Noel Street

by Richard Paul Evans

“No. I just met him a few days ago. He’s a mechanic over at Renato’s. He’s working on my car.”

  “From under your car to his,” Peter said, amusing himself.

  “Why did he crawl under his truck?” I asked.

  “That’s the crazy part,” Peter said. He turned to Andy. “You tell it.”

  Andy cleared his throat. “You know, we see some weird junk on our beat, but I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t know the term for it, but that guy is a Vietnam vet…”

  “Shell shock,” Peter said. “It happened to a cousin of mine. His brain never really came back from the war. He ended up hanging himself.”

  Andy nodded. “Apparently he saw a lot of bad stuff over there.”

  “He told us he lost half his patrol in an ambush,” Peter said.

  Andy continued, “So yesterday, he was in front of your diner waiting for the light to change when a song came on the radio that, like, triggered him. He suddenly thought he was under attack from the Viet Cong.”

  Peter shook his head. “Man, you should have seen his face when we got there. It was like staring down the devil. That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Down at the station he told us he thought we were Viet Cong soldiers. He was shouting at us in Vietnamese.”

  “I didn’t know soldiers had to learn Vietnamese,” I said.

  “They don’t if they don’t have to,” Andrew said.

  “He was a POW for almost four years. He was in that famous Hanoi Hilton,” Peter added.

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine what that would do to your brain,” Andy said, shaking his head. “He was with one of the last groups to come home.”

  My heart was pounding. “You didn’t give him a ticket, did you?”

  “No. I mean, if I were going by the book, I should have cited him, but sometimes you got to go by the spirit of the law. He fought for our country.”

  I thought about how harshly I had judged him. “Where’s he from?”

  “He moved here three weeks ago from Colorado, but originally he’s from Indiana.”

  “What a way to start a new life in a small town,” I said.

  “It’s like they say,” Peter said between bites, “wherever you go, there you are.”

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “I think so,” Andy said. “We took him over to the hospital in Ogden and let someone there check him out. They’ve got a psychiatric ward there.”

  “Hopefully they can help,” I said.

  “That was a tough thing, that war,” Peter said, slowly shaking his head. “A lot of those boys never really came back.”

  Suddenly I teared up. Andy looked over at him. “You idiot.”

  Peter looked at me. “I’m sorry, Elle. I forgot.”

  “You forgot to plug in your brain this morning,” Andy said. “So sorry, Elle. We shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I asked.” I took a deep breath. “I’ll stop bothering you boys and let you eat.”

  “You’re never a bother, Elle,” Andrew said. “That’s why we always come back.”

  I forced a smile. “You always come back because Loretta’s got the best pie in town.”

  “That too,” Andy said, turning back to his plate. “Bless you, Elle.”

  I started to go, then turned back. “What was the song?”

  Andy looked up from his turkey. “The song?”

  “The song that set him off.”

  “Creedence Clearwater Revival,” he said. “ ‘Run Through the Jungle.’ ”

  CHAPTER six

  The sermon today was on gratitude. I’ve always believed that there are none so impoverished as those who deny the blessings of their lives.

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

  Sunday was the only day I had off all week. It was also my only day to spend with Dylan. The day began as it always did, with me making Dylan waffles with whipped cream and then taking him to church. We were nearing Thanksgiving so the sermon was on gratitude and the power of thankfulness. I was grateful to hear it. I needed to hear it. When you’re struggling with lack, it’s easy to become obsessed with all you don’t have and forget what you do. It was nice to be reminded of all I had to be grateful for.

  After church we came home and I made chili and homemade bread, using half the dough for fried scones. (In Utah, the term scones is used for what the rest of the world calls fry bread or elephant ears.) My homemaking habits were more than economical. They were reminiscent of my own upbringing. Growing up in Cedar City, my mother made homemade bread every week. At least she would when she wasn’t on a bender.

  After lunch, Dylan asked if we could go outside and make a snowman. There was enough snow in our little backyard that we could have made an army of them—which Dylan advocated for, but I persuaded him to stop at two: an effigy of each of us.

  Afterward we came back inside and, after peeling off layers of snow-covered clothing, we made Christmas cookies. I had a collection of five Christmas cookie cutters: a star, a stocking, an angel, a Christmas tree, and a reindeer, the latter being Dylan’s favorite. (Fortunately I had some of those little cinnamon candies to put on the reindeers’ noses.)

  While waiting for the cookies to cool, I let Dylan eat an unfrosted one and watch TV while I took a forty-five-minute nap—by far my greatest luxury of the week. Then we frosted the cookies and finished our night with our Sunday-evening tradition of lying on my bed and watching The Wonderful World of Disney (which, no doubt, would have been much better in color. The last of the networks had switched over to color just a few years earlier).

  I looked forward to this, as it was the one time that Dylan would still cuddle with me and let me hold him. I knew it wouldn’t always be that way—a fact I mourned. He was my little guy. He was my life. Even with the hardships of those days, I still often thought that I would have loved to freeze that time of Dylan’s life. But even then I knew it would be a mistake. To hold the note is to spoil the song.

  “Mom, do you think we’ll ever get a color TV?” Dylan asked as I put him down for bed.

  “That would be nice,” I said, which was my standard answer for things I couldn’t afford.

  “Everyone has a color TV.”

  “Not everyone. Some people don’t even have TVs.”

  He looked absolutely amazed. “What do they watch?”

  I kissed the top of his head. “Life.”

  * * *

  Monday morning it was back to the usual grind. The diner’s traffic was typical: the local regulars, a half dozen truckers hopping off I-15, the odd salesman stopping by for breakfast.

  Dennis came in at his usual time. He was wearing the same hat, of course. In spite of my earlier threat, I didn’t put his order in.

  “Morning, Elle.”

  “Good morning, Dennis. How’s your day?”

  “I’ll let you know when it happens,” he said. “I’ll have the usual. If you didn’t already have your guy back there make it.”

  “No, I waited. A drizzle of mustard.”

  “A drizzle of mustard.”

  A few minutes later I brought out his food.

  “That was some excitement last week,” he said. “Did you ever hear what happened to that guy who was run over by the truck? I looked in the obituaries this morning but there wasn’t anyone who had died in a truck-related accident. Had two cancers and maybe a suicide. I had to deduce that, of course. They never state the cause of death if it’s a suicide unless you’re Hemingway or Marilyn Monroe. And the latter was suspect. You know she was involved with the Kennedys.”

  Dennis’s memory wasn’t great. Somewhere over the weekend he must have told himself a different story about the event. Before I could correct him he continued.

  “Anyway, the suicide was old Creighton up in Farr West. Certainly not famous or involved with the Kennedys—just not doing well since Lois died. Saw him four weeks ago at the Masonic lodge. He told me that waking
was the worst part of his day, next to every other moment.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  Dennis once told me he read the obituaries every day to see if he was in them. If he wasn’t, he got dressed.

  “He wasn’t run over by the truck,” I said. “He climbed under it.”

  Dennis’s brow furrowed. “Why would he do that?”

  “I guess he wasn’t feeling well,” I said.

  “That makes no sense. Most of the time I don’t feel well, but I’ve never once crawled under my car.” He shook his head. “He must still be alive. He wasn’t in the obituary.”

  CHAPTER seven

  Too many people turn to the end of another’s story even before the final chapter has been written.

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

  I was working a double shift and the only time the diner could afford for me to be gone was between two and four, our slow time. I was eager to get my car back, but by the time the dinner rush ended, Renato’s would be closed.

  A little before noon I found Loretta in her office. “Loretta, I need to take a break after the lunch rush.”

  She looked up from her paperwork. “Did the school call?”

  “No. I need to pick up my car before the shop closes.”

  “Fine with me, sugar plum. You hear that, Jamie?” she shouted. “You’re pulling double duty this afternoon while Elle gets her car.”

  “Got it,” Jamie said. She was putting on mascara in the bathroom outside Loretta’s office. I don’t know how Loretta even knew she was there. She had a sixth sense that way.

  Before becoming a waitress, Jamie had worked a previous life as a hair stylist, and she saw her body, all six feet of it, as a blank canvas to be painted on—with makeup and hair dye being her preferred media. She wore thick eye shadow the colors of the rainbow with drawn-on eyebrows, overcompensating for what God had neglected.

  Truthfully, I wasn’t positive what color her hair was, though I guessed it was light brown on its way to gray. Since the day I met her, her hair had been platinum, dishwater blond, strawberry blond, lavender, umber, black, light brunette, chestnut, and flaxen—pretty much the gamut of follicular possibility. Her color du jour was ginger, something that agreed with her.

  “Thanks, honey,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it. I’m praying for a miracle healing for your clutch.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to getting my car back. I hated my car. And I was terrified to see the repair bill.

  I drove over to Renato’s a little before three.

  “She’s right there,” Renato said, pointing toward my car. He handed me the keys with a sheet of yellow paper. “And here is the bill.”

  I took the paper from him. It hurt to see it. It was for seventy-seven dollars, twenty more than I hoped it would be.

  “Seventy-seven?”

  “Yes, signorina.”

  I breathed out slowly, then looked into his eyes. “I know you’re giving me a good deal, but right now, that’s a little steep for my monthly budget. Is it possible we could stretch it out a little more and make the monthly payment in the fifty-dollar range?”

  “That is not a payment,” Renato said.

  I looked at him quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

  “That is the whole bill. Tutto il conto.”

  It took a moment for me to understand. “But you said it would be more than five hundred just for the clutch. And more for the broken belt.”

  “That bill is just for parts. There is no charge for labor.”

  “But…” I looked at him with gratitude. “You can’t do that.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” he said. “William did. He repaired your car on his own time. It took him until four in the morning. You can thank me for the heating bill and him for the labor. Un bacio will be fine,” he said, turning his cheek to me.

  I kissed it, then said, “He fixed my car for free?”

  “Except for the cost of parts,” Renato said.

  I couldn’t believe it. “Is he still here?”

  “No. He was sick over the weekend so he’s taking the day off.”

  “He was sick while he was working on my car?”

  “Very sick. He was coughing like an old tractor. I think he has the influenza,” Renato said. “I could barely understand him this morning.” He leaned forward even though there was no one else there. “He sounded a little pazzo.”

  “Pazzo?”

  “A little delirious. Very sick.”

  I was speechless. Then I pulled my checkbook from my purse. “I’ll pay this now.” I wrote a check for seventy-seven dollars and handed it to Renato. “Why did he do that?”

  “He said you were kind to him,” Renato said.

  “All I did was take him a cup of coffee.”

  “I told you, remember? Do not judge him too harshly.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was foolish of me.” I took a deep breath. “I would like to thank him. Do you know where he lives?”

  He scrawled a number on the back of my receipt. “He lives in that apartment building on the end of Noel Street. The one with the schifoso yard, just three blocks down from the diner.”

  “I know the one,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Prego, bella.”

  I got in my car and started it. It sounded beautiful. I suddenly began crying. Why would he do such a thing for me? How could I have misjudged the man so badly?

  CHAPTER eight

  For the last seven years my life has felt like a financial Whack-a-Mole game.

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

  As I walked back into the diner, Jamie looked me over. “Oh, honey.” My eyes must have been red because she hugged me. “I’m so sorry. You’ll get through this. I’ve got a little stashed away, I can help.”

  Her response only made me cry more. “That’s not why I’m crying. He fixed it for free.”

  “Renato fixed your car for free?” Loretta said, walking into the conversation. “That’s a first. That man would charge a baby for diapers.”

  “It wasn’t Renato,” I said. “It was the new guy who works for him. William.”

  “The guy who stopped traffic the other day?” Jamie said. “The one you said was a beast?”

  “I’m so sorry I said that. He worked on my car until four in the morning.”

  “Why would he do that?” Jamie asked.

  “I don’t know. All I did was take him a cup of coffee.”

  Loretta shook her head. “That must have been some coffee. Is he single?”

  “Is he cute?” Jamie added.

  “You two have a one-track mind.”

  “At least someone’s on that track, baby girl,” Loretta said. “You’re derailed.”

  “I don’t know if he’s single.”

  “Well, you better find out. What did you say to him?”

  “I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t there. Renato said he was sick. He was sick when he worked on my car.”

  “That’s really sweet,” Jamie said. “Maybe you should take him some chicken soup.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  “I’ll donate a crock of chicken noodle to the cause,” Loretta said. “And whatever else you want to take him. We got the pecan pie in today. A man fixes your car for free, you better take care of him.”

  “I’ll take him some dinner,” I said. “But I don’t get off until ten.”

  “I don’t have anything tonight,” Loretta said. “You can take off at seven thirty, after the rush.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You never answered me,” Jamie said. “Is he cute?”

  I thought a moment, then said, “Yes. He is.”

  Loretta nodded. “That always helps.”

  I was surprised to find myself growing excited about the prospect of seeing William, though, frankly, I had no idea how the encounter would go. I’d seen the man three times. The first time he yelled at my son and then scolded me, the second time he apologiz
ed, and the third time he was under a truck hiding from an imaginary enemy. Realistically, I should probably run. But he had blessed my life more than anyone in the last five years and he didn’t even know me. Who was this man?

  CHAPTER nine

  I went to his apartment anticipating staying for a few minutes, not the night.

  —Elle Sheen’s Diary

  I don’t know if it’s true of all small towns, but people generally eat early in Mistletoe, and by seven o’clock there were only eight customers in the diner.

  Loretta came up behind me as I was filling a drink order. “You can go now, darlin’,” she said. “Go see the man.” She was carrying a paper bag and a large plastic container with its lid taped down. “I got him a few days’ worth of soup.” She had gotten more than just soup. She had filled the bag with the morning’s pastries, a loaf of hard bread, and some pecan pie. “I threw a few bags of chamomile tea and some packets of sugar in the bottom of the sack. Nothing better for the system when you’re sick.”

  As generous as Loretta was to those in need, I was a little surprised at how fully she’d embraced reaching out to this guy. “That’s really kind of you.”

  “Whatever I can do. Thing is, he helped you, so that helped me. Otherwise I’d likely have been obliged to give you a raise.”

  “You were thinking of giving me a raise?”

  “Yes, but I came to my senses and talked myself out of it. Now you have a good night and don’t go catching anything. I already lost Cassie. I can’t afford to have you sick too.”

  Loretta was peculiar about money. She was simultaneously generous and tightfisted—the kind of person who would give you the shirt off her back and then charge you to wash it.

  I carried the food out to my car. It wasn’t lost on me that I was driving my car because of him. Instant karma.

  I knew the apartment building. Everyone in Mistletoe did, as it was the only one in town. No one I knew had ever lived there, and, from all appearances, its only inhabitants were drifters, strangers, and men in trouble with their wives. The locals just called it “that apartment,” but it had a name: the Harrison. It had once been a hotel, named after President William Henry Harrison, whose presidential run lasted a lackluster thirty-one days, as he died of pneumonia after giving his inaugural address in freezing temperatures without a coat. I have no idea why anyone would name a hotel after the man; you would think they would have chosen a president who had accomplished something while in office—or at least had the sense to wear a coat.