A C&w Song in the Ey of Life

The phone woke me before the alarm had a chance.

"Sorry to call so early, Tom, but triple-A called. Dallas North and Harrington's both have rollbacks down for maintenance and calls are backing up already."

Dallas North and Harrington's were two of the busiest tow shops in the area. They had more rigs than we did, but taking two rollbacks offline on a Friday puts a lot of pressure on everybody else. And our rollback wasn't in the shop, it was sitting in my driveway.

"Jesus, Brian, it's barely light. Lemme grab a quick cup of coffee and I'll be right there."

"Okay, but you don't have time to make a half-skim half-sweet triple venti caramel macchiato—"

"STFU, Brian, my Keurig's just about to start my first cup." I laughed to let him know we were okay and hung up. Neither one of us was a big Starbucks fan. I put on jeans and work boots before the coffee was ready.

Friday was a replay of Thursday, only busier. I didn't even get a chance to go back to the shop to grab lunch. Brian took pity on me and shut triple-A down at 6:30. It was even warmer than yesterday—I mean, 80 on Valentine's Day? All I had to eat was a stale ham sandwich I grabbed at a C-store when I gassed up just before noon, so I was about half starved but covered in sweat and grease. I drove home and jumped in the shower, put on a pair of Wranglers and an old Kinky Friedman T-shirt, pulled on boot socks and my beat-up Noconas. I figured I'd drink a beer, then go get something to eat and maybe see if I could find someone who wanted to dance. Or even dance and.

Just as I started to open the fridge I heard somebody turn in the driveway. I didn't recognize the nice rumbly V-8 sounds, so I went out the kitchen door to check it out. It's a good thing I hadn't had time to get a beer because I sure as hell would have dropped it. Unless my pickup had a twin I didn't know about, it had risen from the dead in a couple of days—more like a day and a half—and was pulling up in front of the garage. Talk about a WTF moment!

Then the driver got out and I damn near fell down because it was

déjà vu

all over again. The driver was Shelley.

Shit! This time Brian and I really were going to have a heart-to-heart.

She closed the door, but stayed by the pickup and showed that she could still read my mind. I'm not sure what my face looked like, but apparently it wasn't reassuring. "Don't get mad at Brian, Tom, none of this was his idea." I drew breath to ask her what the hell was going on, but she cut me off before I could say anything. "Tom, before you yell at me, let me explain a few things."

I hadn't planned to yell at her—well, I might have somewhat forcefully asked a few pointed questions—but I shut my mouth, leaned back against the door jamb, and folded my arms across my chest. I knew my body language was more defensive than welcoming, but so be it. Yeah, I might have been curious, but I didn't feel very damn welcoming.

"I was on my way home from work yesterday when I had that flat. When you got mad you told me if I ever saw Rob again to ask him about that night." She shut her eyes for a few seconds, then took a couple of deep breaths; it was obvious she had to push herself to continue. "I saw Rob just a few minutes after I got home, Tom, because I moved in with him last month."

I straightened up real quick, like somebody had poked a stick up my ass, but before I could say anything—and I damn sure

was

going to yell this time—she held up both hands. "No, please, let me finish. Now I understand why you got so frustrated and angry when I wouldn't let you explain. Please. I'll understand if you yell at me when I'm through, I'll understand even if you tell me to go to hell and get out of your life forever. Please?"

Yeah, she was reading my mind like it was a Dr. Seuss book. Now I was getting really pissed. Why the hell should I let her try to explain anything to me, when she never would give me a chance to explain what really went down in that hotel room? Why shouldn't I just tell her to get back in the goddam truck, get the hell out of my driveway, get the hell out of my life? And go back to...Rob? WTF?

But the age of miracles hadn't passed. Before I could say something really cruel (and stupid), the rusty-from-disuse executive functions in my frontal lobe casually cold-cocked my lizard brain.

Come on, do you really want to send her back to the guy who got you into this shitstorm in the first place? Back to the guy who told you he was leaving and didn't know where he was going but he'd let you know when he got there? And now she's living with him but he forgot to let you know that he never left? Sounds like old Rob's got some splainin' of his own to do. And oh by the way, do you really want her to take your pickup? The one that blew its engine yesterday?

It was Reagan takes Grenada all over again. I dazzled her with a classic example of my best executive-function rhetoric. "Go ahead, finish," I mumbled.

"The lying sonofabitch I chose to believe, as you so accurately put it, was Rob. The morning after I left you, he called my cell to ask if we—you and I—wanted to have dinner that night. I told him no, but I couldn't help choking up. When he asked me what was wrong, I told him that I'd caught you cheating on me and had moved back in with my folks in Grapevine. He didn't respond for a minute, then said that he was sorry I had to find out that way. Then he asked if there was anything he could do to help."

Sorry I had to find

what

out?

What

way? What the hell did Rob mean by that? I was starting to get a real bad feeling about my so-called friend. I made keep-going gestures.

"When I asked him what he meant, he said it wasn't something he wanted to talk about on the phone and suggested that he and I have dinner that night. I told him that I didn't feel like dinner, so let's meet at the Starbucks across from Chase Bank on Medical Parkway. He said since I was in Grapevine, how about the Starbucks next to the Exxon station on Grapevine Mills Parkway at quarter to six? I said okay."

I thought it was pretty lame that they both knew so many Starbucks, and was tempted to make some smartass comment that the coffee at McDonalds was plenty good for me—but frontal lobe carried the day again and I resisted the temptation. But I sure as hell wanted to know what brought her back here, not to mention why—and how—was she driving my truck?

"I got to the Starbucks a little late, there was a wreck on the tollway. He was already there and had ordered for me. He played it really smart, made it seem like I had to drag the story from him. Basically, he told me that you were a player in college and kept playing after we were engaged and even after we were married.

"He said he told you several times that you weren't treating me with the proper respect and love and you told him to mind his own fucking business—his words, not mine. And he said he wasn't really surprised that you were in a hotel room with another woman because it wasn't the first time."

That was too much. "How could you—"

She cut me off again. "Please, Tom, you're right, I had no business believing him. I know now that he was lying and I should have trusted you enough to let you explain. But I was still in shock from what I saw in that room, and since Rob was such a good friend it never occurred to me that he wouldn't tell the truth. God, how I wish I had let you talk ..." She trailed off. I was trying so hard not to hyperventilate I couldn't interrupt. She wiped away a few tears, took a deep breath, and continued.

"Oh, he was good. He didn't push, he didn't rush, he just let me know that I wasn't alone, that he was always there if I needed someone to talk to, he was always available if I wanted to go out for dinner or a movie just to take my mind off things. He didn't come right out and push me to divorce you, he would just ask me once in a while did I know what my options were or need any legal advice. He became my best friend.

"I waited almost two months before I filed, and couldn't understand why you didn't contest it. Rob said it just showed that you didn't care because you didn't love me." She was talking faster now, hoping that the less time the words took the less they would hurt. "I didn't slee... have sex with him until a week after the divorce was final. He started asking me to move into his townhouse in Trophy Club that night, but I didn't until three weeks ago." She sagged when she finished, as if all her air had been let out.

"Trophy Club. That's perfect. He takes you away from me so he can display you in his trophy case." I'm afraid I sort of sneered that. Trophy Club's a town that started as a high-priced development built around a golf course a few miles north of Grapevine. It's full of people who think their shit don't stink because they've got more money than God. Or George W. Bush. They managed to incorporate their glorified gated subdivision, and have used every municipal dirty trick to keep out the great unwashed.

Now it was her turn to clutch her arms defensively across her chest. "I know that now. When I got back to his place yesterday morning, I told him I was late because I got a flat, that I had to call triple-A because his car didn't have a spare, and you showed up to fix it. He got a funny look on his face when I said that. Then I said you told me to ask him what happened at the hotel that night.

"When I asked him why would you tell me to ask him, he didn't look just funny. I've been an ER nurse long enough to know what fear looks like, and he was scared. He finally said he didn't know, he guessed you were just trying to lie your way out of what happened. But I could tell that he was the one who was lying. I wondered if he was afraid I might have learned something he didn't want me to know."

I couldn't resist a nasty smile. It sounded like she might be tumbling to the fact that she screwed the pooch by believing Rob and not letting me tell her what really happened. Now I was majorly curious to hear the rest of her story, including how she happened to be driving my missing-and-presumed-dead pickup.

"But then it occurred to me that if Rob was lying about something involving that night, he might have lied about your cheating, too. And suddenly I just knew that he

was

lying, that he had lied about everything, and I had made the worst mistake of my life. I got so light-headed I had to sit down, but I never took my eyes off him.

"I asked him how could he do that to his best friend, how could he deliberately destroy our marriage. He didn't answer. I started yelling that he was a heartless bastard and ruined my life. I couldn't believe how mad I felt—still can't, in fact. I got up and started toward him. I wanted to slap the shit out of him or gouge his eyes out or kick him in the balls over and over and over...I wished he was dead!"

Tears ran down her face but she wasn't sobbing, she was reliving that blind anger that possessed her yesterday morning. I watched as she closed her eyes and panted, clenching and unclenching her fists; it was all I could do to keep from running over and hugging her, but I wanted to let it play out. After a couple of minutes she calmed down and continued.

"I must have looked pretty fierce when I stomped over toward him because he really looked scared. Before I got to him he put his hands up and admitted that he lied about everything. He said he wasn't your best friend, that you were fraternity brothers but didn't have much in common, that you didn't even like him very much." No shit, Sherlock. Pretty much the only thing Rob and I had in common was gender. And, it turns out, a powerful attraction to Shelley.

"He said that the first time you took me to a party at the Sig Ep house he fell in love with me. After that he tried to avoid us as much as possible because it hurt him too much to see you with me. That's why he didn't come to the wedding; he didn't have a business meeting in San Francisco, he just didn't want to watch me marry someone else."

She stopped talking and stared at me for a minute, then looked down and spoke in such a small voice I had to strain to hear her. "I guess he thought that justified ruining my life. I was so horrified at what I had done to you, at the horrible mistake that I made, that my anger just drained out. Instead of trying to hurt him, I just told him I was leaving. I hadn't brought much with me, so I packed it up and moved back in with Mom and Dad. They never did think much of Rob, but were kind enough not to say I told you so."

She was hurting so bad I couldn't stand it any longer. "Shelley—"

But she looked up and fixed me with a phony smile that was supposed to tell me everything was okay. "Now, I'll bet you're wondering how I can be driving your pickup, aren't you?" By the time she finished saying that her smile had become almost genuine and I relaxed a bit, even ventured a bit of a smile of my own. Besides, I really was curious.

"Now that you mention it, the question had crossed my mind." She took that as a sign than I wasn't totally pissed, and her smile almost turned into a satisfied smirk.

"I called Brian right after you drove off to ask him to apologize to you, and he told me about your pickup throwing a rod. He said that because Hank had died that morning, too, you were lower than whale shit and wondered if your life was turning into a shitkicker song. I figured it must have convinced you when the flat tire turned out to be me. I mean—" She ticked off the count on her fingers. "Dog, check. Pickup, check." The smile faded. "Shitty wife, check." A deep breath, and she soldiered on.

"So, I called Jess and told him what happened. Before I could even ask, he said he'd do everything he could to help make things right." Jesse Thompson was Shelley's younger brother by a couple of years. He'd been car crazy ever since the eighth grade when his dad bought him a beat-up '79 El Camino Conquista with a busted V-6. His junior year at Round Rock High School, Jess started taking afternoon classes in welding and automotive technology at the Round Rock campus of Austin Community College. He graduated from Round Rock High in 2008, spent another two years at ACC, and figured it was time he stopped dinking around with classes and part-time jobs and started working full time. By then the El Camino looked as good as new and ran even better with a 350 and Muncie 4-speed from a wrecked '73 Chevelle Malibu SS.

He got a job at an RV dealership and was pleased to find that working on RVs was interesting because of the variety. He was even more pleased to discover that he could make more money selling RVs than fixing them, which gave him more money and time to spend rebuilding and restoring classic cars. A year or so after Shelley and Tom moved to Plano, his big sis suggested he move closer to them. He got a job selling RVs in Garland, rented a little place with a double garage in Wylie, and spent pretty much all his spare time working on cars.

"Jess asked me if it was okay if he called Brian to see what the story was with your pickup. I said sure, but didn't think there was much he could do. This was yesterday morning, remember, around 10:30. He asked Brian if he could use the shop to work on your pickup if he could find an engine for it. I forgot just how crazy you guys are. " She shook her head in the puzzlement shared by most women who don't understand how important cars are. And trucks.

"Brian said sure, and it just so happened that Jess had a friend who had a friend who had an engine and transmission that he was pretty sure he could put in your truck. Just after 2:00 Jess showed up at Two Ramblin' Wrecks with the engine and transmission in the back of his El Camino. By 5:30, he and Luis had pulled the engine and transmission from your pickup and were starting to figure out how to get the replacements in." Luis Bañuelos was our primo wrench; he could fix anything from a rice-burner to a Detroit Diesel.

"They worked all night and all morning, had it running by three this afternoon. That's why Brian made sure that you were busy all day, so that you wouldn't have time to come back to the shop. Jess always loved you like a real brother, Tom. This was his chance to show you."

I didn't know what to say. Nobody had ever done anything like that for me. Ever. Twice I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing would come out. Shelley smiled a genuine smile at my being so dumbfounded, then actually grinned.

"But wait, there's more. Your pickup ain't broke and your dipshit wife knows how bad she fucked up, but..." Now I was even more stupefied; the only time Shelley talked like that was when she was really, really angry, and right now she looked anything but angry. Still grinning, she turned and opened the truck door, then reached across and got something off the seat (a bench, for which we'd often been thankful back when that stuff really mattered).

She turned around with something in her arms and placed it on the driveway. It was a black Lab pup, three or four months old. "There he is! Go show him he's the boss!"

With that the pup lurched into a galumphing run; when he was still a couple of feet away he launched himself into the air in the sure and certain knowledge that I would gather him safely into my arms. I somehow managed to do just that, and was rewarded with a full facial assault of puppy tongue.

Shelley laughed, then looked down at her hands and again ticked off items on her fingers. "Pickup fixed, check. Dog fixed, well, not for a year or so, but check." The smile faded. "Dipshit wife fixed..." She looked up with questioning eyes, chewing on her lower lip. "Who knows? The jury's still out."