Free Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh Page A

horse. He looked like he could carry her on his shoulders.
    The door to the garage swung open and the bald man emerged, wiping his hands on his coveralls.
    “Looks like the transmission is about to go,” he said.
    Birdie blinked. She didn’t know what a transmission was and didn’t care; all that mattered was how much it would cost.
    “Is it expensive?” she asked.
    “You’re looking at about three hundred dollars.”
    A lick of sweat trailed down her back. Three hundred dollars was what she earned in a month. Yet the car was the only thing of value she owned, the only thing her husband had left her.
    “Parts and labor,” said the man. “Give or take.”
    Birdie closed her eyes. “A transmission,” she said. “Is it absolutely necessary? Can I run the car without one?”
    The man howled. “Did you hear that?” he called into the back. “She asked can she run it without a transmission!” He turned back to Birdie and grinned; his teeth were bad. “Well, ma’am, let’s just say I wouldn’t advise it.”
    His rudeness stunned her. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. “Well, what do you want to do? Do you want me to replace it or not?”
    “I can’t afford three hundred dollars.” Her eyes went to the calendar above the desk. The woman’s nipples were the size of silver dollars, rouged to match her mouth. The door swung open and Buck Perry stood in the doorway.
    “Are you the transmission?” he asked.
    Birdie nodded yes.
    “I think I can help you,” he said.

T here was only dirt where the house had been, a silent patch of bare ground. All afternoon a truck had hauled away bricks and boards and sharp slices of window glass. Charlie hid in the woods, knowing that the men, if they saw him, would chase him away. Crouching, he watched them load the truck. When it was full it would drive away and the men would stand in the shade, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices, until the truck returned.
    Finally the truck came back for the last time; the men piled into the rear and drove away, raising dust. Charlie got to his feet and walked through the woods, in a wide circle with the demolished house at its center. “Here, boys,” he called softly. But the puppies didn’t come.
    He approached the crumbling foundation, half filled with splintered boards and chunks of plaster. He located the spot where the porch had been, the dark earth littered with nails and flaked paint and bits of glass. He reached into his pocket. That morning he’d gone back to the Hogans’; his pockets were full of kibble he’d taken from Queenie’s dish.
    “I’ll leave it right here,” he said loudly, piling the kibble into a neat mound. Though by then he knew the puppies were gone.

S omebody’s watching you,” said Fay.
    Birdie looked up from the tray of water glasses she was filling. At the end of the counter, Buck Perry waved and smiled.
    “Go take care of him,” said Fay. “He needs a warm-up.”
    Birdie took the pot from the burner and refilled Perry’s coffee cup. His blond hair, she noticed, was thick and wavy. (Her husband’s had begun to thin.) It curled softly at the nape of his neck.
    “How’s the transmission doing?” he asked.
    “Just fine,” said Birdie. Perry had a friend who rebuilt transmissions on the side; he’d gotten Birdie one for almost nothing. He’d explained patiently what a transmission did, but Birdie didn’t care. The car ran beautifully; the troublesome engine light had been extinguished.
    “He’s a card, that Jenks. The one that fixed your tranny. He plays drums in a dance band.” Perry bit into his hamburger, half the sandwich in one bite; ketchup oozed out the other side. He seemed not to notice. He ate fast and intently, like a hungry dog.
    “They’re playing at the Vets this Saturday night,” he said. “You want to come and hear them?”
    Birdie’s heart quickened. A date, she thought. He’s asking me out on a date.
    “That sounds lovely,” she