Spare Parts

Laura Wheatley 

A normal person probably couldn't hear themselves think over the teeth-rattling knocks of the impact wrench or the shrill scream of the grinder, but when you're a Wheatley, these noises are more familiar than a television. I would know, having spent most of my days after school at Wheatley's Spare Parts, the “mechanical parts store” in our small town; but let's be real – it's a junkyard. 

The usual teenage girl might scoff at the dark grease and dirt under my fingernails, or feign a headache at the tang of gasoline and the heady odor of brake cleaner that will send you to high heaven if you don't give yourself a little ventilation. But not me. Not Laura Wheatley. 

That doesn't mean I like it, though. It doesn't mean I want to work here forever, although I know my dad thinks I will. 

He sees me walk into the garage and waves as he operates the grinder one-handed, sparks flying off the tool as he cuts some part off the car he’s bent over. I grin, shaking my head. Show off. 

When I saw that his back was turned and he was focused on dismantling our newest, a ‘96 Saturn, to sell its salvageable parts, I sneaked into the shop's corner office and pulled out my notebook. I glanced over the paper that Miss Renn had handed me this morning. "You are invited to enter the 10th Annual Ruley Writing Contest!" I had already thought about what I’d write – a fantasy about a girl who follows her dream.

I didn’t notice that the garage had become eerily quiet until my dad’s voice rang out. "Laura? Laura!" I slid the contest paper back into my notebook and slammed it shut. 

"Coming!" I yelled. I swung around, stepping casually out of the stuffy office. Dad had set down the grinder and was looking for me. 

"What were you doing in there?" he asked. 

"Just putting away my homework," I partially lied. Technically the contest wasn't homework, and Dad saw no value in writing. 

"You can do homework later. I need you out here for some real work," he barked. 

I rolled my eyes and rolled up my sleeves. "This is child abuse," I said, punching him in the arm. 

"Nah," he said. "I can show you child abuse if you want." The right side of his mouth raised a tad – the only way you could ever tell he was smiling. 

I punched his arm again, harder this time, and he ruffled my hair. I picked up the wrench I knew he wanted me to hold. Some of these tasks were a two-man job, but we couldn’t afford a full-time employee. For the past few years, ever since the good times ended, it's just been my Dad and I. My eyes were on the bolt he was trying to break loose, but my mind was on the writing contest and how I'd stay up late tonight to write it. 

Leavett Wheatley

Laura was a good kid, but she spent time on things that weren't going to do her a lick of good. There wasn't a need for words in the shop, just strength and a little ingenuity, both of which she had plenty. I knew she would do well to continue the legacy of Wheatley's Spare Parts, passed from my grandfather to my father and then down to me. 

Laura and I worked for an hour to break that dang bolt loose, but we got it, and I sent her over to the soda pop machine to take herself a break. I needed to dig through the cash register to gather up the invoices from the day – we still did everything by hand because I didn't trust no computer. 

I moved the cardboard box I had found in the cabinet earlier. I hadn’t seen that old heap of useless parts since the good times, and those were years ago. My eyes lingered on the box. My heart ached. 

Shaking myself out of my little reverie, I walked back to the register, accidentally bumping into Laura's stack of notebooks. Whoops. One fell to the ground and a paper shot clear out of it. I looked over my shoulder, but she was still working the machine, so I bent to gather up her things before she could accuse me of snooping. 

I picked up the paper and my eye was immediately drawn to the words "Writing Contest." My blood nearly boiled. She knew I didn't want her wasting time on writing. I felt a pressure rising behind my eyes and in my ears. 

Before I knew what I was doing, I stormed out into the garage. "Laura, what in the hell do you think you're doing with this?" 

She spun towards me, her eyes as big as saucers. Her face straightened up. "What?" she asked, innocently. 

I wrapped my fist around the paper and pointed it towards her. She reached out to grab it, but something bitter rose within me. Overcome by meanness, I yanked it away. She watched in shock as I tore it into pieces and let them flutter to the floor. I was shocked, myself. 

She doesn’t understand. It wasn't just her entering a contest; it was her leaving me, just the way her brother did. The way her mother did when she passed.  I have a legacy to uphold here, and I don't have any more family to help. It ends with me, or it continues with her. 

Her eyes welled up, but she stood strong. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just a contest, I thought it would be fun. There’s a $50 prize." 

"$50 ain’t enough to buy a bag of groceries anymore. I thought you had more sense than to waste time like your brother. You saw how far college got him."

She looked down, but I couldn't stop myself from continuing. "Writing ain't going to dismantle this car. It ain't going to put food on the table. You gotta think about the future." 

Laura turned to me then, her eyes narrowed. "You don't understand, Dad." She spit her words out, pointing her finger in my face. She took a deep breath, her facial features smoothing. She could calm her anger lickety split, a trait she'd inherited from her mother. 

She started again, her voice even and smooth. "Writing is like mechanics, at its core. You've got your basic words, just like basic parts - the nuts, bolts, and washers of the trade. There are specialized words that fit a certain situation, just like the carburetor you searched high and low for to put in the '57 Chevy. You pick and choose words and fix them together to make something bigger, to make something that can run, that is alive." 

She swallowed, looking down, then looked back up at me with her big brown eyes, curving down on the corners exactly like her mother's had. I felt my throat choking up, but I held it together, like any good man would. 

"You have your spare parts. Words are mine." She looked away, and I felt all the air suck out of my chest. 

She spun on her heel and stepped outside into the pool of light from the exterior bulb, closing the door quietly. I stood, feeling awkward, as tears filled my eyes. I wiped them away as fast as they'd come. When had she become grown?

I felt frozen in place. I looked down at the scraps of paper scattered about the garage floor. I shouldn’t have done that. I knew I hurt my little girl, only because I was hurting, too.

I grabbed my coat off the rack and reached out to flip off the lights, but something stopped me. I spied the cardboard box. It was full of spare parts – not for cars, but another type of machine. Something of her mother's. I grabbed the box and carried it out with me. Luckily, Laura didn't even bother to ask what it was. 

Laura Wheatley

I hated arguing with my dad. After the short drive to our house, I plopped face first onto my bed, clumsily pushing off my work boots. They fell to the floor with a clomp, clomp. I was too tired to work on my short story. What’s the point, anyway? I drifted off to sleep, dreaming about words and car parts as they fell around me, settling like snow. 

The next morning, I woke up with dawn’s light peeking in through my curtains. I spied an unusual outline on my desk. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, but still couldn’t see what was sitting on the wooden surface. I tripped over my boots as I got out of bed, my eyes fixed on the odd shape. 

Suddenly, it all came together – an old vintage typewriter sat on my desk. I ran my fingers delicately along its keys, afraid that it might disappear at any moment. It wasn’t new – more of a Frankenstein, put back together from a few different typewriter models. Salvaged, just like the cars in the shop. Typed on the page was one sentence: "4 all yur spare parts." 

Hot tears sprung to my eyes. I heard the door creak ajar, and my dad was standing there, peering in. I flung the door open, enveloping him in a hug. He embraced me in return, then pushed me back to look me in the eye. “I know it's old, but it was from parts that your mother had collected, to try to put together for you. I know she wanted you to have it.” He swallowed, looking away. When he looked back, his eyes were set sternly. “I want you to have it, too.” 

I had no words other than “Thank you.” We had a lot left unsaid, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he left me to it. I pulled the chair out from my desk and my fingers were flying across the keyboard before I had even sat down, the beginning of my short story spilling out of me as if the keys had long been waiting to accept it.