7. Rhodes
SEVEN
Rhodes
Over-Restoration: Replacing what could have been repaired, in the belief that new is safer than old. The most common damage done to historic New Orleans houses is not neglect.
"The Pelicans are down six with the third quarter winding out," the announcer says. I can't believe Zion Williamson passed the ball away. He should have shot the goddamned ball. Our one chance to maybe win a game, and he fucking shits the bed. Christ.
I've got my feet up on the arm of the couch, a bag of pretzels on my chest, and I’m watching the game from yesterday even though I know the outcome. My phone buzzes, startling me for a second.
I flip it over to see Deuce's name.
leg day. 2:00. you in, or you gonna cry about it again
I only cry when I have to see your face. You gonna load 495 again and not tell me?
you loaded it, princess
beer after. that place on st. charles
If you're buying.
i bought last time
You bought the dollar beers at The Hole. Not the same thing.
I snort. On screen, somebody drives the lane and gets hammered, no call, and the announcer makes a wounded sound like he took the elbow himself.
2 works. Don't be late. You're always late.
i'm never late, you're just early like an old man
See you at 2:15, then.
The phone dings again before I've got it back down. This time it's Ridge.
Are you around this week?
I look at it longer than five words deserve. It's the third time in two weeks he wants to see me, and he still hasn't said what it is. I'm not going to be the one who asks twice.
Busy week. I've got a book to finish and a paper to write. Senior year is no joke.
You're not too busy to come in and talk to me.
I turn the phone face down on my chest because I'm not in the mood for my oldest brother to tell me what I am.
The pretzel bag crinkles when I set it on my stomach.
Tallulah comes through from the hall, the strap of her bag hitched up over one shoulder. She's got a water bottle in the same hand, same as always. Her hair is pushed back behind her shoulders, still damp at the ends. She doesn't slow down.
"Jo's outside," she says, already angling for the door. "See ya."
"Later," I tell her, and I stay right where I am.
Things are mostly settled now. She's stopped bucking me like a wild horse, and I'm done with my constant second-guessing everything I do and say. We coexist, which is the point. The door opens on a wedge of gray light, then shuts behind her.
Outside, an engine idles, then pulls off the curb and rolls down the street.
The house goes quiet, just the announcer murmuring about a timeout.
I pretty much have her school schedule down, and neither of us has discussed it.
I notice when she comes and goes. It's Tuesday.
She's got bio at eleven and lab after, and she'll be back around three, maybe a little later if the lab runs long or she goes to do something after class, and then she has her meeting tonight.
I lie there with all of it sitting in my head, and I didn't reach for a single piece of it. It built itself while I wasn't paying attention, a whole map of her day folded up neat where I can find it.
I keep the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling.
On the television, the Pelicans jog back onto the floor, still losing, worse now, and it's obvious they aren't coming back. Why do they do this to me?
The Land Cruiser's out there, same spot in the driveway, parked crooked with the back end swung wide because that's how she left it the last time it ran. A week ago now, on a Tuesday.
I get up to refill my water, and I look at it again through the front glass. I carry the pretzel bag to the kitchen and look at it a third time on the way back. Faded blue paint, dust gone gray on the windshield, one tire I don't love the look of.
She told me what was wrong with it a week ago, with grease still on her knuckles, and hasn't brought it up since. No plan, no shop, not a ride to a shop.
And I haven't asked, because that's the point. She doesn't want me running her errands or making her calls, and asking about the car is one short step from doing something about the car. So I let it sit, and so does she.
I drop back onto the couch with four minutes left in the game I recorded yesterday. I make it about ninety seconds.
A dead starter is not a mystery. It's a Tuesday problem I could've had solved by Wednesday. The thing's taking up curb space and collecting dust, and looks like shit sitting out there, if I'm completely honest.
I've got a free day until I meet Deuce at two o'clock, and I've known engines since before I was old enough to drive one. Leaving a car dead when I have nothing else to do but watch the Pelicans lose again, when I can fix it in a couple of hours tops, is just stupid.
That's all it is, me being practical. I get up and pull her key off the hook by the door.
February light comes at me thin and bright when I step out. It's not frigid, but it's a chilly morning. The Cruiser's door handle is cold enough to bite. I fold down into the seat, knees up around the wheel, and turn the key.
Click. One hard, flat click with nothing behind it.
"Yeah," I tell it. "Figured."
I find the hood release and go to the front. The latch is stiff, then it gives, and I prop the hood on the rod. Dust and old oil, the smell that lives in every engine bay that's seen a few years.
The battery terminals are clean enough. I grab each cable and give it a hard wiggle. Nothing moves. I climb back in and try the key again.
Click.
Nothing else, no crank, no slow, dragging attempt to turn over, but the dash lights stay bright.
I stare through the windshield for a second. If the battery connection looks good, it could still be a weak battery, but that click has me thinking starter.
I get out, walk back to the front, lean on the edge of the truck, cold metal under my palms, and do a careful pass over the engine looking for anything else out of place.
One call, and there's a truck here inside an hour, the Cruiser at a shop before lunch, a bill I'd never mention. That's the Stone move, throwing money at a thing until it disappears, taking the whole of it off her plate whether she asked or not.
This is different. This is just a wrench on a car outside my own house.
I drop the hood shut and head in for my keys.
The parts store smells like rubber and oil. I know the aisle before I'm through the door, and I've got the box in my hand before the kid in the red polo looks up from his register.
"Just the starter?"
"Yep, hopefully that'll do it for today."
He rings it up, I pay cash, and I'm pulling back into my driveway within thirty minutes of deciding to do this.
Walking inside, I change into old jeans and a tank and throw a flannel on over it. I roll the floor jack out of the garage, grab the socket set and a pair of stands, then chock the Cruiser’s back tires.
At least the driveway is flat. I slide the jack beneath the front.
The jack finds the front crossmember, and I pump the handle until the nose comes up. Slower than a dirt bike. A hell of a lot heavier.
I slide a stand under each side of the frame, lower the Cruiser onto them, then leave the jack snug beneath the front end as backup. I grab the frame and give the whole thing a hard shake.
Nothing moves. It's good enough.
Dropping onto the creeper, I shove the socket set beside me and roll underneath.
The cold pavement comes through my back almost immediately, but five minutes of fighting for leverage takes care of that.
The flannel starts pulling tight across my shoulders every time I reach overhead, and by the third time the sleeve catches against the creeper, I've had enough.
I roll back out, strip it off, and toss it onto the lawn before going back under.
I find the starter and work the ratchet into position.
The first bolt fights me hard enough to burn through my forearm before it finally gives.
Grease works under my nails and into my knuckles.
The socket slips once and takes skin off my wrist.
I reset it and keep going. My hands remember this better than they should, but not from dirt bikes. Under here, I'm back working on the old Corvette with a man who used to make room for a kid everybody else seemed too busy to notice.
Vin’s hand reaches through the memory, unwelcome, guiding mine deeper into the engine bay of his sixty-something Corvette.
"Not that one, the one behind it," he would guide me, teaching me how to know my way around an engine.
I can almost smell that garage again. Oil, metal, whatever ancient shit he kept stacked on every shelf because Vin never met an antique he didn’t think needed saving. I remember both of us wedged over the same wheel well, greasy to our elbows and cussing a bolt neither of us could break loose.
When it finally gave, he laughed and so did I. It's one of those good memories from my childhood, and I hate that he's connected to it. My hand stops on the ratchet.
That is the part that turns my stomach. It's not remembering him, but that I can’t control when my brain drags him up. I fucking hate that some piece of me still remembers what it was like to love the bastard after what he did to Dad, after what he did to all of us.
My grip tightens until the ratchet digs into my palm. He doesn't get to live in my head like this.
I break the starter free, drag it out, and shove it onto the pavement beside me. Then I grab the replacement and get back to work.
I'm running the last bolt home when I hear an engine slowing out on the street, a truck I don't know coming down toward the house.
I slide partway out from under the Cruiser as an old pickup pulls up behind me. I push the rest of the way out on the creeper, my elbows scraping concrete, and get my feet under me.
The passenger door opens, and Tallulah steps out, hours before she's due. On the other side, a guy climbs out of the driver's seat. He's young, wearing work boots, canvas pants stained at the knees, and a hoodie shoved up his forearms. He comes around the front of the truck.