Crunch

by Leslie Connor

  “The job’s not done anyway,” Mr. Spivey said, his finger jabbing at the ground. “The grass is still tall in the back! I’m gonna need—”

  “Hey! Enough!” Macey boomed like thunder. “You hear me? You asked someone to come get the animal and she’s done that,” he said. “Don’t let me hear you say another thing—unless it’s thank you.”

  Fat chance. We didn’t get thank-yous out of the Spive. Ever.

  “Are we clear?” Macey called down.

  Our neighbor retreated to his back porch without answering. We heard the door slam.

  I knew I was clear—clear that being friends with two cops was going to be even better than being friends with one. Maybe he was a little gruff. But I liked Officer Macey.

  We took a short ride out to the highway. It was a great way for Robert to get a feel for his new bike. I got my chance to chase Macey—just a little. He set a good pace. Just when I thought I might pass him, the siren on his copsicle sounded a sharp Whoop! Whoop!

  “Busted!” he called. “Speeding!” I dropped back behind him, laughing.

  Meanwhile, Robert pedaled up beside me and said, “Oh yeah! It’s a deal, Dewey! I have found my ride!”

  A net of darkness began to fall. Runks and Macey lit our way. Their bike lights were as bright as a car’s headlights.

  When we stopped back in our yard, the copsicle lights shone on the Bike Barn door. Angus and Eva ran through the beams. Their shadows shrank and grew against the old boards.

  “See my wings!” cried Eva. “I’m a bird!”

  “I’m a dino!” Angus shouted. Then Goodness’s shaggy dog shadow loped in from the side, followed by Greatness’s sleek one. Angus’s shadow ran away then came back again carrying a branch. “A tree! A tree for your bird, Eva!” He put the branch over his head.

  “Do that again, Angus!” Lil called. “That’s beautiful!” She put her curled hands up to her eyes like a pair of binoculars. I’d seen her do it before. I knew she was seeing something for her art.

  Since Runks and Macey were heading back toward town they agreed to escort Pop and Mattie home.

  “See you at camp tomorrow morning,” Mattie said to the twins.

  “Just like…yesterday!” Angus said.

  “And like today,” Eva added.

  Meanwhile, Robert Deal paid me in cash and I added the money to our fancy cash register. I duct-taped a flashlight to his handlebars and Vince clipped a reflector onto the back of his shirt.

  “We can’t have you getting hit by another biker,” I said, and I forced a chuckle. I wasn’t sure it was funny, but Robert gave me a grin.

  “Boy, am I glad I stopped you on that tandem today,” he said. He swung up onto his new bike and began to roll.

  “Come back anytime!” I called after him as he rode away. “And get a helmet! Tomorrow!”

  He waved and I heard him call, “Thanks, Dewey!”

  Robert was just down the driveway and out of sight when I heard the telephone ringing inside our house. I pushed the barn door closed and squeezed the padlock until it clicked. Then I ran for the phone.

  “Is everyone staying healthy? Are you eating all right?” Dad asked. Together he and Mom asked a thousand questions about us kids, especially the twins. “We’re fine!” Lil said. “Today wasn’t any different than yesterday.” That part was sad when it came to Lil personally. Mom and Dad were sorry to learn that her class in Elm City was off.

  “It’s just unlucky,” Lil said, but again, I knew she was toughing it out. She covered by launching into the news that she was starting the new mural, and I heard her ask Mom about some paint, and Dad something about using the compressor to spray-paint.

  I could only assume she meant the same compressor that we used in the bike shop every day to pump flats and blow gunk out of bearing sets. The only compressor. I scrunched my brow at Vince. He let a puff of air through his lips and whispered, “Kiss that baby good-bye.”

  But soon Lil was asking about Mom and Dad. “We want to know how you are,” Lil told them. We all crowded up to listen.

  “We’re all right,” Mom said. “Still sleeping in the tent and paying for showers at the truck stop. There are other people in our same situation. The stops to the south must be much more crowded. So maybe we’re lucky that way. They let us charge up the phone, and we watch the news at the diner here. And boy, no rain in sight, huh?” She asked about the garden and the goat girls, but then she asked about us again and again.

  Mom relaxed a little when we said we’d seen Pop and Mattie and that we’d eaten a big supper together, and Runks had visited. We put the twins on the phone. They passed the receiver back and forth. I kept hearing Angus say, “But do you think there will be some diesel tomorrow?”

  Finally, I got a turn to talk and I told Dad about selling the bike to Robert Deal. “Oh, well done!” he said. “Was it busy again today?”

  “It was,” I said, and I flashed on the Gilmartin incident for a split second. “But nothing we can’t handle,” I added. Vince threw himself in front of my face and crossed his eyeballs at me. He pretended to choke himself and die on the floor right there in the kitchen. I turned my back on him. “I can’t even remember, but I think seven or eight bikes went back out today,” I said. “And Dad, I’m probably going to have to make a run to Bocci’s for parts soon. How do we usually pay him? Can I take him cash?”

  “Sure. Bocci likes cash just fine,” Dad said. “But Dewey, what are you running out of? Has there really been that much business?”

  “Dad,” I said, “it is so cool. We’re the ones putting everybody back on the road.”

  14

  THE NEXT MORNING, ANGUS AND EVA AND I pedaled to Sea Camp as usual, except that I had hitched the carrier to my bike. I had a roll of dough in my pocket and I was going to pick up parts at Bocci Bike and Rec. There were just too many jobs in the shop that we couldn’t do because we needed this part or that part.

  With the twins settled at camp, I cooked down the Post Road and got on the highway at Featherbed Lane. We were in for another hot one. The empty carrier wheeled along easily behind me. I’d be using my legs—big-time—all the way home. For now, I rode the left lane, passing pretty much everyone. I couldn’t help thinking, Eat my dust!

  Timing is everything. A pack of cyclists on road bikes began to pass me on the left. They zipped by in their purple-and-white jerseys, heads and shoulders bent over their handlebars.

  “Team Bocci!” I whispered to myself. I pedaled harder—for about a nanosecond. Then I watched as they continued down the highway. Talk about dust. They were soon out of view. I’d see them at the store. But not for a while.

  I pedaled on. I listened for diesels. One tiny electric surprised me as it hummed by. I had to smile. They were cute, efficient cars. Dad had said we’d be seeing more of them. Vince called them wheelie pods. Around our house, the name had stuck.

  Poor Vince. I’d left him alone in the shop again. “Just like yesterday…” he’d sort of sung it to me as I was leaving. I’d told him, “We can’t clear bikes if we don’t have parts.”

  I followed several other riders into the parking lot at Bocci. No cars.

  “Ah, young Mr. Marriss!” Mr. Bocci had an Italian accent that rang like a welcome bell. “And with a trailer, I see.” He held the door open while two people rode brand-new bikes right out of the showroom onto the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Mr. Bocci,” I said. Then, because it seemed the natural thing to say, I asked, “How are sales?”

  “Good.” He wiped his brow. “Terribly good!” He laughed. “You want a job?” He was probably kidding. I wasn’t even sure it was legal for a fourteen-year-old kid to have a real job.

  “Uh, well, thanks. But we’re terribly busy, too.” I stole his line. “I’m looking for parts, if you can help me,” I said. “I tried to get here early. I know you’re busy. But I’m on my own—well, with my brother. My dad is stranded up north.”

  “Yes, yes.” His brow creased. “This is th
e kind of news I hear. Come on in, young Mr. Marriss.” He led me to the back of the shop.

  As he read the list he gave it a few sharp whacks with the side of his pen. “Okay. Yes-yes. I have these crank sets. Oh, these…not sure. We’ll check this model. Brake shoes, no problem.”

  A couple of the mechanics looked up to say hello. They knew me. Sort of. I’d been in with Dad before, back in the days of free-flowing gasoline. Now I tried not to look like the annoying kid down from Rocky Shores just wanting to grab up parts.

  Most of Team Bocci’s riders were either in sales or worked as mechanics. A couple of those guys hadn’t even gotten out of their purple cycling jerseys, but already they were working on bikes. Tools flashed. Wheels spun. They were fast and good at what they did.

  “Ack, they will ruin the uniforms,” Mr. Bocci muttered. “Degreaser. Lubricants. All petroleum products, you know?” Mr. Bocci handed me an empty cardboard box. He began pulling items from the shelves. “A carton of twenty-seven-inch tubes…just one of this twelve-speed gear set…Oh, yes. My last one.” He plunked it into my box.

  “Mr. Bocci,” I said. He stopped and looked at me. “Maybe…maybe I shouldn’t take it then. If it’s your last one. It’s going to be hard for all of us to get parts now.”

  “Yes-yes. So this one goes on a bike you fix, or a bike my guys fix. What’s the difference? Not to worry,” he said. “There will be a way to get more parts. For clever people, the world does not stand still.”

  I thought for a moment. Hadn’t Dad said something like that just the other night?

  “You know the team?” Mr. Bocci went on.

  “Your team, sir? The bike racers?”

  “Yes. They don’t just ride for Bocci. They work for Bocci. So times change. So maybe I need them to ride to Elm City. Pick up some parts for me there. We are looking to get deliveries off the train. The other shops are going to do the same.” He thought for a moment. “It’s simple. These teams of riders can meet each other. Pull the trailer like you do. We can hand things off all the way across the country if we have to.”

  “Y-you mean like the old Pony Express?” I felt my eyebrows rise.

  He laughed. “Yes! Sure! But on bikes!”

  “Seems primitive,” I said.

  “Going back isn’t going backward. Not if it’s the only way to keep going forward.” Mr. Bocci waited. Maybe he knew that I needed a beat to let that sink in. I liked what he was saying even if it made my brain ache. “Okay, young Mr. Marriss…” Mr. Bocci paused again. “I am thinking. And what I am thinking is that you should put as many parts as you can into your shop. How about we pack this box a bit tighter? Maybe it saves you another trip. Then if you don’t use these, I take them back.”

  I hesitated over some of the high-end stuff he was putting in there. Most of our customers wouldn’t need that kind of performance. But I didn’t want to seem rude, either. In the end I peeled him off most of the bills I had with me. Sort of a shock, but I’d seen Dad spend for parts before too. Mr. Bocci printed me a receipt.

  “Do check the prices of parts, young Mr. Marriss,” Mr. Bocci warned. “Everything has gone up. Terribly up. Don’t cheat yourself. You can carry all of this out to your bicycle, yes-yes?”

  I almost said yes-yes back, but I caught myself. “Yes, sir, I’m sure I can.” I stacked the boxes and got under them to lift them from the counter.

  “Bike carefully,” Mr. Bocci said. He smiled warmly. “Regards to the Bike Barn!”

  I thanked him and went on my way.

  15

  VINCE HAD AT ME WHILE I RESTOCKED OUR shelves. I let him vent.

  “You’re supposed to be here,” he said. “You’re the manager. The people person. That guy Jerrod came in to get his bike. I had to deliver the bad news. He thinks I’m an idiot,” Vince said. “Doesn’t believe me that he’ll never get that seat post to move again.”

  I shook my head. “I loaded that thing with penetrating oil. He can try pulling it with a tractor. It’s a bimetallic weld. Could have been avoided with a little lube. Rule Three.” I reached up to tap a finger on Dad’s One-Page Bible for Bike Mechanics. “‘An ounce of maintenance is worth a pound of repairs.’”

  “Not my point,” Vince said.

  “I know. But I had to go get these parts.” I stepped back from the shelves. “Didn’t we have a box of fourteen-gauge spokes? Vince, are you craving metals or something? Are you eating bike parts?” I tried to joke, but he just gave me a dirty look in return. I think he thought I was trying to change the subject. “Look,” I told him, “I’ll be here now. I promise.”

  “You boys fighting?” Lil popped her head into the shop. She was carrying a bucket of rags and two cans of old paint, and she had several big brushes tucked under her arm.

  “No,” said Vince. “One of us is slaving and one of us is telling lies.”

  “Well, cut it out,” she said, but not like she really cared. She didn’t even stay long. She was on her way out to work on her mural. I hadn’t gone to see it, but I knew she’d been inching a scaffold along the side of the barn so she could reach the higher parts. It was huge fun for Angus and Eva, who loved to climb. They’d been talking about how soon they’d be able to climb the scaffold and make it into the loft through the hay door.

  It was probably eleven o’clock before I got on a roll. That was also about the time Vince dropped everything and went fishing. He had a job that had been giving him trouble all morning. I heard him swear in the paddock. Twice. He left a bike on the stand with the pedal set all apart. He tied his rod and tackle to his own bike and started away.

  “You’ll remember to pick up the twins at camp?” I called after him.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn around. He stuck out one arm, put a thumb up and kept pedaling away.

  I wasn’t mad. He was sick of the shop and I knew it. There was no denying I would’ve loved to go hang my toes off the pier too. But we had sixteen bikes in and somebody had to be the embodiment of responsibility.

  Too bad for Vince, just after he left, Mrs. Bertalli and her boys, Chris and Carl, arrived to pick up their bikes. I’d fudged the order of things just the littlest bit and had pushed them through. She was one of our favorite customers. Lil felt the same way about her. She’d called Mrs. Bertalli “the patron saint of my art.”

  “Hey, hey, Mrs. B!” I called.

  “Hi, Dewey, sweetheart.” She waved. Then she stood outside the Bike Barn door gazing up at Lil’s smashed bicycle art while I wheeled her boys’ bikes out. Chris and Carl shouted, “Hooray! Pedal power!” They rode past the paddock, then out of sight as the pasture sloped downward.

  I gave Mrs. Bertalli her invoice. She dug into the straw bag she carried on her handlebars and handed me a large bill. “This will do it,” she said. “The extra is a tip. Go spend it when the trucks finally make it to Shoreland’s Market.”

  “Trucks. I’m looking forward to that,” I said. I explained that Mom and Dad were gone.

  Mrs. Bertalli gasped. “You’re alone? Oh, I had no idea!”

  “Oh, we’re fine. We talk to them every night. If they can find a way, they’ll put Mom on a train back,” I said. “But they’re so far north that just getting her to one is a huge problem.”

  “I saw a maddening report that they’re selling train tickets two days ahead. Then not letting people on anyway! It’s dreadful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, but Dad has trucker’s ration cards. When there’s gas again they’ll be first in line,” I said. “Anyway, Lil is here all day. Did you know her art session’s been canceled?”

  “Oh no! Her scholarship! Poor girl!”

  “She’s keeping busy,” I said. “She’s painting around the other side of our barn.”

  “Dewey, if there’s anything you need while your parents are gone—Oh! I almost forgot! I brought a gift.” Mrs. Bertalli reached into the straw bag again and grinned. “Now, you can’t get these just anywhere anymore. Certainly not at Shoreland’s Market…” She brou
ght her hand out of the bag slowly.

  Roundish. Yellow.

  “Lemons!” I said. “You have lemons!” Then I remembered her little potted trees. Vince and I had helped move them out to her patio in the spring.

  “Not many!” Mrs. B said. “Who knew lemons would be so rare this summer? I’m thinking of increasing my orchard,” she said.

  “You know what?” I said. “You should take those around back and give them to Lil before you go,” I said. “She loves lemons.”

  Later on, Lil poked her nose into the shop—while holding the two lemons up to her eyes, of course. “So where’s Vince?” she asked.

  “He fritzed out and went fishing,” I said.

  “Oh.” She sighed. “Well, he’s not you, Dew.”

  The way she said it made me feel ridiculously proud. I love it when someone recognizes that I am the oldest Marriss brother. “Yeah, I can’t blame him for wanting to get out.”

  Lil was silent. She looked around the shop and out at the bikes in the paddock.

  “What?” I said. I drew a length of cable through my hand to relax the curl. My job was waiting.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “This seems like a lot of bikes.”

  “Hey, weird times,” I said, throwing her back her own line. “This is a real business now, Lil.”

  “Yeah…” She had a worried look on her face. I suddenly wanted her to move on. “Dew, can you really handle all these repairs? Are these easy fixes or—”

  “We’re just jammed up.” I spoke louder than I’d meant to. “B-because we didn’t have parts until this morning. Besides, once Dad gets back we’ll clear them out in no time.”

  Lil left without saying anything more. I struggled to thread that cable for the next twenty minutes. That never happens. I finally threw it down and went to sit in front of the fan with the dogs. “Where’s the Bike Genius and his magic fingers when I need him?” I said. The dogs thumped their tails. A few minutes later, I was trying the cable again.

  Dad always says that patience will be rewarded. Mine was. Twice. I won my war with the cable, and supper that night was a sizzling batter-dipped sea bass. With lemon. Caught by Vince, cleaned and cooked by Lil. She was just about in her glory squeezing juice from Mrs. Bertalli’s lemons over her fish and humming as she ate each bite. But other than that, things were a little quiet at the table.