Twenty-five #2
“What sort of engine does it have?” Frances asked.
“Glad you asked,” the salesman said, because apparently, he was very glad they asked anything.
He reached under the hood to open it. It didn’t budge.
He went to the driver’s door to open it and presumably pop the hood, but the door didn’t open, either.
“Let me try the other side,” he said, and jogged around the car to the passenger side.
“It was a disaster,” Marcy said, answering her question. “Not at first. At first, I was making money. But then I lost everything. My friends, too. He ripped us all off.”
“Pardon?” The salesman was back.
“It is a four- or six-liter engine?” Frances asked.
“Four,” he said, and opened the passenger door.
“And what about trunk space?”
“That’s the best thing about a Ford. Great trunk space.” He started for the back of the car.
Frances turned and blocked Marcy’s path. “Wouldn’t you like to see him pay for it?”
“Yes, but … like in a court of law.”
“Because they are so efficient and fair,” Frances mused.
“Well …” Marcy’s eyes darted past Frances.
“Ladies, come have a look at how roomy the back is. You could put an entire body in here,” the salesman said, and laughed at his tasteless joke.
“There is a lot about life you are too young yet to understand,” Frances said low as they ambled to the back of the car to look at trunk space.
“But women who have lived into their seventies? They get it. Now, instead of worrying about how fragile your grandmother is, perhaps you could get to really know her and at the same time learn for yourself just how brilliant and fierce she is rather than hoping I will give you some juicy tidbit about her.” She turned from Marcy, bent over to have a look at the trunk space, then straightened.
She pulled her phone out of her bag. “Thank you, kind sir, but I don’t think either is a good fit for us. ”
“Wait, what?” the salesman asked, sputtering a little. “If this doesn’t suit you, I’ve got other cars—”
“No, thank you.” Frances sent a text, then looped her arm through Marcy’s again.
“Where are we going?”
“To make a deal,” Frances said.
They walked out to the street and down to the corner.
“Where?” Marcy asked again.
“Just wait,” Frances said.
A few minutes later, Skinner and Todd pulled up at the corner. Todd rolled down his window and Skinner leaned across. “Hey, Rose,” he said.
Marcy tried to pull back, but Frances opened the back panel door of the beat-up van and peered inside. “Come along, Marcy,” she said, and climbed in, crawling over tools and debris in the floor of the van to the seat behind Skinner.
Marcy followed her, silent and wary. But when she shut the panel door, Frances leaned forward and patted Skinner on his shoulder. “Thank you so much. I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot, Grams.”
“How much would you take for the van? Because that man back there says he has a Ford that can’t be beat.”
Skinner eyed her in the rearview mirror. “Has he got a truck? Covered bed?”
Marcy turned back and surveyed the lot before they drove away. She looked at Frances and nodded.
“He does indeed have a truck.”
Skinner and Todd looked at each other. “Let’s talk,” Skinner said.
“Back at the house, if you don’t mind.” Frances tried to keep the smile from her lips, but she’d just hit on two brilliant ideas. Skinner’s van was perfect for what they needed.
And so was Marcy.
At the house, Frances sent Marcy inside, then scooted up so she could see both Todd and Skinner in the front seat.
“Rose?” Skinner said. “You look like a Golden Girl with something on her mind.”
“Yep. It’s called a deal,” she said, and proceeded to tell him how much she was willing to give him to buy that truck on the lot—or any lot, if he found what he was looking for—so she could have his van.
Skinner surprised her a little—she thought she was being very generous, but he haggled over the price. In the end, however, they had a deal. Frances then asked if he and Todd could do a little shopping for her.
“Let’s see the list,” Todd said. They were the first words he’d spoken.
Frances handed him the list, which he took with a beefy hand and looked over. After a moment, he nodded. “Home Depot has gloves on sale right now.”
Skinner leaned over to have a look. “You’re not going to off anyone, are you, Rose?”
“Not this trip. One last thing—do you happen to have an in with a shady mechanic or a chop shop? It’s easier to pay someone to do the work I need these days.” She held up a hand and stretched her fingers wide, then closed them into a fist. “Arthritis.”
Skinner looked at Todd. Todd gave him one curt nod. “We got you, Grammy.”
“Excellent. Perhaps we can pay a call when you get your truck.” She reached for the panel door. “Text me.”
“Sure thing,” Skinner said. “Hey, I’m going to send you a link to my page so you can give our ride share a rating. Building business, you know.”
Her phone immediately pinged with the link. “Talk soon,” she said, and climbed out of the van.
She was feeling exhausted suddenly, but there was much more to do. She and Marcy needed to buy some groceries. She had to determine if Marcy could cook, because they needed food. And she needed a nap and some meds.
So much to do. So little time.