Wreckers' Key

by Christine Kling

  “Oh, Seychelle. You poor dear. I never saw them. Your grandfather took me to the hospital and in those days, they knocked you right out.”

  “I didn’t want to let her go. I fought the paramedics when they tried to take her from me. At the hospital, I asked them not to call my father. I was twenty years old, after all. They released me the next day and I went home and cleaned up and told the world I had a bad case of flu. I needed to stay home for a few days. I told myself to forget it ever happened. But I knew at that point, I knew for certain, that I would never live through that a second time. No more babies for me.”

  The sun was gone but the sky still glowed a bright pale blue. Lights were starting to wink on in the homes across the river. The current had stilled with the tide. It was slack water. On our side, upriver and fairly close to the dock, I saw an upwelling of water; concentric rings appeared and grew. Four feet farther down the river, there was another bump in the water, and another batch of rings began to widen.

  “Grams.” I pointed upriver. “Manatee.”

  We both stood and walked down the steps to the seawall. She was so deep we could only follow the path of water rings made by her pumping flukes as she slowly swam downriver. She passed outboard of the Annie, and then she glided right in front of us, at the surface, her gray bristly nostrils blowing out air, poking through pale water the color of the sky. The whole long ten feet of her mottled body was visible, covered with scars. One long white slash creased her back for a stretch of more than two feet. The wound looked fresh.

  “Looks like she’s been hit by a prop recently,” I said.

  “I used to see them passing all the time on winter evenings. Now, more and more, if I see them at all, I see that. Bad scars. But her wound is healing. She’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah. Just so long as she doesn’t get hit again.”

  I stayed and helped Faith with the dishes after our meal. I had eaten too much ham and felt bloated. While we sat at the formal dining table, she’d regaled me with tales of my tomboy mother who shocked the clerk at the Woolworth’s toy counter when she tried to trade in a brand new tea set for an Erector Set. She was always making a spectacle—even before the age of ten.

  “I wish I had known her longer. I was too young back then, I didn’t appreciate her, didn’t really know her.”

  “She always reminded me of a butterfly. Such an unearthly, brilliant, yet fragile thing flitting around, but oh so easily damaged. She was my own daughter, but she frightened me. I didn’t understand her, either. I wanted to tame her and she fought me hard.”

  “It’s an illness, Grams. She couldn’t help being that way. Maybe aging would have helped her. Made the dark times easier. Besides, today, they have great medication for people who are bipolar.”

  She folded the dish towel in half and hung it on the oven door. “We’ll never know now, will we?”

  “No,” I said. “We won’t.” I stepped over to her and took her hand. We weren’t quite comfortable enough around each other to make lots of hugging possible. “Thanks. For everything.”

  She patted my hand. “You go home and get some rest. I should think you’ll sleep well tonight.”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s only eight o’clock, and I was thinking of driving out to a place to get my Jeep looked at.”

  “Lands sakes. Who’s going to work on a car at this hour?”

  “I have a friend—a guy who used to live on our street over in Shady Banks. We’ve been friends since we were little kids. His grandfather has this place out on Highway 441. It’s called Hubcap Heaven.”

  She placed her hand flat on her chest and chuckled. “Are you telling me Old Ben is still alive?”

  “You know him?”

  “Of course. Everybody knew everybody when he first showed up in town. It was just after the war. My second husband swore by him, wouldn’t take our cars anywhere but Hubcap Heaven for tires or simple mechanical work.” We left the kitchen and headed for the front door.

  “My Jeep has been acting strange lately and I need a dependable vehicle. My friend, that would be Old Ben’s grandson, Ben Baker the Third, told me he would call out to his grandfather, tell him to expect me this evening. I guess he stays open twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s just a ruse, but it appears it’s been working if the man’s still out there. The folk who live around his place have been trying to get rid of him for years. They think all those tires, car parts, and hubcaps are an eyesore.”

  I picked up my purse off the console table by the front door. “Can you blame them?”

  “They’ve sent Code Enforcement to cite him for storing all that junk, but Old Ben insists it’s inventory and it’s for sale. He’s outfoxed the county for going on forty years now.”

  “I met him the other day. He seems like quite a character. But if he can figure out what’s causing my Jeep to cough and splutter, I don’t care what he is.” I opened the door. “Thanks again, Grams.”

  “Seychelle, I’m going to say something to you that I wish I’d said to your mother. Never had the chance. Not that it was anyone’s fault but my own for being such a stubborn old fool. Dear, you are not defective. There is no such thing as a perfect mother. Lord knows, I made more’n my share of mistakes. So did your mama. So will you one day. If you give yourself a chance.”

  I nodded once at her and then turned and half ran to my Jeep.

  XXVI

  There are places you know exist, that have been part of the landscape you recognize as your home turf, but which you’ve never visited and never really looked at. Hubcap Heaven was a place like that for me. I knew how to get there, more or less, but when Lightnin’ stalled the second time at the corner of Broward Boulevard and 441, I couldn’t remember how many miles south I was going to have to go. I was hoping it wasn’t too far, because I damn near couldn’t get the thing to start this time.

  At its best, up by the new Seminole Casino, the corridor along Highway 441 is purely commercial, but down where Hubcap Heaven was located, near Crazy Jim’s strip joint and the Miami-Dade county line, it was a pretty rough area. Bars, peep shows, warehouses, pawn, and auto body shops gave the area its industrial theme. When I pulled onto the dirt outside the chain-link fence that surrounded the place, mine was the only vehicle parked in front of Hubcap Heaven, and if this was supposed to be a business that was open twenty-four hours, there was no indication of it other than a hand-lettered sign on the gate that said, Ring Bell. Next to it hung a tarnished brass bell. Once I shut off my headlights, the only illumination came from a streetlight in the next block.

  I reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a baseball cap. I threaded my ponytail through the gap in the back and tucked the loose hairs up inside, away from my face. Shoulder bag across my chest, keys still in my hand, I approached the gate and rang the bell. The sound was so loud in the quiet night air, I felt like I was announcing to the surrounding neighborhood, Hello, woman with a purse here, come rob me.

  I thought about Ben’s grandfather cupping his hand behind his ear that afternoon at lunch. There probably wasn’t any point in continuing to ring the bell.

  It was difficult to see much through the fence, as nearly every square inch of it was hung with hubcaps on the inside. Strips of plastic sheeting covered the gate. I could make out some mounds of tires and what looked like car seats scattered around in a half circle just inside the gate. Whatever was beyond those tires was off in the shadows where it was too dark to see.

  The seconds dragged by and, though I was straining my ears to listen, I couldn’t hear the slightest noise on the other side of the fence. The only sound was the buzz of the traffic on the highway behind me. It was too dark to make out the numbers on my watch, but I figured it couldn’t be past nine o’clock yet. I should just leave. Come back in the morning. But Ben had said he would call and tell his grandfather to expect me—no matter what the hour. I tried turning the latch on the gate, and it was unlocked.

  “Hello?” I called ou
t as I stepped inside and looked around. I wished I’d thought to bring a flashlight. “Mr. Baker?”

  From the street, the lot hadn’t looked so big, but here inside, piles of junk stretched out into the darkness in all directions. Immediately behind the group of car seats, I saw a mountain of tires. At the top was a flagpole that supported an American flag big enough to make a tent.

  It hung limp, the lower corner grazing the tires. Paths led off around the tires and through the random piles of junk cars, engines, and auto parts. To my left, a path led along the fence toward the back of the lot, while to my right, a space led along the inside of the front fence. I could see what looked like a shed in that direction, so I turned right and followed that fence. The collection of hubcaps and wheels that hung on the fence, especially in that low light, looked like some crazy Warhol collage.

  I kept thinking that I heard some faint far-off music. I couldn’t make it out exactly; nor could I tell what direction it came from.

  I had hoped the shed would be inhabited, but as I drew nearer, I could see that it wasn’t. Where there should have been the fourth wall, the building was open. Inside was what appeared to be a broken-down riding lawn mower. The engine cowling was folded back, and several parts and bolts rested on a board in the dirt.

  Turning away, I started to walk down a path that led toward the back of the yard when I heard the screech of metal scraping on metal. I froze. After all I’d been through the last couple of days, I wanted to be certain it was somebody friendly before I announced myself. Glancing down at my body, I realized my navy sweatshirt and dark jeans would be difficult to spot in the darkness, but I knew that despite my hat, my pale face would reflect the light. I reached back and slid the sweatshirt hood up over my hat, placing my face more in shadow.

  There. From the periphery of my vision I sensed movement. I squinted into the darkness, trying to see what had attracted my attention. I didn’t think it was my imagination. Maybe it was only Old Ben Baker, but for the moment I wasn’t going to assume anything. Then I saw a shadow flit between two piles of tires. If it was the owner, why was he hiding, creeping around his own property?

  Slowly, I lowered my body to a squat. The farther away from the highway, the higher the piles of dead cars grew, but where I was standing I felt exposed. Like anyone could see me, could be watching me.

  There it was again. That music. It sounded like a woman singing in a very high voice. It was unlike anything I would expect to hear in a bar or a strip joint or any of the places located around Hubcap Heaven.

  Although there were stacks of wheels, rusty engine blocks, and an engineless chassis with only the backseats in place, there was nothing around me big enough to hide behind. Nothing except that shed. I tried to gauge the distance between the wooden walls and me. I figured I would have to cross about fifteen feet of open area, just dirt and weeds, before I could slip into the darkness of the old building.

  I placed my hands palms-down in the dirt and began to crab my way across the open space. Although it only took me a few seconds to cross, halfway there my hand hit a sharp piece of metal in the dirt and my breath hissed in an involuntary gasp. When I rounded the wall at last, I dropped my butt into the dirt and leaned my back against the wall of the shed. My heart was racing. I reached into my jean pocket to reassure myself that the stainless bosun’s knife I always carried was there. The cold steel gave me comfort, though I couldn’t imagine ever really using it on a human. I held my left hand close to my face, and the blood on my palm looked black in the semi-darkness.

  Footsteps. There was no question about it, I heard the sound of feet hitting ground, running, coming this way. I jumped to a stand and peered around the edge of the wooden wall. I could barely make out a figure dressed all in black coming from the direction of the main entrance gate and running straight for the shed. Any hope of hiding was shot. He’d seen me and he was coming.

  When it’s been a question of fight or flight, most of my life I have chosen flight. I grew up with two older brothers, after all, and I knew that if they caught me, they could usually beat the daylights out of me. I rounded the wall and took off toward the back of that lot sprinting and screaming my head off. If somebody was going to take me down, I hoped to attract the attention of witnesses, at least.

  As long as I stayed to the dirt corridors between the piles of junk, I could hear his breathing getting closer, so I turned into the maze of junk and began knocking over pillars of tires and hurling pieces of metal behind me, trying to block his path. A mountain of sheet metal appeared ahead, boxing me in, and I started to climb, my bloody hand grasping pieces of bumpers and hoods and pitching them over my shoulder. I heard him grunt right behind me when I heaved a chunk of rebar, and then I saw a growing black shadow from the corner of my eye, and I didn’t see anything else.

  What woke me was cold steel pressing against my cheek and a bright light shining in my eyes.

  “You’re not a boy, are you?”

  I knew the voice. I wanted to tell him he knew me, too, but I was having a hard time getting my circuits to fire right. It felt like things had been shaken loose in my head. There was a big difference at the moment between wanting to talk and figuring out how to get my mouth to move. And somewhere, that damn woman was still singing. It was louder now. I could tell it was opera, and I hated opera. Then I realized that the cold steel that kept prodding at my cheek was the barrel of a gun.

  “Seychelle,” I tried to croak out.

  “What’s that you say?” The gun barrel poked my shoulder this time.

  My arm felt like it was wrapped in lead clothing, but I dragged my hand to my head and pulled off the hat and hood. The hair from my ponytail fell across my shoulder.

  “I’m Seychelle. Old Ben, we’ve met.”

  The flashlight came in closer on my face. It was so close I felt the heat from the bulb on my skin. It felt good. The bright white light made everything else disappear.

  “I do know you. You’re that girl grew up with my grandson. What the hell are you doing running around out here screaming bloody murder?”

  Good question, I thought, as I tried to heave myself up to a sitting position. The metal shifted under me, and I felt like I was going to vomit. He was waiting for an answer and I was trying to get my pounding head to work. I’d been running from someone, I remembered. Someone dressed in black. I looked up at Old Ben. He’d lowered the flashlight to his side, and it made a circle of light on the ground next to his boots. Where the light spilled onto his body, I saw he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt; in his other hand he held a shotgun, the barrel now pointing at the ground as well.

  My body was resting on top of that pile of sheet-metal hoods and fenders. I ran my hands over my head, feeling the tender spot on the right side just above my ear. Luckily, I didn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere except on the palm of my right hand. As I held it up to examine the wound, Old Ben spoke up.

  “That looks nasty. Better come inside and clean that up.” He offered me his hand.

  I took it. I don’t think I could have risen to my feet without it.

  After following his flashlight through the mounds of discarded wheels and tires, I discovered that inside was the interior of an ancient Airstream trailer parked in the back of the lot up against a cinder-block wall. The trailer was also the origin of the opera; by the time we entered, the volume made the music almost painful. Ben crossed to a boom box on a bunk and pushed a button, stopping the tape in mid-aria. After all that noise, the silence dropped on us with a tangible weight like the atmosphere in an elevator speeding to the ninetieth floor. I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

  “Not a fan, huh?”

  I shook my head. He chuckled.

  “That was Kathleen Battle. I can’t never remember the names of the songs but damn, that lady sings like an angel. I like to play it loud so I can’t hear the traffic out on the highway.”

  At that volume, he wouldn’t hear it if the frigging space shutt
le landed in his yard.

  He led me to the sink, telling me to hold my hand under a stream of cold running water in the tiny kitchenette while he rummaged around in the head. I held on to the counter to keep the floor from swirling me off my feet. He emerged in a few minutes with a shoe box and placed it on the Formica settee table. The trailer reminded me of a boat with the compact galley and built-in furnishings, but the entire interior was covered with a film of combined grease and tobacco residue. I was certain that a sponge on any surface in the place would have come away brown. Other than that, and the overflowing ashtray on the table, the interior was fairly neat, the bunk made and the dishes upended in a dish rack.

  He told me to sit on the Naugahyde bench. He sat on the other side of the table. Soon my hand was wrapped in clean gauze.

  “Wanna tell me what happened out there?” Old Ben swiped a thick wooden match on the side of the box and held the flame to the bent cigarette in his mouth.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. You were supposed to be expecting me.”

  “Why the hell would you think that?”

  “Your grandson, Ben. He told me this morning he was going to call you to ask you to work on my Jeep. He didn’t call?”

  “Nope, I ain’t heard from Ben since we ate lunch on my birthday.”

  “I’ve been having trouble with my Jeep and Ben told me to bring it to you. He said he was going to call. Tell you to expect me.”

  “Ah hell, he musta got busy and forgot,” the old man said. “He does that. Don’t matter.” He dragged so deep on his cigarette, I thought he was going to be spitting strands of tobacco out of his mouth.

  I touched the tender knot on the side of my head. “So what the hell happened out there? Who knocked me out?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a man out there. Dressed all in black. He chased me and I screamed, then he hit me with something. Next thing I remember is you poking me with your shotgun.”