Crunch

by Leslie Connor

  “A piece of art for Mr. Spivey?” I joked. That wall faced his yard.

  “Right! Just for him!” Lil laughed. “Pay him back for the pleasure of looking at his lovely junk pile.”

  Lil has always been intense about her art. Mom says she goes at it “body and soul,” and it’s true. She mixes paint, wood, metal—everything and anything she can get her hands on, from old timbers and windows to hinges to horseshoes. I like the stuff my sister makes. One of her best pieces started with something I’d given her.

  I’d found a bike out by the highway. It’d been dropped from a car, and probably run over—maybe more than once. It looked like tinfoil. But Lil took all the parts and she mangled and untangled, she hammered and she painted, and she created the coolest piece of kinetic art ever. Since it was pretty much all made out of bike parts, we hung it up over the entrance of the Bike Barn door.

  That’s where Mrs. Bertalli saw it when she’d brought her sons’ bikes to us for tune-ups. She’d gone wild. She’d hired Lil to do a piece for her on the spot. “Anything you want to make,” she’d said. “It’ll be the focal point for my patio garden. A freestanding sculpture!” That was Lil’s first sale.

  But the important part is that when Mrs. Bertalli’s home had been part of the town garden tour that summer, a big, full-color picture of Lil’s work had made it into an article in the Shoreline Weekly Sun. (I think Mrs. Bertalli made that happen.) From there, Lil’s art had caught on.

  Lil and I pulled off the highway and down our driveway. We let the bike down and sat in the shade for just a minute. “So, what if we cook up some bacon and tomatoes with barley tonight?” Lil said.

  “Oh my gosh, best thing! I forgot to tell you!” I said. “Pop and Mattie are coming to make chowder tonight.”

  “You’re kidding? Oh yes! Yes! This day doesn’t totally stink after all!” she said. She set to unpacking her supplies from the panniers. Then she paused. “This isn’t a pity supper, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They aren’t feeling sorry for us because Mom and Dad aren’t home, are they?”

  I laughed. “It’s clam chowder, Lil! Do you care why it’s coming?” Lil could go overboard on the whole “we can take care of ourselves” thing sometimes. “They had a good dig this morning,” I said. “And besides, Pop and Mattie are our friends. They come when Mom and Dad are here too. Plus, we’re providing everything but the clams.”

  “Hmm. Right.” Lil gathered up her supplies. “I’m serious, by the way. I’m starting on that mural. Today. Mark my words, there will be art!”

  9

  IN THE BIKE BARN, VINCE WAS LEANING OVER the workbench in the shop with a pile of pink work orders in front of him. He held a few of them in one hand.

  “Oh hey,” he said when he saw me. He thought for a second. “You made pretty good time.”

  “I had help. I picked up a rider on the way out.”

  Vince grinned. “A hitchbiker,” he said.

  I laughed, wishing I’d thought of it. “So, did it go okay?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Bertalli came in,” he told me in a slightly stick-it-to-me way.

  “No!” I said. I hated that I’d missed her, and my brother knew it.

  “Well, you’ll see her again,” he said. “She left Chris’s and Carl’s bikes for work.” The boys were rough riders. We saw their bikes often.

  “So what else?” I asked. I pointed to the papers in his hand. “What are those? Tough jobs? Do we need Dad for those?”

  “Yes. Well, I might be able to do them,” Vince said. I thought it was really cool of him not to completely give up. “But it’s parts, too.”

  “Yeah. We don’t have them. I’m going to have to take a trip out to Bocci Bike and Rec to buy parts,” I said.

  Vince grunted.

  “Not today,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about this. We need a new system. What’s that called when the hospital gets a whole bunch of people in at one time?”

  “Bloody?”

  “I mean when they have to divide them up. They decide who they can help, like who’s critical and who just needs to get patched up—”

  “Oh, triage!” Vince said.

  “That’s it. We have to triage these repairs.”

  Vince screwed up his face. “Organize them?” he said, and you’d have thought I’d asked him to roll in poison ivy.

  “Look, just take the next order you can do off the top and go start it. I’ll sort the rest out. And by the way, sorry about leaving you this morning. I’ll take care of everyone who comes in from now on.”

  Vince glanced at something over my shoulder. “Everyone,” he said.

  I turned around.

  It was our neighbor. Mr. Spivey.

  Sometimes Mr. Spivey actually asked for help rather than just helping himself. But even then it was more like being told what you were going to do for him. It was even a little like being yelled at about it. So when he said, “I’m going to need you to come over with that push mower today,” I understood him. He expected to borrow our mower, but he also expected a boy to come with it.

  I remembered to greet him. “Hello, Mr. Spivey,” I said. I thought to ask him if he’d enjoyed his sunny-side-up breakfast, but I skipped it. “I’d like to help you,” I lied. “But the mower is at a house over on Sandy Reach Road.”

  He stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest with his hands in his pits. Familiar stance. Next, he’d fling a hand forward and jab his finger at the ground like a pecking hen.

  “Well, when can I expect that back here?” he asked. Sure enough. There was the fling and the peck. He retucked his hands.

  “The mower?” I said. “We’d need a truck to get it. And gas. And of course if we had gas, you could run your own mower.” That last part might have sounded fresh. But I was just thinking out loud. I was also trying to think what Dad would do.

  “I can bring you our sheep, Gloria Cloud,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “She’ll graze that lawn for you.”

  Mr. Spivey thought about it. “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll need the big one instead. That one you’ve got in the back.”

  “Sprocket?” I said. “The billy goat?”

  Vince muffled a snort and ducked out toward the paddock.

  Mr. Spivey went on and I watched his bobbing finger. “The big one will eat more. Faster. I need that lawn taken down,” he said.

  “Mr. Spivey,” I said, “you really don’t want Sprocket. Billy goats can be bad company. Besides, he’s more of a brush cutter. Mass destruction. You’ve seen how he’s gnawed a ring in that old pine tree,” I added.

  He seemed to think it over while he gave me a hard squint. “Right then,” he finally said. “The sheep. You bring her over. I’ll need the dooryard done first.” He turned and walked out.

  I looked at the bike-repair orders in my hand. Triage, I thought. I sighed. The sooner I delivered Gloria Cloud, the sooner I’d get back to work. I went out through the paddock. As I passed Vince’s work stand he jabbed one finger toward the ground and said, “Now, I’m going to need that grazed on a diagonal.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. I hoisted myself over the fence in pursuit of Gloria Cloud.

  10

  IT SEEMED LIKE TEN MINUTES PASSED FROM THE time I tethered Gloria to a cinder block in Mr. Spivey’s yard until the time Vince left to get the twins from camp. The day was melting away. I felt a wave of panic. I hadn’t done a single repair. I had to get on top of things. Somehow.

  I grabbed the next order up. Mr. Gilmartin. He had a pretty upscale bike, but it wasn’t brand-new anymore. He really needed a new derailleur, but he’d already told me that he didn’t want to spend a lot for it. So I’d promised him I’d work with what was there.

  I stood staring at the bike. I was stuck.

  Whenever I get hung up on a job in the shop, I check Dad’s list of the Eight Rules That Apply to Fixing Almost Anything. (He also calls it his One-Page Bible for Bike Mechanics.) He keeps it
tacked to the Bike Barn wall. It’s rumply and all covered in grease spots. And it rarely fails me.

  1. RIGHT IS TIGHT. True for nuts, bolts, and screws, with few exceptions.

  2. USE PROPER TOOLS FOR THE JOB.

  3. AN OUNCE OF MAINTENANCE IS WORTH A POUND OF REPAIRS.

  4. RUST NEVER SLEEPS. Ask yourself where water might accumulate.

  5. STUDY THE PROBLEM. Understand how something works before you try to figure out why it isn’t operating correctly.

  6. TRY THE LEAST EXPENSIVE FIX FIRST. It’s often the solution.

  7. TAKE NOTES ON COMPLICATED JOBS. Consider how the thing was assembled in the first place.

  8. ONE REPAIR AT A TIME. Work on one problem at a time. Disassemble as little as possible.

  Reading the rules always reminds me that bikes are pretty simple machines—though that doesn’t mean fixing them is always a snap. Mr. Gilmartin had already directed me toward Rule Six—the least expensive fix. So, I went at it and I managed to work it out.

  When Vince came back with Angus and Eva, I couldn’t help crowing. “I took care of that Gilmartin job,” I told him. “And no new derailleur. I worked with what was there. Fixed his flat and his shifter cables, too. One more out the door,” I added.

  Vince gave me a nod. Not that impressed.

  It was a good afternoon. Nobody came to check in a bike during the heat of the day. So Vince and I worked steadily. Angus and Eva spent a while out back with Lil. Then they came in and stomped around the loft above the bike shop.

  Every so often I’d look up from the workbench and see a sweaty little face or hand appear at the Trap, as we called it. It was a basketball-size hole in the boards that we kept covered with an old toilet-seat lid on a hinge. The twins loved flipping it open, calling down to us, and dropping things through the hole. A handful of dandelions, three cherry tomatoes, and Angus’s left sneaker all rained down on my workbench that afternoon.

  Around four or five o’clock customers began to come for their bikes. This was the part I liked. A lot.

  “Oh, I’m so glad this place is here,” Mr. Chandra told me. He pressed a few extra bills into my hand and I thanked him.

  Old Mrs. Marrietta hiked in from the Post Road to pick up her cruiser. “One-stop shopping! I got my eggs, got my wheels. Enough walking for my old hips for today. Biking home will feel like flying! Thank you so much!”

  But Dad had warned me: You can’t please everyone.

  There I was proudly wheeling Mr. Gilmartin’s bike out of the shop for him. There he was changing into his biking shoes after probably a four-mile walk. He grinned when he saw his bike again.

  “Ahh…I sure have missed it,” he said.

  “Wish we could work faster,” I told him. “I think you’ll be set for a while longer. It’s going through its gears smoothly now. Your limit screws were off and your derailleur cage was bent. You’ve got new shifter cables, and I put a new inner tube on the front like we talked about. All in all, you still own a great bike.” I felt nervous about telling him the next part so I hesitated. “Look, I know that you declined, but I still recommend that new rear derailleur. This one is showing fatigue. The adjustments are temporary.”

  “Well, I know you tried to talk me into it,” he said with a doubtful sort of smile.

  “Right. Well you can always let us know if you change your mind.”

  “The Bike Barn always does good work,” he said. We never got tired of that compliment. I handed Mr. Gilmartin his itemized bill. He read the slip and immediately pulled his chin in. He gave me a sharp look. “Seems pretty steep,” he said.

  “Uh…well, parts have gone up,” I said. “But maybe I added wrong.” I reached for the tab to take a second look. But Mr. Gilmartin was still busy scrutinizing it.

  “Since when do shifter cables cost so much?” he wanted to know.

  Oh, crud. Here goes.

  “W-well, bike parts have…uh…they’ve taken a huge hit during the crunch.” The words went tripping over my lips.

  “So you said.” His volume went up. The look on his face could have killed mildew. “But this is preposterous,” he said.

  That’s when I felt my limbs drain.

  Mr. Gilmartin pressed on. “I know bikes well enough to know that this is something like triple what it should be. Same for the lousy derailleur cage. And the tube, too. Is your father here? I want to speak to him.”

  “H-he’s not,” I said.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Uh…it’s hard to say, Mr. Gilmartin. We’ve had some bad luck. He’s caught up north due to the outage—”

  “Then you’re going to have to explain this to me.” He shoved the tab at me and said, “I’m not satisfied.”

  I gulped. Stick to the facts, I thought. I took a breath. “We actually haven’t marked anything up. I’ll show you the invoices. We’re paying more too. We’ve kept our labor price at a minimum—”

  “I’m not talking about the labor price!” he said. “I’m talking about simple things that don’t even have moving parts!”

  “Sir, please let me show you our costs.” Finally, he followed me into the shop. I fumbled with the invoice. I showed him each line item, even though part of me felt like I shouldn’t have to. “You are right,” I said. “Some costs have tripled.”

  “I know I’m right. I just don’t see how it’s possible,” he said. He whipped his wallet out of his back pocket. “But you have me over a rail, haven’t you?” he said. “You know I’ll pay. I need the bike.”

  He did pay. Practically threw the bills at me.

  I walked him back outside. “We appreciate your business, Mr. Gilmartin. If you have any problems…well, we guarantee our work.”

  He never answered me.

  I leaned on the fence, waiting for my hollow limbs to fill again. “Well, that sure stunk,” I said to myself.

  “Hey, Dew.” Lil had come around from her side of the barn. She was covered in smudges—the sign of a good art day.

  “Hey,” I said. I flapped Gilmartin’s bills against the fence rail.

  “I’ve seen some happy people pedaling out of here,” she said. “Good job.” Then she called for Angus and Eva, who came running out of the shop as I went back inside.

  “Happy…except for that last one,” I mumbled.

  I didn’t want to tell Lil much about the Bike Barn. She had her thing to be in charge of while Mom and Dad were away, and I had mine. Of course it was in the back of my mind that Lil was ultimately in charge of Everything Marriss. The Bike Barn fell under that bigger umbrella and I knew she felt that way too. But as long as there were no problems, that wouldn’t come up.

  Gilmartin had paid and he was gone. I popped the lid off our peppermint tin. Couldn’t help but take a whiff. It still smelled of peppermints every time I opened it. There was a pretty good roll of bills in there, and I added Gilmartin’s to the coil. I was going to have to make another bank deposit soon. Dad had taught me how, and I liked biking up to the drive-through window. But I also liked another picture that I held in my mind: us kids handing Mom and Dad a good wad of cash—all from the Bike Barn—when they got home. Okay, me handing them the wad. Whatever. I just wanted them to know I’d done it; I’d kept the shop going with no major troubles.

  I set the tin on the back of the workbench. I leaned around the door to the paddock. “Vince,” I called, “you coming to help me with the pit fire? It’s time.”

  I was up for a huge meal. And no grouch was going to sour my chowder.

  11

  “THEY’RE HERE!” I HEARD LIL SING OUT.

  I looked up from the coals. Pop Chilly and Mattie were coming down our driveway. Pop pedaled his seniorcycle, as he called it—a big green tricycle with a tractor seat and a huge wire basket on the back—into the yard. Mattie rode her pale blue cruiser (with her new tire) and a creel on the front. She had her backpack on, and two long loaves of bread stuck up out of it behind her head.

  Lil ran to greet them. She
was happy to see Pop and Mattie, but she was still mad about her class being called off. “But I’m starting something here,” I heard her say as I got closer. “I’m not giving up just because of this rotten crunch.”

  Suddenly Pop called out, “Oh boy, here it comes! Quadruple trouble!” Goodness and Greatness came wagging. Angus and Eva followed. They climbed straight up onto Pop Chilly’s seniorcycle.

  “Hello, stinkers!” Pop said. “Don’t tip me over!” (Impossible. The trike was as stable as a mountain. The thing had running boards.) Pop took one twin onto each knee and hugged them up. Old Goodness stood by politely woofing under his breath while Greatness licked Pop’s ankle.

  “What’s that on my foot?” Pop said.

  “That’s Greatie’s tickle torture,” Angus said.

  Mattie laughed. “We’d have to debate who’s being tortured there, I think.” She shrugged her way out of her backpack. I stepped up to take it from her and the smell of French bread reached all the way down to my hungry gut.

  “Hey, hey!” Vince called. He came striding out of the house with a jug of iced tea and set it on the picnic table.

  “Hey, hey, yourself!” Mattie called back.

  Pop Chilly hefted the clam bucket down from the trike before any of us could offer to help. “Strong as an ox, I am,” he said, and it was true.

  Lil set to chopping onions. Pop sat scrubbing potatoes over a bucket while Eva clung to his back and talked in his ear. Mattie, Vince, and I set to checking the clams for a tight seal.

  Twice I had to stop, wash seawater off my hands, and log in bikes for repairs. “Is there any chance I can pick up tomorrow morning?” one guy asked. Vince rolled his eyes at me from behind the guy’s back.

  We had the onions sizzling in the bacon fat when one more person arrived. But this guy didn’t bring a broken bike with him. He came dragging in on foot like a lost dog come off the highway. But he wasn’t lost. He meant to be right where he stood, five feet in front of me.