The Fickle Finger of Fate

“Listen…”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the passenger’s seat of the Dodge, trying to get myself right with the Lord before something came out of my mouth that would get me in trouble.

“Mama, I really don’t hear anything different when you start up. Stop parking it under the live oak. There’s probably more acorns under the hood than motor. When was the last time you took the truck in for service?”

“Last month.”

She pushed her oversized pink glasses back up the bridge of her nose, the lenses large enough to support a small gold monogram in the lower left hand corner, PM, for Patricia McClellan. There was a deep vertical line in her forehead, and her wispy salt and pepper hair was tucked behind one ear. No earrings; she didn’t like clip-ons, and she said if she’d been meant to have holes in her ears, she’d have been born with them. I told her once that if she didn’t have holes in her ears, she couldn’t hear anything at all, and so she said I had a smart mouth and sent me to my room.  

“What did the man tell you?”

“I needed to replace my belts.” She ran her fingers over the steering wheel, her shortish nails polished a pearlescent pink. “It just doesn’t sound right. There’s a ticking. ”

The thing about mama is that she never comes out and asks for things. Even with her birthday, she always says she doesn’t care, she doesn’t need anything, she doesn’t want a fuss made. But she measures your love and care by making you guess what she wants. She knows I don’t know a damn thing about cars, and she’s pissed that I don’t have a man who knows anything about cars, so she can put on him, since she doesn’t have daddy to ask anymore (not that he knew squat about cars either), so here we all are.

“Pop the hood.” I sighed. The door groaned as I opened it into the heat of the morning. I had to hop up on the front bumper to see anything at all, and I released the catch on the hood, pulling down the metal bar and propping it up. So. Many. Acorns. I brushed away what I could without burning myself on the whirring engine. Everything seemed to be functioning smoothly.

“Mama,” I shouted. “Cut the engine, and start it again.”

“What?”

I leaned over, so she could see me through the side window.

“Stop, and re-start.”

The engine sighed to a stop. There was a pause. I heard the leaves rustling overhead, and the pop-pop-pop of warlike acorns dropping on the roof of the truck. The keys clicked as the engine turned over, only squealing a little as she over rotated. I was going to yell, but bit my tongue, almost too hard.

Then, I saw it.

It was low down, in the workings of the engine, too hot to reach, and no way was I going after it with the truck on anyway.

“Stop the truck, mama.”

“What?”

“Turn it off!”

The engine slowed, stopped. I pulled out my phone, turned on the light and looked down between the valves and metal. I couldn’t quite make out what it was.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something in here.” I squinted. It looked like bones. Squirrels, or a cat, would get up inside cars on cold nights, sometimes, fall asleep. You’d turn the engine on and they’d lose a tail, or maybe more.

“You still got that grabber thing in the house? “

“It’s by my chair.”

I hopped down, my feet making crunching sounds on the gravel. She leaned out the window.

“What’re you up to, Ashley?”

I darted into her house. Her chair was a worn pink and ivory toile, a paperback romance bent open on one arm, a few old cigarette burns on the small table beside it, where she’d been involved in the story and missed the green glass ashtray. There were her grabbers; she was short, and had spells of vertigo, so a stepstool wasn’t always the best idea. I took the grabbers by the yellow handle, brought them out to the truck, hopped up, and measured the angle. Gingerly, I picked up the tail-like thing, angling myself around and down off the truck so I could see it better in the sunlight. I took it between two fingers; examining. It was short and smooth, too smooth for a tail bone.

“Oh Jesus.” It came out before I could stop it. Apparently she’d heard me say something, but had most likely ignored what I’d said.

“What’s wrong? What’d you find?”

“Mama…” I hesitated, but we’d come this far, and at least the grabbers had a use.

“There was a finger down in your engine.”

“What?”

I heard her door squeak, and the truck shuddered as it slammed and she made her way down.

I held it out to her. She peered down, examining it, frowning.

 “Doesn’t seem big enough to cause a problem, but you never know.”

“You seem awful calm about this.”

“Well, Ashley, I’m not gonna get all het up. I’d imagine people lose fingers all the time, working on engines.” She adjusted her glasses. “It’s still got the nail on,” she murmured, making a “tsk” sound, inspecting.

“Nobody said anything about an accident, working on the truck?”

She scoffed.

“Why would they? Ashley Margaret, have some sense.”

“Well, sometimes they can sew it back on!”

She tsked.

“Well, they certainly can’t do that now.”

We both looked at the finger.

“So…what should we do with it?”

“I don’t know,” she whisked at it with a hand. “Throw it away, I guess.”

“What if someone finds it in the trash?”

“Who’s going to dig in my trash?” She pulled her navy cardigan more tightly around her, the top button a rhinestone, the neck open. “Go in the house, throw it away, and let’s get going to Beall’s.”

***

 Smelling like the cigarette she’d just had, mama perused the menu at Bob Evans.

“So, what are you in the mood for?” I approached. “Chicken fingers…?”

“Stop it, Ashley.” She continued scanning the menu.

“I just can’t believe you won’t go back to the mechanic to ask about the finger.”

“Good lord, girl, will you shut up?” She hissed, glaring. “I’m trying to read this menu, and nobody needs to hear you starting in on my business.”

“Mama, we come here all the time. You know the whole damned menu by heart, and you always get the senior special with a sweet tea. It hasn’t magically changed overnight.”

“Don’t say ‘damned’. Not how I raised you.” She placed the menu back on the table, and scanned the room for a waitress. “Now where is that waitress?”

“If you’re reading the menu, they don’t come over. Now that you’ve put it down, she might.”

“Know what you’re having?” She pursed her lips.

“Grilled cheese with fries.”

She picked up her menu, adjusting her glasses.

“I don’t see that on here.”

“It’s a special. It was on the board.” I looked over toward the serving station. “Now you picked up the menu, and she stopped coming over.”

“No wonder you can’t keep a man,” she hissed. “Eating like that.”

“What did I do? It’s not my fault you keep touching your menu and the waitress runs away.” I leaned back. “We’re going right by that shop. I want to see if the mechanic you used is missing a finger.”

She glowered.

“Absolutely not.”

“If dad were alive…”

“If your father were alive, we’d already be eating!”

I sighed.

“Did you want me to go get her?”

“No.” She removed the paper end from her straw, rolled it into a little ball, and stuck the straw in her water. I watched her for about a minute, sipping at her water, playing with the ice in her glass.

“I have the finger in my purse.”

She choked, and started coughing, dug through her purse for some balled up Kleenex, and covered her mouth, turning red.

“You WHAT?”

I didn’t blink. Naturally, the waitress came over to see if she was all right.

“Ma’am? Are you ok?”

Other patrons were looking, which I know mama hated. She held up a hand.

“I’m fine, thank you, just went down the wrong way.” She cleared her throat, attempting to re-dignify herself. “I’d like the senior special, the chicken salad on toasted white, and the chicken soup. And a sweet tea.”

The waitress was scribbling furiously, her blonde topknot off kilter.

“And for you, ma’am?”

“Grilled cheese on white. With fries.”

“And what to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“All righty, I’ll have that out to you in just a few minutes.” She scooped up the menus and was gone, tapping the edges once on the table to align them.

Mama was apoplectic.

“I can’t believe you.”

“Got her over here fast though, didn’t I?”

She leaned back a little.

“So you lied. You don’t have it.”

“Oh, I absolutely do have it. Want to see it?” I opened my purse.

Her nostrils flared as she took a deep, horrified breath, preparing to hiss angrily at me, the threat of eternal damnation on her face if she had anything to do with it.

“Look,” I kept my voice low, “We can either go over to the garage together, or I can go over on my own. At least if you’re there, you’ll know what was said.”

She was almost purple, tiny reddish veins standing out on her nose as she radiated daggers.

 “Why…are…you…so…difficult?”

It was almost too forceful of a whisper, but people didn’t seem to notice, and the last thing she liked was a public display.

“You can stay in the truck.”

I turned to grin at the waitress, who had just then arrived with her sweet tea.

Mama continued to glare at me all through lunch, but I knew I’d won.

***

When we turned in at the garage, mama shrank down in the passenger’s seat. She still wasn’t speaking to me, which was a mixed blessing. I turned off the motor, grabbed my purse, and opened the door, which uttered a loud groan of protest. Mama still stared daggers at me through the window. You’d’ve thought I shot her dog.

A youngish guy in a blue coverall came out of the shop, wiping the grease from his hands with a red bandana.

I noticed he had all ten fingers.

“Excuse me…”

He jumped.

“Afternoon, ma’am. You have an appointment?”

“No, no…” I glanced over my shoulder, where mama was still hunched down, shooting me lasers. “Do you know who did the work on this truck, about a month ago?”

“This truck?” He kind of sized it up, then looked at me. “Miss Patti’s truck.”

“Uh-huh. She said she had some belts replaced?”

“I do recall. Is there a problem?” Unkempt eyebrows met. He had a square of white on his deeply tanned face, where he’d worn a cap backwards in the sun

“Not with the belts.” I leaned away. “There was something left in the motor.”

He frowned.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes tools, rags get left behind…”

“So it wasn’t you who worked on it. Who did?”

“That’d be Jody. The boss. He ain’t here.”

“He wasn’t…” I gestured to my hands, “…hurt on the job, or anything?”

He stopped wiping the grease off his hands.

 “Why?”

I reached into my purse, and pulled out a ziplock bag. In it, I’d wrapped the finger in a paper towel.

“What’s that?”

“A finger. It was down in the engine.”

He paled.

 “You have a dead finger in that bag?” He pointed at it.

“If it was a live finger, we’d have some problems.” I thrust it at him.

He looked at me, then the bag.

“Go ahead. Look at it.” I gave it a shake.

He held up his hands

“I believe you.”

I thought about putting the baggie back into my purse, but paused.

“So this man, the one who isn’t here, is he missing a finger?”

Coveralls looked left, his mouth hanging open a little. Cicadas buzzed, and someone in the garage was hammering away at something stubborn.

“Can’t say as I know. Sometimes he worked off hours. I think that’s when he was working on that truck, matter of fact. ”

“When was he here last?”

“Couple weeks ago. Said he was going fishing up north. He’s semi retired.” He frowned, then looked suddenly over my shoulder. A door squeaked, and mama huffed out of the truck, slamming the door with relish. The term “high dudgeon” came to mind. She pulled her five foot self up as tall as she could in her capris and that navy sweater, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Afternoon, Jarvis.”

He nodded to her.

“Miss Patti.”

She wouldn’t even look at me.

“Ashley McClellan, get in the truck.”

I looked at him. He was wincing a little. I looked back at her.

“Now.” The vein over her left eye began to throb.

I sighed, rolled my eyes. She hit me on the arm, and held out her hand for the keys.

“I’ll drive. It’s my damn truck.”

She said “damn”. Mama never cussed.

***

“Where are we going?”

She drove in silence, her shoulders hunched. She’d caved to smoking with me in the car, even though I’d always made a fuss, coughing and complaining. Now she didn’t seem to care. Kept ashing out the window, too. As she finished one butt, she’d pull out another cigarette, light it off the end, toss the old butt out, and the new dangled from her lips. Finally, she rolled the truck up a long dirt road, and pulled over to the side. She turned, expressionless, and looked at me.

“You just had to bring that finger. Had to go to the shop, had to go…” she made motions with her hands, “Waving that thing all around.” She took the cigarette out of her mouth, and I noticed her hands trembling. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Mama, it’s somebody’s finger!”

“They’re not going to want it back.” She took a long drag. She blinked several times, her face unchanging.

“Did you know about this?”

She exhaled smoke long and blue through her nostrils. She pushed the door open, and hopped down. Bending over, she scraped the butt across the sand and flicked it into the woods. She turned her back on me, staring after it, into the mesh of branches and ground pine.

“Just pitch the finger, Ashley. Unwrap it, throw it into the bushes.” Her voice took a queer downturn. “Nobody is going to go looking for it.”

I climbed down from the truck and walked over.

“So…whose finger is it?”

“It’s not important. Not anymore.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“What I am telling you,” she turned to face me squarely, her eyes stone serious, “is that nobody is coming for that finger.”

My mind went absolutely blank. My mouth attempted to form words, but to no avail.

She looked me up and down.

“Never thought I’d see this day, you with no sassy comebacks.”

My mouth suddenly fell open.

“So…you…and the mechanic…the one that went fishing…”

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t even blink.

“That’s his finger?” I started to laugh, not sure why; it was an eerie, distant sound, coming from my mouth.

“What’s funny?”

“What did you do, kill him or someth…”

She froze, like a picture. There was no breath, even the wind was still. Finally, in a high whisper that didn’t seem to come from her, she said,

“He wasn’t a nice man. Man drinks on the job, he makes mistakes, sometimes.”

 She walked slowly to the truck, and pulled the door open. I stood in the grass, unable to move.

“Are you coming, or am I just gonna leave you here?”

I guess I didn’t make her timetable, because she walked over, took the baggie from me, and dumped the finger onto the ground. She scooped it up, and threw it away, hard. I watched, but I couldn’t see where it went.

“Get in the truck.” Deadly. No movement in that tone. I did as I was told. I hopped up, and she turned the key.

“Engine still doesn’t sound right,” she murmured, lighting up another cigarette.

“Well,” I turned to her, “who the hell are you going to get to take a look at it, now?”

She shifted into gear, and cut me a look.

“Shut up, Ashley.”

The tires squealed as she floored the truck back on to the asphalt.