Most Wanted Dad

“I heard what you said! Oh, just get out of my house!” She jumped to her feet and slammed her chair up under the table.

Evans was still gaping, but he got up and gave his chair the same treatment she had given hers. “Of all the touchy, loony dames! Lady, you take the proverbial cake!”

Amy pointed toward the living room, arm rigid, face livid. “I suggest you take your leave through the proverbial door, boor, and don’t bother coming back with one of your lame apologies!”

“Oh, don’t worry!” he told her, wild-eyed. “I won’t be apologizing this time! Any apologies due this time are yours!”

“Ha! I’ve done all the apologizing I intend to do, period. Now get out!”

“My pleasure,” he said, sneering, “and from now on, if you want to talk to me, call the police!”

“Out!” she screamed, but she was talking to an empty space, a fact to which a slamming door attested.

He wasn’t gone three seconds when she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. The moment she realized what she was doing, she sniffed up the tears and determinedly bottled them inside of her. She wouldn’t cry over a snide remark by a cad like Evans Kincaid. Heavens, she couldn’t even remember the last time a man had made her cry.

“For Pete’s sake, Amy, what are you trying to do, kill me? Do you want me to die?”

“You know I don’t!”

“Then be a little more careful. I’m only your husband, after all.”

She shook away the memory. That didn’t count. Mark hadn’t known what he was saying. It was the illness talking, the pain. Evans Kincaid was just being hateful when he’d said she was fat. Mark would never have said anything so personal.

“You aren’t going out like that, are you? What if someone I know sees you?”

Well, of course, Mark commented from time to time. It was his right as a husband, after all, and any comments Mark had made about her appearance he had made for her own good, out of love. Evans Kincaid was just being mean when he’d said what he’d said, no matter how innocent it might have sounded to a third party. Anyway, even if he hadn’t actually said that she was fat, he’d certainly implied it. Just because he was built like the Rock of Gibraltar he thought he could make snide remarks about everyone else. So what if she’d put on a few pounds? It was her business. She folded her arms and huffed, trying to hold on to her outrage, but reason was slowly returning, and with it came the knowledge that she had again made a fool of herself. She closed her eyes, seeing herself as Evans must see her, a plain, pudgy, high-strung, pathetic excuse for a woman.

She wanted to run next door and beg his pardon, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. What difference did it make, anyway? He was never going to give her another chance, and why should she care? He wasn’t anything to her, nothing at all, and that’s the way it should be. But for some reason she wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head. Why not? What else did she have to do?

It was going on midnight when she realized that the music she was hearing was not part of the television program she was watching. A quick muting of the volume on the set told her unequivocally that the sound was coming from the Kincaids’. It wasn’t as loud as before, but it was definitely too loud. Amy chewed her lip, wondering what her best course of action might be. Should she let it go and hope it didn’t happen again, or ought she try to nip this thing in the bud before it went any further? She hated to go through another scene with Evans Kincaid, but maybe if she moderated her replies this time, if she didn’t let him get to her, they could have a reasonable conversation—and maybe she could even find the words to apologize again.

She went to the phone, but this time she looked up the non-emergency number and left a personal message for Captain Kincaid, saying that his next-door neighbor was calling to suggest that he swing by his house to take care of a certain situation there. She hardly had time to go over in her mind what she would say to him, when he pulled up in the police cruiser. He slammed his door with his usual gusto and stalked into the house. The music shut off, and a few moments later she heard him and Mattie shouting at one another. After some minutes another door slammed, and Amy thought for certain that he would be on her porch at any moment, but he didn’t come.

Amy went to the dining room window and stared out at the house next door. The police cruiser was still parked in the drive, but the house was now dark and silent. A movement of shadow against the yellow light of the Kincaids’ front porch told her that Evans was there, perhaps on his way to the car. A moment of indecision passed before she hurried into the living room, thrust her feet into a pair of thong sandals that she kept by the door and went out. The thong broke on one shoe as she was going down the steps. Thoroughly disgusted, she kicked off both sandals and hurried across the dark yard. She had turned down the Kincaids’ drive toward the street when she heard what sounded like a man groaning. Stopping in her tracks, she held her breath listening.

“Oh, God,” he was saying, “what’s happening to us? I prayed and prayed before making this move, and I really thought it was the right thing to do, but now I don’t know. I can’t even talk to my own daughter anymore. Our next-door neighbor hates us. The shift I’m working doesn’t seem to leave time for much of anything else. I don’t know what to do now. You have to help me, Lord. I don’t seem able to do this on my own. How I wish Andie were here—or someone….”

Amy quietly turned and walked back to her own house, feeling small and ashamed and utterly selfish to be so disturbed by something as common as music played a little too loud, when people like Evans Kincaid had real problems, problems so deep that he prayed about them on his front porch in the middle of the night.

Our next-door neighbor hates us.

She bowed her head as she recalled those words. Her sharp tongue and personal sensitivity had given him that notion. Indeed, what else could he think when she jumped all over him for every innocent remark he made in her presence. She was too ashamed to apologize, but she made up her mind to be a good deal more pleasant in the future—provided he ever spoke to her again. She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t. In fact, she’d be amazed if he did.

It was ninety-five degrees in the shade, and she wanted to get home in time for the early-evening news, so of course her six-year-old domestic sedan overheated while she was waiting at the red light at the intersection of 81 and Main. Making matters worse, she had just come from the grocery store and could already hear her cottage cheese spoiling, her lettuce wilting and her new low-cal frozen dinners melting. So much for the new diet. Naturally, she was in the inside lane, intending to turn left onto Main Street when a high, whining noise first alerted her to the problem, and that was exactly where the car engine died. She knew the moment she lifted the hood that the problem was well beyond her scope of experience and knowledge. In fact, all she could do was slam the hood down again to keep boiling water from spewing in every direction.

She was standing in front of the car, watching the water from her radiator roll down the street, while other cars whizzed by and an attendant from a nearby service station watched from the doorway of his business. She supposed she’d have to walk over there and ask his advice, though how she could get her car into his service bay was beyond her. It would have to be pushed backward, going in the wrong direction on that side of the street. And pushing that heavy, full-size sedan was certainly more than she could ever manage alone. She didn’t see any other alternative, however—until a red, late-model, one-ton pickup pulled up in the lane behind her, and the tinted window on the driver’s side silently lowered.

“Blow your radiator cap?”

Amy looked at Evans Kincaid’s handsome face and felt her heart drop. “Hi. Um, I don’t know. It seems to be coming from behind the radiator.”

He nodded and drew back inside. For a moment she thought he would leave, now that he knew who the motorist in distress was, but then the hazard lights on the pickup truck began to blink, the door opened, and Kincaid stepped out onto the curb. He was wearing a red-and-white ball cap and black sunshades, faded blue jeans without a belt and a plain white T-shirt with the tail tucked in. On his feet were black, round-toed cowboy boots. He carried an open cola can in one hand and a rolled up length of leather in the other. As he drew near, Amy could see that he needed a shave. He was the best-looking and the most welcome thing she’d ever seen. He hadn’t even done anything, and she felt inordinately grateful.

“Let’s take a look,” he said. “It ought to be blown out by now, judging by the size of that puddle.”

He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, for he handed her the can, walked to the driver’s door, opened it, ducked inside and pushed the hood release. He took the can back as he strolled around to the front of the car and lifted the hood. Amy could hear a high-pitched whine and see a tiny fountain of water spewing up.

“Hose,” he said succinctly. “It’ll have to be replaced.”

Amy wrung her hands at that news. “How am I going to do that?”

“No problem,” he said. He tilted his head back and took a long drink of the cola, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “Wait here,” he said, thrusting the rolled piece of leather at her, “and hold this.”

It was inordinately heavy, and she realized as he strolled back toward his truck that some sort of tools were rolled up inside. She held the bundle in both hands and stood there perspiring on the side of the road while he disappeared through the opened door of his truck. After several minutes, he emerged again and walked back toward her.

“Okay,” he said, “it’s coming.”

“What’s coming?” She looked up into the opaque black lenses of his glasses.

“The hose and enough antifreeze to replace what’s on the ground.”

For a long moment she could only stare. “How on earth did you manage that?”

He shrugged. “I used my car phone to call a fellow I know at one of the parts houses in town. Hope you can pay for it when it gets here.”

She bit her lip. “Suppose he’ll take a check?”

Evans Kincaid grinned. “Oh, I think we can persuade him. It’s not like he couldn’t find you if it bounced.”

“I guess not,” she muttered, “living next door to a cop.”

He tilted his head. “Has its advantages.” She opened her mouth to say she was aware of that fact, but he turned and walked away, saying, “Next order of business is to clear this street.”

While she watched, he went to the light pole at the side of the intersection, inserted something from his pocket into a metal box mounted on the side and moved something. The light began to blink red in all directions, bringing traffic to a complete halt. Everything happened quickly after that. Suddenly there were three young men pushing her car through the intersection and onto the parking lot of a car wash. Evans pulled his truck up beside it. The traffic light was reset, and the normal flow of traffic resumed. The man from the parts store came and took Amy’s check without the slightest hesitation, saying that from the looks of the puddle in the street, she had diluted her antifreeze too much. She nodded, wondering how she had managed that, then watched as Evans flushed out the radiator with a water hose borrowed from the car wash before exchanging the new radiator hose for the busted one. When that was done, he poured half a container of antifreeze fluid into the radiator, filled the container with water and emptied the whole of it into the system.

“Now then,” he said, fixing the cap in place and lowering the hood. “Next time it needs more fluid, you mix two parts antifreeze and one part water and put that in. You don’t just add plain water. Understand?”

“I think so.”

“Has it been getting hot fairly often?”

“Occasionally.”

“And when it did, you put plain water in it,” he stated matter-of-factly. “That’s how it got too diluted.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she told him meekly.

“If it happens again, you may want to look into having your thermostat replaced,” he advised. Wiping his small wrenches clean with a handkerchief from his back pocket, he slid them back into the proper pockets, rolled up the leather case and tied it closed. “That ought to do for now.”