Free Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh

trousers moving with long steps.
    Charlie followed him. The next aisle was crowded with mothers and children and babies in strollers. The man was already at the other end of it. He turned the corner and disappeared.
    Charlie ran. He pushed through the shopping carts, the pocketbooks dangling from ladies’ arms. What if the man had already left? What if he was in the parking lot, ready to leave without him, not knowing his boy was in the very same store?
    Charlie scrambled around the corner, crying now. At the end of the aisle was his father, carrying a carton of eggs.
    “Wait!” Charlie called. He could remember his father breaking eggs into a bowl for pancakes. He ran.
    The man turned around.
    “Daddy!” Charlie cried.
    The man looked down at him, startled. “What’s the matter, son? Are you lost?”
    “Daddy,” he said again, but something was wrong. The man was too old, his face too fat. He had brown eyes instead of blue.
    “Son,” said the man. His voice was grave. “Have you lost your father?”

I n the morning Birdie drove downtown. She tried not to look at the dashboard, the engine light an alarming red. Cars passed her on both sides; horns blared as she stopped at a traffic light. When the light changed she made a left turn from the righthand lane; the driver behind her yelled something out his window.
    She found the garage at a busy intersection, not far from the luncheonette. “They won’t charge you an arm and a leg,” Fay had told her. “They’re the only honest mechanics in Richmond.”
    Birdie parked in front and went into the office, a dirty little room redolent of cigarette smoke. On the wall hung a calendar, dating to the past December: a woman lay on her side at the foot of a Christmas tree, propped on her elbow, her other arm crossed beneath her large breasts. She was naked except for a Santa hat. From a radio somewhere, a sad male voice sang “Every Fool Has a Rainbow.” Behind the counter a swinging door led to the garage.
    “Hello,” Birdie called out.
    She waited. A cigarette burned in the overflowing ashtray. The phone rang, then stopped. A man in coveralls appeared throughthe swinging door. His bald head was smooth and glossy, like the plastic body of a doll.
    “Keep your shirt on,” he grumbled. He saw Birdie and reddened. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
    Birdie cleared her throat. “I’m having trouble with my car. The engine light is on.”
    The man glanced out the window. “That Pontiac there?”
    “Yes.” She was still shaky from the drive; her blouse stuck to her back like a bandage.
    “Have a seat,” said the man, “and I’ll take a look.”
    The room was sweltering, the morning sun streaming through greasy panes of glass. She’d never been inside a garage before; her husband had handled the repairs. She had a sudden urge to walk down the street to the bus stop, leaving the car for the man to do with as he pleased.
    She hated the car. Driving had been an ordeal from the start. She’d gotten her license four years before, after failing the test twice; Ken had insisted she keep trying, though she didn’t see the point. He was an excellent driver; she was a happy passenger. She’d never imagined anything would change.
    Birdie glanced out the window and saw Buck Perry coming up the sidewalk, keys dangling from his finger. He seemed to be looking right at her. She waved, but he couldn’t see her behind the glare from the window. Hidden, she watched him come toward the garage. He was shorter than her husband, heavy through the arms and shoulders. His powerful thighs seemed ready to burst out of his blue jeans.
    Perry disappeared around the side of the building. He must work here, she thought; the luncheonette was a few blocks away, an easy walk on his lunch hour. She thought of his thick arms in the denim shirt. Her husband had been slender and delicate; twicehe’d wrenched his back and spent a week in bed, expecting his meals on a tray. Buck Perry looked strong as a