may be true too,â she said.
* * *
There was a message on the answering machine for me. It was from the Sunoco station in Washington Crossing. They had an estimate on the Chevette.
I called back and got the woman Iâd talked to when I broke down. âYou threw a rod,â she said.
âI kind of figured that.â
âYeah, well, itâs gonna cost you six hundred bucks. We gotta get a new engine, okay? And thereâs one up in Ringoes we can get you used for about four hundred, and believe me thatâs a real good deal, and then laborâs two hundred, and I know that sounds like a lot, but itâs the best we can do in these particular circumstances.â
âOh.â
âSo we need a decision from you on whether to go ahead or not on it.
âIâm wondering if the carâs even worth fixing.â
âWell, thatâs a possibility.â
âIâll have to get back to you,â I said. âItâs technically my girlfriendâs car.â
I hung up and stood a moment by the phone, waiting for inspiration. Six hundred dollars! On the day I was supposed to have become rich! I grabbed a pencil from the grease-spattered mug next to the stove and snapped it in two against the edge of the counter. This felt good, so I did it to all the other pencils too. Then the pitiful theatricality of the gesture struck me and I put the pieces back into the mug and wiped off the counter with a damp rag.
I called Amanda. She picked up on the first ring. âItâs me,â I said.
âHello, me.â
âMore bad news.â I waited a few seconds. âItâs the car. It needs a new engine.â
âHow much?â she said.
âSix hundred bucks.â
âHmm.â In the background, at our apartment, I heard somebody say âWhat?â âNothing,â replied Amanda.
âWhoâs that?â I said.
âNobody.â
âOh, come on.â
âItâs Ian,â she said. âI know how you hate him.â
âI donât hate him,â I said. âWhy would you say that with him around?â Ian was our upstairs neighbor. He borrowed things and played âwhimsicalâ little âjokesâ on me when I wasnât home, like adding dead birds or dandelion chains to my installations, or filling my sneakers with bread crumbs. I hated him.
âDonât worry, Tim,â came Ianâs voice, shrill even far from the phone. âI can take it!â
âDonât let him into the studio, please.â
âI donât know about this repair,â she said. âAre you sure theyâre not just ripping you off? You can look like a sucker sometimes, no offense.â This refreshing frankness suggested that they had just been talking about me.
âIâm sure, Jesus Christ.â
She was silent, briefly. âTim?â
âAmanda.â
âDid they read the will?â
âYes,â I said.
âWhatâd you get?â Her voice was small and quiet, as if it were coming out of a dictaphone.
âNothing,â I said.
âYou didnât get nothing.â
âI got the comic strip,â I said. âIf I can get it together in three months, I get to draw the Family Funnies, and Iâll live in my fatherâs studio and be him. Thatâs my inheritance. An endless, meaningless task.â
This time the pause was longer, a nice slack length of rope to hang the conversation with. âAre you going to do it?â she said.
âOf course not,â I said.
She sighed. âNo, of course not.â
âWhat?â Ian was saying, âWhat?â
âIan, shut up!â
I said, âLook, weâre not going to have any money anytime soon. We have to decide about the car.â
âI guess we let it go, then. I guess we donât have a car.â
âI suppose thatâs best,â I said.
âUnless you sell a piece or