Concrete Angel (32 page)

Eve took his list of forbidden foods to her mother, and Adele worked out a menu. “Most men like their meals simple. You can put any of these meals in a Pyrex dish in the oven before you leave. Surely, taking it out of the oven half-an-hour later is not too much for him. What did you say was wrong with him?”

“Some vision problems, diabetes, and god, he’s so frail. A stick figure. His wife died a few months back. It knocked the shit out of him.”

“Eve! The stuffing knocked out of him sounds so much nicer.” Adele shook her head. “Poor man. If he was my sort of person I’d go over there myself. Lend him a hand.”

It sounded like her mother was talking about someone from a different species rather than a different religion. She was glad she wasn’t filled with prejudice. What would her mother have done if she’d been surrounded by those wetbacks at the hotel? Probably quit the first day. Whereas Eve had put some effort into getting along, learned a little Spanish, shared those messy burritos that gave her diarrhea for lunch.

She shook her head. “You should put that sort of thinking aside and go over. It’d be the Christian thing to do.”

Setting Adele up with Charlie might work. He didn’t have any financial problems from what she saw—much like Bud had guessed. Having a wealthy stepfather could take her out of the hole. But Adele had conveniently moved out of earshot, not liking to hear she was imperfect in any way. With Ryan to care for, she probably had no need for another man in her life.

Cleaning Mr. Kowalski’s house was a snap since he was the neatest man Eve had ever known. Mickey had been fastidious but had several little peccadilloes she’d rather not think about. (What man pees sitting down?) She drove Charlie to his appointments, did some basic shopping, cleaned a little. Most of the day, they watched the soap operas his wife had watched, some she’d gotten into herself at The Philadelphia House. It made the day pass. She wasn’t sure if he liked them too or it was more out of some loyalty to his dead wife.

“Erica is some handful,” he said every day. “I think I’m a little in love with Jenny Gardner. Carol liked the stories about Phoebe Tyler and the Martin family. But I like the ones about their kids. Didn’t have any of our own, you know.”

The guy could get teary-eyed over the craziest things. Stuff that happened a million years ago was something to be mulled over every day. They’d been through this issue before—being childless. Something about clogged fallopian tubes.

“Yeah, well kids can be plenty of trouble,” Eve said. “My teenager can get herself into some pretty tight spots. And my little one, well, he’s a handful.”

“Christine’s her name, right? And Ryan?”

Charlie always remembered the details of her life. She nodded, happily thinking he was growing fonder of her—and, by extension, her children.

“I do my best, Charlie. All on my own, you know.” Her voice sounded pitiful to her own ears. But you couldn’t overdo it with Charlie. His wife must have broken him in good.

“I wish you’d bring them over here sometime. I’d like to meet them.”

She nodded. Ryan would destroy the place without Adele or Christine to watch him. She looked nervously at the shelves of ceramic angels. No thanks. She had her eye on them. What did a man want with such things? They were three-deep in spots. If she remembered correctly, she had a box of them over in the Flourtown unit. They didn’t have the charm for her they once had, but she wouldn’t turn one away should he offer.

“D
o you think you should show me how to keep your books?” Eve asked him after a few weeks. “I could probably take care of your bills if I knew the system. I helped my ex with his. Bet it’s a strain on your eyes.”

“Mickey?” he asked. “You kept Mickey’s books. I didn’t realize he was self-employed.”

“No, not Mick. Hank. Hank’s books. He has his own printing business in Bucks County. I practically ran the office. Back in the early days before Christine came along. Once she was in school. I ran a little shop in Hatboro.”

“I didn’t know that, Eve. You’re quite accomplished. I hope I’m not taking advantage of your time.”

“I love coming here, Charlie. You know that. And with your eyesight and all, learning your books could come in handy,” she said again, in case he hadn’t heard her the first time. “I help Bud. He says I have a knack for it.”

Charlie nodded. “I can show you how to do it. Nothing to it. In January, an accountant comes in and looks things over,” he added.

January was a long way off.

“What’s this all about?” she asked him one day, poking a piece of paper with her rubber finger.

She was sitting at his desk, wearing the reading glasses she suddenly needed. She’d found a section in one of his loose-leaf books listing automobiles. Maybe a dream list for the old coot? She paged through it. There were a lot of notations about servicing, car parts, fees, licenses renewals, inspections twice a year. Some guy—she couldn’t make out the name—signed off on the purchases for him. Maybe a nephew? So Kowalski owned these vehicles? It wasn’t a fantasy? Or were they some sort of model cars—like hobby shop things? But at these prices, it couldn’t be.

Charlie walked across the room and peered over her shoulder. He blushed. “Guess I haven’t told you about my bad habit,” he said. “I’m a bit of a hoarder.”

“What do you hoard?” Eve asked with interest, forgetting the vintage cars she saw listed and picturing storage units filled with junk. Clearly the bill in her hand now was for storage of some kind. Higher than any bill she’d paid though—and she had a bunch of units. Certainly too high for model cars—even a platoon of them.

“I buy automobiles. Or I used to. Haven’t bought one in years though. Since the wife—well—you know.”

“Cars? Carol and you bought cars?”

“Yeah, instead of taking vacations. Carol never wanted to take vacations because she loved this house too much to leave it—always worried about her plants, and she had a little cat. Teeny was a—”

“The cars, Charlie,” Eve interrupted.

“Oh, right. So instead of buying gold or stocks with the extra cash, we bought cars. Every two or three years—the fancy kind.” He walked across the room and returned with a steel box. “I got pictures of most of ‘em in here. We had a professional photographer take them. Oh, those cars were our babies, all right.” He was red-faced. “Seems kind of silly now—buying all those cars. Some barely driven.” He handed her the box. “But we took them out to a car show now and then. There’s a great one in Bucks County, matter of fact. Probably near your old stomping grounds.”

She opened the lid and found a stack of photos. “And you still have all of them? All of these cars?” There must have been a dozen or more. “That’s what’s in the storage units?”

He nodded, still pink with embarrassment. “Sixteen. The sweet sixteen.” He smiled. “Sixteen felt like the right number to end on. And they’re in garages. Not storage units.”

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing to a bright red one. She’d never seen cars like these. Maybe they were foreign.

“A 1969 Alfa Romeo Spider. You’ve got good taste, Eve. One of my favorites.” He picked up the box and thumbed through it. “And this one is a 1958 Ace Bristol. And the yellow baby is a ‘55 Triumph.” In each picture, a small woman, who gradually or not so gradually aged, stood next to the passenger’s door with a chirpy smile on her face. Carol?

“Your wife?” Eve asked. There were no pictures of his wife around the house. No photographs at all.

He nodded. “This is my Carol.” He sighed. “It’s hard looking at her. I put all of our photographs away so I wouldn’t have to—”

“Very pretty.” Actually, Carol
was
an attractive woman. Or had been at the beginning of their automobile purchases. You could pinpoint the exact year her illness began.

“It got to be a routine,” he said. “Carol always standing in the same spot. I picked out the automobile, after months of research and hunting for a good price, but Carol usually picked the color—if we were buying it new.” He shook his head. “Lots of times, it was an older model, one exceptionally valuable.” He sighed. “Now it’s just depressing. How Carol grew more and more sick, marching toward her death, while I bought those cars, trying to hold onto our hobby. That’s why I housecleaned all the photos away around here.” He waved his arm. “Lucky I didn’t buy any cars after ’76.” He blinked like an owl. “She got terribly sick that year. The three worst years…”

Eve nodded. She’d heard the story several times. “You mean those cars are sitting in a garage somewhere—to this day? All sixteen?”

What kind of shape would they be in by now? She pictured them as dusty relics.

“And in excellent condition,” he said, answering her unvoiced question. “Have a fellow who tends to them. Gus Atkins. He drives them enough to keep them sprightly, rotates tires, washes and waxes them, takes them in for special maintenance, orders parts from European suppliers, that sort of thing. Been doing it for years.” He grabbed an invoice from the pile. “Here’s his monthly charges.”

“Wow!” Could the numbers be right? “You don’t drive them anymore? Never take them out on the road?”

The numbers on the invoice were ridiculous. None of her junk needed to be cared for to the tune of… She nearly gasped when she added it up.

Mr. Kowalski looked shocked at the idea of driving them. “Oh, no. Not with my eyes. Haven’t been able to drive a car in six years. It became a real problem back when Carol…”

Eve butted in again. “Have you thought about selling them? You could probably put the money to use in some other way. Especially if you don’t drive. What’s the point, Charlie? Do you go look at them at least?”

He shook his head. “Hard to get there without a car. Ironic, huh? Oh, I don’t know, Eve. Those cars were like our children. Each one has its own story. Like the Triumph there,” he began to flip through the photos. “Carol saw one at the airport—”

“But children grow up and go away,” she interrupted. “You could take a vacation with the profits. Go around the world—twice at least.”

He laughed. “I’ve never wanted to travel—even when I physically could. And Carol—well, you know.” He paused. “It was enough for me to travel through the car magazines—to purchase automobiles from Italy, Germany, France. When we could take them out ourselves, it was as good as being there. Each year, we took one or two to a car show or to road rallies. Not too far away, but enough to make it a trip. It was exciting. Something we enjoyed doing together. I have a scrapbook somewhere…”

“Still, the profits from your investment will go to the State of Pennsylvania if you let them sit in those garages.”

It was making her angry thinking of it. No children to leave the money to—nobody to profit from this collection—when she’d so many needs herself. Who took care of him after all? She was the only person who came through the door most weeks. One or two old goats stopped by, mostly to watch a 76ers or Flyers’ game.

“I never really saw the cars as an investment. I mean, sure, I know they’re worth money, but it was something to do together. Carol and me,” he repeated. He began to warm to the story. “It was fun deciding which one we’d buy next…”

“When was the last time you went out to see those cars?”

He screwed up his eyes, thinking, “Couple of years probably.”

“How can you be sure they’re still there? Maybe the guy who tends to them—this Ace fellow—sold them all years ago.”

A look of alarm widened Mr. Kowalski’s eyes, but then faded. “No,
Gus
wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s not in him. And anyway, I’d have to sign the title papers over to the new owner. Gus couldn’t sell them without my signature.”

“I bet he could forge your signature after all these years.”

Eve thought she could pull it off. She’d seen his signature enough, and it still looked like the handwriting of a schoolboy from two generations ago. Grade school teachers in his time didn’t brook any deviation. She could still picture those flowing cursive letters on a chart above the blackboard.

“You have a real knack for figuring this sort of thing out, Eve. None of this ever occurred to me. But if you knew Gus, you’d see why. He’s crazy about those cars. Probably thinks of my babies as his by now—you’re right there. But there’s not a streak of larceny in him. I could go out there today and all sixteen would be sitting in their spots in perfect condition. I trust him the same as I trust you.”

“I’m sure he does think of them as his, which is exactly why we should go over and see them someday,” she said. “Make sure they’re in tiptop shape. Could be they’re rusting away. Bud can come along. He’ll get a kick out of it. Loves cars.”

Or she assumed he did. Didn’t all men? Anyway, it wasn’t about the cars.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “The garage is in Southampton.”

“I’ll get Bud to drive us out. It’ll be a nice outing. We need to get out more.”

I
t took the two of them several months to separate Charlie Kowalski from his cars. The first two months were spent talking Mr. Kowalski into selling the first one. After that the dominoes fell more easily.

“I don’t see what harm comes from leaving things as they are,” he’d say each time Eve brought the subject up. “I got enough money for my few needs without selling my cars. Carol wouldn’t like it.” A worried look furrowed his brow.

“You have no heirs,” she reminded him. “You might as well get some pleasure out of the money while you still can.”

“I do have heirs,” he said stubbornly. “I’ve left the cars to a few local charities.”

“Those charity people—well, they won’t take the time to get a good price for them. What does the Red Cross or Salvation Army know about cars anyway? I imagine they’ll hand them over to some service who will sell them in bulk.” Bud had thought of this argument only the night before. “You can leave those charities more money if Bud helps you. He can make sure you get the best prices. We can also make sure the cars go to people who will love them, too.” Sometimes it felt like they were talking about dogs or horses. But this sort of argument eventually won him over, although Gus, his mechanic, was none too happy about it.