Chapter Nineteen
Clad in my oldest clothes, I arranged the things I was going to need on the gravel beside the front of the rig: seven quarts of oil, oil filter wrench, oil filter, five-eighths socket wrench, disposable container for the oil, and my trusty FloTool.
After watching several videos, I’d tackled our first oil change while we were in New York. It had been a bit of a disaster, and the park owners hadn’t been thrilled with the oil I’d inadvertently spattered on the gravel. Diane had quieted them down with an extra payment to cover the damage.
I felt more confident, but I’d still waited until a point when my sisters weren’t around. I didn’t need an audience.
For a Thursday in mid-February, the weather wasn’t too cold. In fact, it was quite pleasant for the chore I had to do. I hummed to myself. I’d always liked working on machinery. Grubbiness and grease didn’t bother me, and there was a satisfaction in getting a recalcitrant engine up and running again. Especially when I could do it at a fraction of the cost a mechanic would charge me.
Positioning the plastic sleeve I’d created from a sewage pipe under the oil drain, I slowly opened the drain cap, keeping the cap snug against the drain until I was ready to let the oil flow. When I removed it, I also made sure my hand wasn’t downstream of the oil.
I’d learned that lesson early.
The oil was almost drained when the first looky-loo stopped by.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked.
“Oil change.”
“Ya know they can do it for you at the local shop.”
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea for a gal to be doin’ that.”
I thought men had gotten the memo: women were just as capable as they were.
Apparently not, from what I’d experienced as I’d driven and made repairs on the rig as we traveled.
I ignored him.
When the oil had drained sufficiently, I wiped the drain threads with a rag and put the cap back on. Using the filter wrench, I loosened the filter, then got up to stretch my back.
The man was a few inches from me. He was a wizened old man with a face like an apple that’d been out in the sun too long. He was also shorter than I was.
“Did you want something?” I asked, moving forward to tower over him a bit, for once blessing the sturdy build I’d inherited.
“Um … no. I’ll mosey along …”
“You do that,” I said.
He scurried like a rat.
Repositioning the small tube I’d made under the filter, I removed it, letting the oil flow from it. After making sure the seal had stayed on the rig, I added the filter to a trash bag I’d brought out with me.
I’d put the new filter on and made sure everything was tight when my next visitor came by. I nodded, hoping he’d keep going.
But no. He had to watch.
What was it with RV men? They were always watching … crap flowing down the sewer pipes from their RV to the underground tanks or how someone was backing their rig into a tight spot. And god forbid someone took out a tool. They were instantly transformed into watchers with expert opinions.
Fortunately, he only stood there for a moment or two.
I’d grabbed the oil bottle and was fixing my FloTool on it when a woman asked, “What’s that?”
I turned to find a petite woman who looked like she belonged on a fashion runway.
“It … um … makes it easier to get the oil into the RV.” I tried to use as simple language as possible.
“Cool,” she said, coming closer. “It’s always a pain to get the bottle up in there. I swear, the way they design these engines. It’s like they plot all night to arrange all the parts so that it’s difficult to do the simplest maintenance.”
My mouth almost fell open, then I blushed as I realized I’d been guilty of the exact same thing I’d blamed the men for doing.
“I think you’re right,” I said to her. “It’s a conspiracy.”
She grinned. “Can I watch? Then you can tell me where I can get one of those doohickies.”
“Sure,” I said. I explained what I was doing as I showed her the long tube I’d already put down the tube to the oil reservoir. “This gadget even has a stop and go button,” I said. “I can keep it closed until I’m ready to let the oil flow.”
We watched the oil flow down the tube. Then she made herself useful as she handed me a new bottle and took the old one and put it into the trash.
I was almost finished with replenishing the oil when a male voice asked, “What are you doing, honey?”
My new friend told him all about the oil change, then introduced him as her husband.
“Well isn’t that clever,” he said. “What are they called again?”
I told him.
“Shall I order you one?” he asked his wife.
“Oh yes.”
“She does all the maintenance,” he said somewhat proudly. “And the driving. I’m the chief chef and bottle washer.”
She laughed.
“That’s how I met her,” he said, looking at his wife with all the love I’d never seen in Michael’s eyes. “She was under the hood of my car at the local shop. Turned out she ran the whole thing, bossed all those grease monkeys around and everything. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her in those stained overalls.”
They kissed and a wave of jealousy flowed over me.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Thanks,” she told me. “That was really helpful.”
“No problem. Hey, we usually have a cocktail hour in the late afternoon. Feel free to stop by. All you need is a chair and a beverage.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said.
With a wave, they walked away.
As I watched them go, I felt a strong pang of loneliness.
My phone, which I’d put on the picnic table before starting my work, rang. I went over to see if I wanted to answer it. After whipping the plastic gloves off my hands, I accepted the call.
“Hello,” I said somewhat breathlessly.
“Hi, there,” Rodrigo said, his voice warm. “How are you doing today?”
“Not bad.” I wanted to tell him the day had gotten a whole lot better with this call, but that would have been telling him a lot more than I ever wanted to say to any man.
“I have a question for you,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Does a woman working on a car bother you?”
He hesitated, and my heart plummeted.
“Depends on the woman,” he said.
“What if you didn’t know her? ”
“Then I’ve got nothing to say, do I?” he said. “What I meant before was this. If my late wife was working on a car, I’d be worried. She wasn’t mechanical at all. I fixed her sewing machine when it went wonky. But you? Watching you work on a car would be a thing of beauty.”
“Oh.” That made sense. I wouldn’t want the chef anywhere near a motor either.
“Are you working on your car?” he asked.
“The RV. Changing the oil.”
“A dirty job,” he said. “I gave that one up. I admire you for still tackling it.”
“Our ranch didn’t make enough to have someone else do the work.” It hit me again how different our lives were in terms of money. He’d never understand the hard scrabble life I’d lived.
“I remember a time like that,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The inflation and crazy oil prices of the early 1970s hit us hard,” Rodrigo said quietly. “We barely kept the ranch going. Money was tight, but it was a matter of pride to hold onto the ranch. We learned then how to make do with what we had, to fix anything and everything. You do what you have to in order to survive.”
His voice had been quiet.
“You are an amazing woman,” he continued. “I have a question to ask, though.”
His voice lightened and I could almost see the impish grin on his face.
“Yes?” I said warily.
“Will you be my Valentine?”
I looked down at my dirty clothes, my ragged nails. I could feel the grease and grit in my hair. I laughed.
“Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not?”
He laughed as well and invited me to dinner Saturday night.
A warning went off in my head. “Isn’t that the day of the white elephant sale?” I asked.
“Yes. But that ends at two. And after dealing with all of those people and all of that stuff, you will have earned my dinner. I’m giving Antonia the night off. I will cook for you.”
“I’m not sure that’s a feature,” I said.
“You cut me to the quick. I’m a very good cook.”
Why not? It seemed perfect to me to have a man cook and wait on me after dealing with a bunch of women all day.
~ ~ ~
“Thank you for all you do,” Liz said to me and raised her glass. Diane followed suit.
I was embarrassed but raised my glass anyway. We clinked.
“Are you ready for that elephant thingy on Saturday?” Liz asked.
“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” I confessed. Then I thought about the dinner I was also going to have.
“Oh! What’s that?” Diane pointed to my face.
“That’s a secret smile,” Liz said. “Our sister has a secret. Spill, girl.”
I sipped my drink instead.
Liz groaned. “I told you all my secrets.”
“And exactly how long did it take for that?” I asked.
“A few years,” she said.
“Few????” Diane asked.
“But they weren’t current secrets,” she said. “They were old secrets. I’m betting Kathleen has a secret about a certain man she’s been seeing. The one she keeps telling us is ‘just a friend.’”
“Oh, could it be?” Diane looked at me like a puppy dog waiting for a treat.
“Cut it out.”
“Wait!” Liz said. “Isn’t Saturday Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes!” Diane said, pumping her fist in the air.
“Would you two grow up?” I asked.
“Give,” Liz said.
I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Okay, yes. He’s invited me for dinner on Saturday.”
“Woohoo!” Diane and Liz shouted at the same time.
“Stop making such a big deal about it,” I said. “We’re leaving in two weeks, remember?”
“Are you remembering?” Liz asked, her tone suddenly serious.
“What do you mean?”
“It seems like you’re getting awfully close with this man.”
“I told you both. After burying Michael, that’s all there is. I dealt with one man and his secrets enough not to want to repeat the experience.”
“What secrets?” Diane asked.
Damn.
“It was just a metaphor,” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.”
“Uh-huh,” Diane said.
“I have a question,” Liz said.
I looked at her warily.
“Remember we were talking about the Bowie knife?”
“Yes,” I said.
“If you have any idea, I’d really like to know where it is. I have an idea for a painting where that would be a great centerpiece.”
“I don’t know where it is. Promise,” I said. And I was telling the truth. Whatever Michael had done with it, it was long gone.
He’d stolen it. Just like he’d stolen dozens of other items that had once meant a great deal to me. They were family antiques; things that had been passed down for generations. Things that should have gone to Patrick and Megan.
Once I’d realized what was happening, the emotionless state I’d had toward Michael had changed. I’d begun to hate him.
Love?
That had disappeared years before.
My sisters were still staring at me.
“I need to go inside,” I said, getting up to head to the RV.
“You can’t keep it secret forever,” Liz said.
I ignored her, but I knew she was right. If I didn’t talk about them soon, my secrets were going to crush me.