3. Kellen
Three
Kellen
I never did go across the street to offer to help the new neighbors move their heavy things.
I got back from my run and kept talking myself out of going over there.
So now, this morning, I stand in front of my picture window drinking my coffee, staring across the street through my blinds like some sort of weirdo.
Why didn’t I just walk over there and introduce myself?
I’m not unfriendly. Most of the neighbors on this street have lived here for decades.
Orla and I bought this house about eight years ago, once I felt like I could move out from my brother’s house and face the days alone with her. Without her mother.
I think of the boxes in the basement. Helen’s things, or what remains of them. She whittled most of it down before she died. Any time she had a good day, she dragged at least one trash bag of clothes or accessories to the porch for the charity pickup.
Maybe that’s why the idea of helping a woman move in vexed me so. My phone rings and startles me. It’s not yet seven on a Sunday, so it’s either a dire emergency at work or else one of my nephews is in a bind.
Quickly walking to the dining room, I see Callum’s name on the screen.
I wince, and then feel bad for it. The boy is so much like his father.
Not even a boy, really. Hell, he’s 31 years old by now.
“You late for the family run?” I say by way of greeting.
Mick, the boys, and Orla hit the pavement early every Sunday.
The roads are too much for my old knees anymore and I typically do my miles on the wooded trails in the park.
“Uncle Kel,” Cal blurts. “The Bronc is dripping oil again. Can I borrow your driveway in like an hour?”
“Hmm,” I tell him. The last time Callum brought that rust bucket over, he left a spill that still hasn’t been mitigated. I try to remember what I’ve got in terms of drop cloth.
“Please? I’ll bring you a scone.”
They must be running in Frick Park, near my favorite bakery. “Only if they have the chocolate almond kind,” I tell him. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
I set about protecting the driveway and gathering the tools I think my nephew will need to keep his beloved Bronco running for another day.
No one in the family can understand his attachment to the ancient SUV, especially now that he lives in a fancy condo where I’m sure the affluent residents don’t much like him dripping oil in the parking garage.
I see the teen boy across the street standing at the top of their driveway, squinting around the neighborhood. I give a wave, but he mustn’t see because he doesn’t return the gesture. Soon enough, Cal rumbles into view and hops out of his vehicle nearly as soon as it groans to a halt.
“Hell, Uncle Kellen, you already got the ramps set up and everything.” He grins and tosses me a white paper bag from the bakery.
I lean against the garage, munching the treat while he slides underneath his car and sets to work.
It occurs to me that the neighbors must think I’m running an underground garage, with all the Brady kid car repairs this week.
“You think after I’m done here, Ferrari will hire me for their pit crew?
” He jokes as he works under the car. Callum is a mechanical engineer and has always had a particular love of automobile engines.
He was the only Cub Scout in Pittsburgh to win the Pinewood Derby five years in a row.
As the adult helping him build his cars, I’m proud to say I didn’t have much of a hand in his work.
The boy might be a mess, but he knows his moving parts.
I’m so wrapped up in admiring him, I almost don’t notice my new young neighbor stroll into my driveway until he speaks, not making eye contact. “Is that a fifth generation Ford Bronco?”
Cal wheels out from under the car. “Oh, hey, dude. You’re damn right it is. 1995.” He squints at the teen. “You like cars?”
The boy doesn’t answer, but frowns at Callum. “Are you a licensed mechanic?”
Cal laughs. “I’m a licensed mechanical engineer. Will that do?”
The teen’s face lights up. He sits on the driveway with his elbows on his knees as Cal slides back under the car. “This was the first Bronco to feature airbags,” he says.
I hear Cal groan and I laugh. The airbags are a family sticking point.
When he found this car in the junk lot, that was the first thing his father made him replace.
His mom still cringes when he drives it, despite my assurance that we found a suitable replacement.
I finish my treat while the boy and Cal talk about the features of Rusty, Cal’s nickname for his red beast.
“Jake?” I hear a woman calling frantically and look up to see my neighbor dashing across the street. The boy stands up and she clutches at her chest.
“Shit, you scared the hell out of me.”
I could say the same thing. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost when the slim woman with short, graying hair steps closer.
“Is that a euphemism?” He frowns at his mother and I stare at her, not wanting to admit she is who I suspect.
She drags him against her for a hug, muttering that he must always let her know where he’s going if he leaves the house.
I try not to judge, because he certainly looks old enough to wander the neighborhood on his own.
But the woman. She conjures up memories of sunscreen and cotton candy. Of wild nights riding roller coasters, and steamy explorations in my parents’ borrowed car. Can it be her?
“Elizabeth?” My voice comes out in a croak as she turns and smiles. It is her, and I know in her eyes that she remembers me, too.
“Kellen Brady,” she says. “It’s been a long time.”
We stare at each other in silence for a long beat as Jake peels out of his mother’s embrace and sits back down on the driveway. “Ha!” Cal yells. “Found it. Need to reseal the crankshaft.” He rolls out from under the car and stands. “Well, hello there.”
Neither Elizabeth nor I moves and Cal looks back and forth between us. “That your mom?” He tilts his chin at Jake, who nods.
“Can I see the crankshaft?”
Elizabeth blinks and shakes her head quickly. “Jake, no. You mustn’t bother the Bradys.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” I say, reaching for her arm to reassure her and freezing with my hand in the air. I can’t just casually touch Elizabeth Burns, like the past 30 years haven’t passed. Like she’s still mine to touch.
She swallows. “Machines, cars mostly, are a special interest of Jake’s,” she starts.
“Cool,” Cal says. “Me too. Obviously.” He gestures at the Bronco. Elizabeth grimaces.
“He tends to hyper focus. You really mustn’t feel like you need to let him—“
“I have Aspergers,” Jake says in a monotone voice, not turning his head as he tries to crawl under the Bronco. “Technically that term does not exist anymore, but some members of the autistic community still claim it as an identity label.”
Elizabeth closes her eyes as if she’s embarrassed.
Cal nods. “Well, it’s got ass and burger in the word, so that’s fun.
” He looks at Elizabeth. “Seriously, though, half the guys at our work are probably on the spectrum. If Jake wants to come pick my uncle’s brains about crankshafts, it’s really fine. ”
“Uncle?” Elizabeth looks at me, her eyes sharp. “I thought…” She shakes her head. “Forgive me. Let’s start again.” She holds a hand out toward Cal. “Elizabeth Gaston—“
“Burns,” Jake yells, his head under the vehicle.
She nods. “Right. I forgot again. Elizabeth Burns. We just moved in across the street.”
Cal pumps her hand. “Callum Brady. I just mooch my uncle’s driveway when the Bronc acts up.”
She squints at him and thinks for a bit. “If he’s your uncle, you must be…Mick’s boy. Is that right? Mick?”
Cal and I both roll our eyes. He says, “I apologize in advance for however it is you know my pop.” This gets a laugh out of her. I still can’t find the words to say anything.
Where to begin? How have you been for the past 30 years? Who did you marry and why are you changing your name back? Do you have other children? May I tell you all about my beloved wife, God rest her soul? Sorry again for anything inelegant I may have done with our bodies as teenagers?
Elizabeth tucks her light hair behind her ears.
It’s cut chin-length and suits her. Her face is the same as before, but wiser.
What must she have seen and experienced since we last were together?
I stare at her as these thoughts circle endlessly until she excuses herself and drags Jake home for breakfast.
Once they’re inside, my nephew thwacks me in the chest. I look down at his hand, startled again. That’s twice today he’s frazzled me. “Uncle Kel,” he says. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Into me?”
His eyes bug out. “You were, like, totally aloof. You didn’t even offer her tea or whatever.” He starts to clean up his things, handling my tools carefully for once. “Who is she?”
I clear my throat and help him clean up, wondering how best to explain Beth Burns to my nephew. “We used to work together at Kennywood,” I tell him, smiling at the memories of my teenage summers driving the train at the amusement park. “She ran the ticket counter.”
He grins. “No shit? Teen sweethearts? Is that what it’s called?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, why’d you break up? Cuz you met Aunt Helen?”
I sigh and shrug. “There was no reason,” I tell him.
I think again of riding the rides with Beth after the park closed for the night, after everyone else went home.
We’d sit in the back of the Thunderbolt and I’d kiss her as the bottom of the world dropped away, loving the rush of energy that came equally from the ride and the pleasure of being with her.
“I was going away to college,” I tell him. “She was going away to college.” I hold out my palms and shrug. “We didn’t keep in touch.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “From the looks of things, Uncle Kel, you’d like to touch her right now,” Cal says.
I smack his shoulder. “Watch your manners, son,” I say. If only you knew, I think.