Migrators (7 page)

Alan reached down and handed Bob a rag.

“I’m Alan.”

“I remember.”

Alan nodded. “Yeah, I was trying to get this last nut off but I just stripped it.”

“You have a torch?”

“Pardon?”

“A little propane torch?”

“Yeah, around here somewhere, sure.”

“I have a trick,” Bob said.

X • X • X • X • X

They sat in folding chairs in front of an old sheet carefully stretched out on the driveway. On the sheet they’d laid out all the parts of the engine that they’d removed—cylinder, carburetor, pistons, camshaft, and dozens of nuts, bolts, and washers. In the center of it all sat the broken piston. The flat surface of the piston was marred by a jagged hole.

Alan leaned forward.

“How do you think it happened?” Bob asked.

“I don’t know,” Alan said. “Maybe the metal just got brittle? Maybe it was a bad piston to begin with?”

“Where are you going to get the new one?”

“I have no idea,” Alan said. “I just started this project on a whim. I’m not allowed to do much around here.”

Bob chuckled.

“Hey—I’m sorry to interrupt your jog,” Alan said.
 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bob said. “I mostly just jog to get away from the house for a bit. This was a more interesting diversion than running the same roads again.”

Alan leaned back in his chair and looked up at the sky. The sun was nearly overhead now—they’d been working on the engine for hours.

“You know what would go good right now?” Alan asked. He answered his own question. “A beer.”

“You have any?” Bob asked.

“Does the pope shit in the woods?”

Alan was walking back inside while Bob was still laughing. He came back with two bottles. He handed one to Bob and they clinked the necks before they each took a sip.
 

“I should put all this shit away. It’s supposed to rain this afternoon. Wouldn’t do to get all this rusty old boat garbage wet,” Alan said.

“It’s in pretty good shape for its age. All you need is a new piston, right?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, probably. I’d feel better if I knew where the missing piece of that piston went to, and why it went missing,” Alan said.

Bob shrugged.
 

“I can probably find a new one online,” Alan said.

“You know where the Knowles road is?”

“Yeah, maybe. Off the Manchester Road?”

“You can go that way. It’s not the fastest, but sure. There’s a guy over there named Clough. He has a little engine place. I bet he has a piston for you. Get a set of rings for it while you’re there.”

“I don’t have one of those tools they talk about in the book to put the new clips in though,” Alan said.

“I bet you can just use a screwdriver.”

“C-L-U-F-F? Is that how he spells it?”

“C-L-O-U-G-H,” Bob said. He tipped back his beer and drained it. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to put this shit away and then I was thinking I’d mow the grass, but it’s going to rain. I don’t know.”

“Pick me up in a couple of hours and I’ll take you over to Clough.”

“I don’t want to put you to all that trouble,” Alan said.

“No trouble at all,” Bob said. “It will be fun.”

“Cool, thanks,” Alan said. Bob stood up and began to stretch his legs. “And thanks for the help with the engine.”

“Consider it payment for the beer,” Bob said.

Alan sat in his chair as Bob jogged down the drive and out of sight. Alan took another sip.

X • X • X • X • X

As he pulled the big green truck to a stop, Alan’s foot slipped on the clutch and they bucked to a halt. Bob braced himself on the dashboard.

“Sorry,” Alan said.

Bob was smiling.

They got out and crossed the gravel drive towards the barn. The sign over the big door read, “Clough’s Machines.” Alan followed Bob’s gaze over to a big engine block, hanging by thick ropes from the limb of an oak tree near the shop. Alan followed Bob through the door of the barn. The floor was concrete and stained by a million patches of oil. It was warm inside, and smelled of supple leather.

A man wearing stained blue coveralls was hunched over a workbench mounted to the wall.

Bob approached with Alan following close behind.

“Afternoon, Roger,” Bob said.

Roger turned around and assessed him.

“Well, hello. If it isn’t that new guy from the Location Road. What’s broke this time?” Roger asked. “Need another piece of titanium milled, do ya?”

“My friend needs a piston,” Bob said. He gestured to Alan.

Alan carried the impaled piston in a plastic grocery store bag. He pulled it out and handed it towards Roger.

“That’s a Johnson, I gather?” Roger asked. He took the piston and turned it over with knotty fingers.

Alan looked at Bob with surprised eyes. Bob shrugged back.

“How did you know?” Alan asked.

Roger laughed. It was a dry, whistling sound that undulated with his pulsing belly. “You’re living with ghosts,” he said eventually.

Alan cocked his head as he watched Roger tap his pipe against the corner of his bench. Something about the coveralls and pipe, or maybe the man’s beard with white streaks at the corners of his chin, made him look older. He looked like a father or a grandfather—someone who would command respect when he rose to speak at a town meeting. But he wasn’t that old. He probably wasn’t any older than himself, Alan decided. This was a man who couldn’t just tell you the time or the weather, he had to make a big production of the delivery, commanding everyone’s attention as he did.

“So can you get one?” Alan asked, cutting through Roger’s performance and getting right to the point.

Roger wasn’t done with his production yet. He clamped his pipe in the corner of his mouth and pushed off his stool. He was headed for a big metal rack against the wall. He talked as he walked.

“You see, you rolled up in the Colonel’s green truck. Can’t be more than four of those big green monstrosities in all of New England, and none of them as pretty as the one you drove up in.” With both hands, Roger grabbed a big box from the shelf and turned. He hugged it to his chest as he turned. “The Colonel had the whole thing completely repainted—top-of-the-line job—not more than twelve years ago when the dealership had a lawsuit against them. He didn’t have so much as a scuff on a door panel, but he had them do it anyway. Said it was the principle. They sold him an undercoat and he was damn well going to get his undercoat. I think everyone else just took the money. Nobody but the Colonel could keep a truck looking that good for forty years.”

Roger set the box down on his bench and picked at an envelope taped to the top. He peeled the envelope off and handed it to Alan. Alan turned it over and read Roger’s name.

“What’s this?”

“That’s the note the Colonel left me, asking me to order him a rebuild kit for his Johnson. It includes pistons, rings, gaskets, you name it. It’s been sitting on my shelf there for years.”

“I just need the piston,” Alan said. He saw Bob glance at him quizzically, and understood the sentiment behind that look—why not take all the parts in case he needed them? But Alan was sick of being bossed around by a dead Colonel, and this box of parts felt like yet another intrusion. If the Colonel wanted someone to rebuild the whole thing, he should have thought of that before he came down with cancer.

“Piston comes with the kit,” Roger said. He looked confused.

“Then could you order me just a piston?” Alan said.

“This is already paid for,” Roger said. “The Colonel prepaid. I know I should have delivered it over to the house, but I wasn’t sure anyone was there to receive it.”

“If the Colonel bought it, then perhaps he should claw his way out of the grave and shove it up his ass sideways,” Alan said. “I just need the piston.”

Roger didn’t move. He just stood there, looking confused. Alan felt a little satisfaction at having knocked Roger out of his comfort zone. These locals liked to make sport of the newcomers. Alan enjoyed setting Roger back on his heels a bit.
 

“We’ll take the kit,” Bob said.

Alan shot him a look.

“Since it’s already paid for,” Bob said. He stepped past Alan and picked up the box from the bench. “Come on, Alan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alan called back over his shoulder as he followed Bob.

Bob set the box in the bed of the truck and climbed into the passenger’s seat. For once, Alan’s foot found the sweet spot on the clutch and they pulled out smoothly.

When they pulled back onto the Knowles Road, Bob began to chuckle under his breath. Alan looked at Bob and smiled. The chuckle was infectious. Before they’d topped the big hill, both men were laughing.

“You kinda went red zone back there,” Bob said.

“Yeah, but that guy had it coming,” Alan said. “Trying to give me a box of free parts. What was he thinking?”

Bob laughed harder.

“My dad is the same way,” Bob said. “I go over to his house to help him put in a new light or whatever. Suddenly he’s got all kinds of opinions on how it should be done. I mean, if he was capable of putting in the damn light, why am I even there?”

“If I were competing with an actual guy, it might be a fair fight,” Alan said. “But I’m trying to live up to my wife’s memory of the perfect man’s man, you know? The Colonel could do no wrong. It’s bad enough from her, but then I have to get it from this Clough guy too?”

“He does seem somewhat like a local legend,” Bob said.

Alan nodded. He chuckled once more but then their laughter was replaced with silence.

Bob broke the silence. “I mean, I can see why, if he could fit one of those pistons up his ass sideways.”

The truck weaved as Alan laughed. He hadn’t laughed that hard in months.

X • X • X • X • X

SEPTEMBER 18

THEY HAD three days of rain.
 

It was a cold, blowing rain so Alan was finally allowed a presence at the bus stop. He and Joe sat in the old green truck with the heat on, waiting for the bus to come. The splattering rain was hypnotic.

“You want me to just drive you to school?” Alan asked.

“No, that’s okay,” Joe said. “It would take too long.”

“Even in this old truck, I’m faster than the bus,” Alan said.

“I mean it would take too long dropping me off,” Joe said. “The cars of the ‘People from Away’ line up all the way to the road. It takes them forever to pull up and let the kid out and then go. We watch them sometimes from the upstairs window.”

“What do you mean, ‘People from Away’?”

“You know, like us.”

“We’re from away?”

“It’s what everyone calls people who aren’t from here. If you’re from away then your mom drops you off. The bus isn’t good enough for those kids.”

“I hope you’re not making fun of those kids, Joe.”

“No, Dad. Except for taking the bus, I am one of those kids.”

“Do the other kids make fun of you?”

“I’m friends with Lee. Nobody makes fun of Lee’s friends.”

“Okay,” Alan said as the bus pulled to a stop.

“Bye, Dad.”

Alan waited for the bus to pull away before he turned the green truck around. He pulled into the barn and left wet tire tracks on the packed-dirt floor. Rain splashed from the door as he shut it behind himself. Alan wondered if the Colonel had ever taken the green truck out in the rain. He glanced around the solid posts that held up the barn and wondered if somewhere there was a towel labeled “truck rag,” hanging from one of them.

He returned to his shed. In the little alcove near the door, Alan had set up his operating room. He had the big sheet laid out and all the outboard motor parts arranged again. He replaced them with the new parts from the kit. In a special place on top of a bench, the binder was open to the section describing the rebuild process. Alan was working on the third step. He was supposed to guarantee the flatness of the cylinder head assembly. A big sheet of glass was his reference surface and he worked the metal across a sheet of sandpaper to try to bring it back to flat.
 

“I think that’s pretty good,” Alan said, checking the metal against a flat bar of metal.
 

Alan moved to step four.

The process itself wasn’t difficult or even very time-consuming, but the manual assumed a level of expertise that Alan didn’t posses. Each step and sub step required Alan to retreat to online videos and further research before he could fully understand what was expected of him. He scanned ahead. The next few steps looked easy.

Alan turned on the radio and zoned out. Now that everything was cleaned and prepared, the assembly progressed quickly. His array of parts on the sheet evaporated and the engine came together. As he waited for the gasket sealant to dry, Alan had a brainstorm. He put on his slicker and rolled the big plastic trash can out to the driveway under the shed’s gutter. All the rain collected from the shed’s gutter pounded into the can. Alan went back into the shed and mounted some scrap wood to the handles of his dolly.

His stomach and the clock agreed—it was lunch time. Alan only had one more big step. He had to torque the nuts for the cylinder. He walked in a circle around the engine as he thought. He could guess at the torque, but that wasn’t the right thing to do. He didn’t have any feel for how tight those nuts should be, and he suspected they all wanted to be approximately the same tightness for the engine to work properly. He could go into town and buy a torque wrench. It seemed like a silly expense for one minor job. For a fraction of a second he considered trucking the whole thing over to Roger Clough’s shop to have him torque the bolts. He laughed the thought away as it formed.

Alan’s eyes stopped on a little metal box sitting on the rail of the wall’s framing. It was roughly the same color as the unfinished wood. It must have been overlooked by whatever cousin had made off with the Colonel’s tools, Alan figured as he pulled it down to his bench. He flipped the clasp and looked at a long socket wrench. One end had a dial, marked in foot-pounds.

“Dumb fucking luck,” Alan whispered. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see a laughing prankster, waiting for his reaction.