by Jimy Valenti
Bella refused to go to school that whole week. I left her at home alone. I didn’t know what else to do. The guys at the shop and I were putting in a new windshield, special-ordered for an F-250 with all the bells and whistles. One of the new ones with all the sensors. It was a pain in the ass, you ask me, but I drove an ’03 Chevy, so what do I know. We got the glass on the lift, the shop’s back garage door open in the October sun, You Don’t Know How It Feels on the radio.
“Nope, we don’t want to be you,” the guy who makes everyone call him Chief said after every verse. He says he’s part Ute. Could be.
Chief moved the glass into place.
The other men sang along out of tune. Their voices breaking.
Chief said, “He’s quite the panocha, huh?”
I was laying a bead of urethane when Walker came out of his office. I didn’t look back, concentrating on lining up the adhesive, but I heard him shuffling into the shop despite the guys’ Petty rendition.
“Gordon, phone,” he said.
I was on a step stool, leaned over the truck’s open cab. The owner had candy wrappers and fast-food trash shoved in the door wells and the cup holders, farm dirt on the floorboards. Somebody was in there a lot. I finished the top line of adhesive and carefully wiped an excessive dollop clean.
“Take a message,” I said, and started in on the driver’s side.
“It’s your kid,” Walker said. “She’s crying.”
I came off the step stool fast, leaving a run of urethane dripping onto the white truck frame. The guys groaned and watched me leave. Walker instructed Chief to finish the adhesive, and I’m in the office.
“Bella, what’s wrong?”
“Mom’s here.”
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