Free Maud's House by Sherry Roberts Page A

climbed in and paced off the distance from end to end. The owner said he could get it running, and even threw in a passenger seat, scrounged from the adjacent pasture, for free. What a bargain, I said to T-Bone.
    What a mess, George said. He wanted to know how T-Bone could let me buy such a thing. T-Bone said, he kind of liked it. George fumed. I smiled and T-Bone smiled. The van started pinging three days later and hasn’t stopped since. I listen to the talk shows on the radio where drivers call in with questions about their cars. From those shows, you’d think America was one big automotive anomaly, full of cars that you’d rather put up with than give up. That’s the way I feel about my van. Mechanics from all over the world could look at my van—the way it pings on uphills some days and downhills others, how it starts on cold mornings without a hitch but won’t even roll over on warm summer days that seem like a Bahamas vacation— and not figure it out. But I don’t care.
    We took Thomas’s van to the doctor. I hunched in the back, out of sight, amid a sleeping bag, a huge backpack, a cardboard box of books and cassette tapes, a pair of binoculars, several posters of stars and celestial systems taped to the wall, two dumbbells, a computer, and a half bushel of apples.
    The doctor pronounced Thomas fit despite his queasiness, but insisted on putting nine stitches in my palm. I was afraid of that. I hate needles, hypodermic, sewing, knitting. The last time I had to be stitched up was when I was seven. Odie Dorfmann was the king and I was about to be his new knight. He lifted the snow shovel to tap my shoulder, missed, and knighted my head. Ten stitches and a new hairdo. My father was frantic, turned to Jell-O by my tears and the sight of blood pouring down my face. He held me all night, rocking in the rocking chair, watching over me as I slept off the painkillers. My hand pulsed with pain. Suddenly I was sad that there was no one to hold me that night.
    When we pulled in the drive, I saw T-Bone waiting for us, tilling the front yard with his nervous feet. He rushed to the van as Thomas parked, pulled my door open, and helped me out.
    “Why didn’t you call me?” he said, walking me toward the house. Thomas followed us. “I walked right into the house—you’ve got to start locking your door, Maud, anyone could walk in. I found the blood upstairs and nearly went out of my mind. Your van was here but you weren’t. I called Odie, Freda, Wynn, even Reverend Swan. He suggested the doctor. The nurse said you were already on the way home. She said you’re all right. Are you?”
    “Thomas drove me to the doctor after we wrapped my hand up so he couldn’t see it.”
    “I never could stand blood,” Thomas smiled.
    “The doctor said Thomas would be fine as long as he stayed away from automobile accidents, wars, and sharp knives.”
    “Sound advice,“ T-Bone said, his arms crossed over his chest now.
    “Even after my hand was wrapped, Thomas made me sit in the back of the van. He wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t look in his rearview mirror once the whole way.”
    “So much for defensive driving,” Thomas said sheepishly.
    T-Bone turned white. I knew what T-Bone was thinking: that Thomas could have killed us both, could have pulled out to pass when the guy behind him already was passing; that, from the looks of the van, he’d been in a few wrecks; and that he probably didn’t even have a license.
    “Show T-Bone your license,” I told Thomas, leading them into the house. I headed for the refrigerator. Thomas complied with a big white smile and T-Bone frowned.
    “You’re growling,” I said, passing T-Bone a beer. He took it and downed half in a gulp.
    “You should have called me.”
    “T-Bone, nine stitches, for gawdsake! It was nothing.”
    “Did the doctor give you a tetanus shot?”
    “Yes, dear T-Bone.” I turned to Thomas. “T-Bone worries about me.”
    Thomas smiled. “He’s a good