There was a long pause, and Edgar could hear the clank of the joints between the train cars, and the clang-clang of the crossing gates, and even, faintly, radios playing in the cars around them. The dogs were looking out the windows and panting happily. Baboo, in particular, seemed interested in Belva. He pushed his head out the driver’s-side window to get a better look.

“Well,” she shouted at last, “because Joe is.”