Blind Spot (4 page)

TIM CARHARDT SQUEEZED
through the narrow back window of his room, balancing on the thin railing that ran above the concrete behind the trailer. It was overcast, and a light rain had begun. His foot slipped, and when he reached back for the window, he cut his hand on the rusty siding. He jumped down—into mud—then crawled to a chain-link fence leading to the highway.

Tyson’s voice boomed through the thin walls and out the back window. He banged on Tim’s door and threatened to knock it down—kind of like the Big Bad Wolf, Tim thought. The guy even looked like a picture of a wolf in a book he’d read when he was a kid.

Tim’s dad had also had a problem with the bottle years ago, but when Tim’s mother left, there had been a change. Tim couldn’t remember the last
time he saw his father drinking beer or whiskey. He always told the other guys, “I’m a driver. I can’t afford to get drunk.”

Not so with Tyson. He missed work, got into fights, and smashed up his car all because he drank too much.

Something shattered inside. Sounded like glass. Vera wailed and cursed at Tyson.

Tim pulled the hat his dad had given him low on his forehead and took out a handkerchief to wipe his bloody hand. His dad always said that a gentleman should carry a handkerchief, and Tim had thought it was kind of a dumb thing to do, but he obeyed anyway. Now he was glad.

He let the rain wash the wound, then wrapped it tightly. He shoved his hands in his jeans and shivered in the chill. It was amazing how cold the rain could be, even in Florida. He wished he’d brought a jacket, but he hadn’t wanted to spend another minute with Tyson on the other side of the door. Plus, he was on a mission. During a fight with Tyson, he’d discovered where the man kept the key to his dad’s stuff.

He walked along the side of 263, seeing signs pointing to Florida State University. Just about every car that passed had a Seminoles sticker on the back. Nobody wanted to pick him up and get him out of the
rain, but he couldn’t blame them. If he were driving, he wouldn’t pick up a wet rat like him either. He kept watch for Tyson in his dad’s truck.

When the rain fell harder, Tim ducked under the cover of a convenience store awning. He stood between an ice cooler and some newspaper dispensers out of the rain. It was a winter rain without lightning that washed everything clean.

A car drove in slowly, backed up, then pulled forward to a pump. A white-haired woman got out and stared at the instructions on the front of the pump before finally sliding a credit card. A man sat behind her waiting, shaking his head, talking to someone on his cell phone.

When the woman fumbled with the gas cap, Tim walked through the rain to the island. “Need some help, ma’am?” he said.

She looked up like a frightened pup. “No, I can get it,” she said, trying to convince herself.

Her fingers were gnarled and twisted, like Charlie Hale’s, the hauler driver who used to work with Tim’s dad. “Is it Mr. Arthur?” Tim said, pointing to the woman’s hands. “That’s what a friend of mine used to call it. Arthur-itis.”

She smiled and let go of the gas cap. “There’s a special way to get it off, and my husband could do it every time. . . .”

The man behind her rolled down his window. “You gonna talk all day or get some gas?”

“What a rude man,” the woman said.

“Probably didn’t have a good upbringing like you and me,” Tim said.

She grinned. “Well, if you could just put $15 in, I’d appreciate it. Unleaded regular. Try not to go over.”

Tim snapped off the cap, showing her how to turn it, then flipped up the lever and started fueling.

The man on the cell phone backed up and pulled into a space on the other side of the pump, grumbling, “Some old bat who shouldn’t even be allowed to drive . . .”

“You live around here?” Tim said.

“I’m on my way back home. My daughter and her husband live down in Woodville. Do you work here?”

“No, ma’am. Just kinda hanging out till it stops raining.” Tim let go of the pump at $14.78 and clicked it up to $15 even. He replaced the nozzle and the cap and noticed a drip underneath the car. He knelt and reached a long arm under the engine block.

“Is something wrong?” the woman said.

Tim saw his dad’s truck slowly pass the station, and he stayed down. He held up a greasy finger. “Looks like antifreeze.”

“Is that serious?”

Tim popped the hood. “The reservoir’s almost empty, so you’d better get it looked at soon.”

“What could it be?”

“Crack in the tank. Maybe the freeze plug worked loose—”

“The freeze plug! I just had one of those changed. At least that’s what the fellow at the shop told me was wrong. He said I had a bad one.”

The man with the cell phone slammed his door and sped off.

“Well, if they put it in crooked or didn’t get it all the way in, that could cause the problem,” Tim said. “If you want, I could fill it up for you so you don’t run out before you get home.”

“That’s awfully nice of you.”

She handed him a $20 bill, and he bought a gallon of antifreeze and topped off the tank. He handed her the change, but she said, “No, you keep it.”

“I couldn’t do that, ma’am.” He stuffed the cash in her purse and put the antifreeze on the floor of the backseat.

“Well, you’ve been helpful. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The sky had begun to clear a little, but the rain was still coming. Tim’s dad had always told him it was a bad idea to ever hitchhike, and he wouldn’t have taken a ride from just anybody, but an old woman
on her way home seemed safe to him. “To tell you the truth, I’m trying to get to a place on Highway 27. You’re not going that far, are you?”

A cloud came over her face. She looked at Tim’s wet clothes, then his hat. He stood a little straighter. “I’m sorry, but I have to be going.”

Tim nodded. “I understand. You have a safe trip, ma’am.”

He bought a Dr Pepper and waited. The rain slowed a little, and he figured if he didn’t start walking now, he wouldn’t make it home before midnight.

He was only a half mile from the store, crossing another parking lot, when a car swerved over, barely missing him.

The old woman rolled down her window and nodded to the passenger side. “You gonna get in, or are you going to swim to Highway 27?”

Tim got in, took off his hat, and put it on the floor.

“Buckle up, now.”

“Ma’am, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know it, and you shouldn’t be taking rides from strangers. There are some crazy people out here on these roads. You just never know about people these days.”

“I could say the same thing to you. You shouldn’t be giving rides to strange teenagers. What made you turn around?”

“The Lord.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. I got a strong impression from the Lord that he wanted me to give you a ride. A cup of cold water and all that.”

“A cup of what?”

“I don’t want to pass up the chance of entertaining angels, you know. In the Bible it says that some have welcomed angels by being kind to strangers.”

“I can assure you, ma’am. I’m no angel.”

“Well, neither am I, so we’re even. Now where do you want to go?”

Tim pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and gave her the address.

“Land sakes, and you were going to walk? Must be gold in this place. What is it?”

He told her.

“A storage place? You bury treasure there?”

Tim chuckled. “It’s just some stuff of my dad’s I wanted to look at.”

“Your father’s away?”

“Yeah.”

“Does your mother know you’re out here?”

Tim hesitated, then turned to the woman. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, her eyes glued to the road. “You’re not with the FBI, are you?”

“Goodness, no.” She laughed.

“Good, because I was beginning to wonder. You must watch a lot of those police shows on TV.”

The skin underneath her arm jiggled as she chuckled. “Well, the least you can do is tell me your name.”

“Tim Carhardt,” he said.

“I’m Mrs. Rubiquoy, but all my students used to call me Mrs. Ruby.” She thought a moment. “You’re not related to the Carhardts up in Opelika, are you?”

“Don’t believe so, ma’am. Guess I could be and not know it.”

She had a Christian music station playing with songs that sounded like they were a hundred years old and were going about as slowly as she was. He didn’t know a car could go so slow. It was at least 10 years old, but the upholstery looked almost new.

“You were a teacher?”

“Librarian. Worked 26 years at Briarcliff Elementary until they had to lock the door on me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, every now and then I go back. You like to read?”

“Don’t have much time for it with school and all. Just what they assign us.”

“Hmm. Let me see.” Mrs. Rubiquoy glanced at him, then squinted and maneuvered her mouth into a thin
line. “You’re probably reading
Great Expectations
. Or maybe
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

“Close,” Tim said. “I’m a little older than I look. The teacher assigned us
The Old Man and the Sea
last week.”

“Oh, what a marvelous story. You know, I always hated it when teachers would assign something and take all the fun out of it for the students. Tests and quizzes and such. I guess you have to do that to motivate them, but young people should learn that reading is fun. Don’t you think reading is fun?”

“Sometimes I read the back of the cereal box, and that makes me laugh.”

She clucked like a chicken, and Tim made a mental note not to make her laugh again because she nearly hit a light pole.

“Your husband hasn’t been around for a while, has he?” Tim said.

“Died two years ago February. Traffic accident. He was coming home from a fishing trip and just swerved off the road. They said it was a heart attack, but I think it was because he was so excited to show me what he’d caught. They found the fish on ice in the trunk.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The Lord gives and he takes away. It’s all for a purpose. But that doesn’t make it easier late at night
or when you read something and want to tell your husband about it and you realize he’s not there.”

Tim just stared at the road.

“What about you? You have a relationship with him?”

“I didn’t know your husband.”

“No, I meant the Lord.”

Tim turned and looked out the passenger window. “God’s never had much time for me, and I guess I returned the favor.”

They came to a red light, and Mrs. Rubiquoy looked left to watch the traffic. Her purse was open beside her, and Tim noticed a $100 bill sticking halfway out.

“Now you keep an eye out for that storage place because it has to be up here somewhere.”

They drove another mile before Tim spotted it on the right.

She pulled over and let him out. “The Lord knew you needed a ride, didn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am, I guess he did. And I thank you for your kindness. Now look after that antifreeze plug real soon.” Tim got out but leaned back in before he shut the door. The woman had a concerned look on her face. “Everything all right, ma’am?”

She looked at her purse, then at him. “Let me give you some money to help you get back home.”

“No way.” He locked the door and smiled. “I’ll be fine. You and the Lord just get home safe, okay?”

A MAN WHO LOOKED LIKE
a grizzly bear opened the front gate and ushered Tim past barking dogs to a six-story building. It had broken windows and wooden floors and smelled like somebody’s dirty laundry. Surrounding it were smaller buildings that resembled garages.

The man looked Tim up and down. “You don’t look old enough to have a locker here. You gotta be at least 18.”

“It’s my dad’s stuff. He passed last October, and I haven’t been able to get here.”

The man ran a hand through his graying mane and paused. “Your locker’s on the fourth floor, all the way to the back.”

Tim took the freight elevator to the fourth floor and walked by rows of what looked like locked cages packed floor to
ceiling with boxes. A few doors were draped with covers, but most he could see in. Some had lawn mowers, gardening tools, and even motorcycles. Bikes hung from the ceiling, tool chests were shoved to the back, and a few had old car parts in them.

The hall was dark with only a few lights strung here and there. The bare bulbs made the whole place look eerie, as though there were white puddles of light every few yards.

He found his father’s number and stared through the holes. While other lockers were packed full, there was only a bed frame, a mattress, and a few boxes here. He opened the lock and walked inside, the floor creaking. He pulled the mattress out, placed it near a puddle of light, and sat.

The first box clattered as he dumped old car parts and gadgets onto the floor. A generator. A side mirror. Nuts and bolts. Tire gauge. An old drill and a box of bits. Stuff his dad just couldn’t bring himself to trash and Tyson evidently didn’t want.

When he’d scooped all the debris up and put the pile back in the box, he moved on to the second, which was filled with papers and file folders. Numbers on a hospital bill. Tim’s birth certificate along with his footprints.
Could my feet have ever been that little?
He poked through a pile of newspaper clippings—obituaries with faded pictures, lists of the dead and their
families. People who had been gone so long that no one missed them anymore.

Tim took out a coffee-stained marriage license. His parents’ names stared back at him. As if they’d always been together. As if nothing had happened between the time they signed this and now. He looked over the license, their names, the seal of the State of Florida, and the name of the pastor who had married them. It listed his father’s full name, Martin Clancy Carhardt, and his mother’s maiden name, Alexandra Lee Burton. He remembered his dad calling her Lexy when they were getting along, which wasn’t very often.

He closed his eyes and tried to bring her face back, but it wouldn’t come. Just a blur of an image, hazy in his mind—brown hair, nice smile.

He stuffed the pages back inside and turned to the next box. Pictures. Not in albums or arranged in any special way, just stacks of pictures in haphazard piles. People he didn’t know. Places he couldn’t remember. All lumped together like fishing worms in a tin can. He leafed through the ones at the top, many of them black-and-white, some stuck together. Toward the bottom they turned to color, and he finally found a few of his mother. His mom holding him wrapped in a hospital blanket. His dad asleep on a couch, with Tim asleep on his chest. His mother mugging for the
camera with a stomach the size of a basketball. Tim in a Halloween costume—a sheet with two holes cut out for eyes.

Tim found a brown envelope and filled it with some pictures he wanted to take with him. He pulled the fourth box close and stared at it. He’d dreamed he might discover a videotape of his dad looking into a camera, telling Tim he loved him, assuring him that he’d make something of himself someday. But if his dad hadn’t even put together a will, how would he have made a video?

He opened the box. Inside were a few books, some NASCAR magazines, and an autographed picture of the King, Richard Petty. That might bring some money on eBay. At the bottom were trophies and an old baseball glove. Tim opened it, put it to his face, and smelled the leather. Best smell in the world—right up there with the oil-and-gas smell of the garage.

The trophies were mostly third-place finishes in local races from his dad’s hometown. They were ordinary. Even cheap. But of all the things he could keep, his dad had hung on to them. At some point in his life, had his dad dreamed of driving?

The magazines in the box had one thing in common: each featured the death of a celebrated driver. Some had been killed on the track. Others in airplane or helicopter crashes. It seemed strange that his dad
had kept those issues, though he knew his dad had been at some of the races and venues where the drivers were killed.

Inside the magazines, Tim found other memorabilia—autographed pictures and programs, plus a few photos of famous drivers standing with his dad.

The only thing that surprised him was a spiral notebook at the bottom. He’d seen one like it in his dad’s glove box, but he always thought he was just writing down mileage, oil changes, and stuff like that. He didn’t expect to find a diary.

His dad hadn’t been the most talkative man on the planet. On trips across the country, Tim had gone hundreds of miles without his dad so much as grunting at him. But here in the notebook, it looked like his dad had poured out his heart about a lot of things. The writing wasn’t neat by anyone’s standard (another thing Tim had inherited), but deciphering it made Tim feel a connection he hadn’t felt in months.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lexy any prettier than in
the moments after Tim was born. I couldn’t believe what a miracle a baby’s birth is. I can only hope I’ll be a good father to this boy. I’m so scared I’m going to mess things up just like my old man did. Maybe I can break the cycle. At least, I sure hope to give it a good shot.

Tim closed the notebook and cradled it to his chest. As he put his head back on the mattress, he shoved his bandaged hand into his pocket and felt the $100 bill and wondered what his dad would think.