LITMIR.BIZ

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in and turned the key. The motor started to grind then fizzled. I heard more bangs.

      “Try her again. Give her some gas this time.”

      Grandpa pushed the pedal to the floor. The pickup rattled again as black smoke belched from the tail pipe. I looked out to see if a fender had come loose. The grime-covered man, who stood out like a soot covered sculpture in the snowy field, slammed the hood shut, slapped his gloved hands together and blew out a frosty breath.

      “Don’t know much about cars, do ya?” he said. “A hose came loose and the battery connections are crusted over. That’s why it wouldn’t start. But, I gotta tell ya, that engine looks like junkyard feed.”

      “Junkyard feed my foot.” Grandpa grunted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

      “Glad to be of service. Name’s Oil Can Henri. Worked at darn near every filling station up and down the Mississippi. Anyone around here need help? There’s nothing O.C. Henri can’t do.”

      “Doubt it.” Grandpa chuckled. “Not everyone takes to roaming mechanics as easy as me.” He revved the motor. “Jump in the back. We’re goin’ fishin’ and I sure ain’t gonna turn around and drive you clear back to town. We’ll grab some coffee and doughnuts at the bait house.”

      Oil Can scrunched his shoulders forward. His teeth chattered. “Guess it beats eating bait.” He shuffled through the snow and climbed into the truck bed.

      I grabbed Grandpa’s hand. “You can’t make him ride back there. He’ll freeze to death. Is that a way to treat a man that saved our lives? Besides, it’s against the law. There aren’t any seat belts.”

      “Now listen here, Maddie, just ‘cause some lunatic fixed my truck don’t make him okay, and it sure don’t make him your best friend. He ain’t sitting up front with us and that’s all there is to it.” Grandpa shook his head. “Never should have promised him a ride.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out a worn blanket. “Toss him this if it’ll make you feel better.”

      I tucked the blanket under my arm and hurried back to Oil Can. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, one arm tucked under his head, the other hanging loose at his side. I climbed into the truck bed. “Here, Mr. Henri. This should keep you warm.” He didn’t answer. I tossed the blanket over him. He didn’t move. I jiggled his foot. “Mr. Henri.” He still didn’t move. But I jumped out of that truck faster than a grasshopper. “Grandpa,” I screamed. “He’s dead. Oil Can’s dead.”

      Before I took two breaths, Grandpa was standing next to me. He didn’t remotely resemble the take-charge Layton Clayton I knew. “What are we gonna do?” I asked.

      He scratched the back of his head, then climbed up next to Oil Can and moved his fingers around his wrist, all the while complaining how our fishing trip was blown.

      “Check his pulse,” I said. “See if he’s dead.”

      “What do you think I’m doing here? Holding hands with the guy?”

      Grandpa unbuttoned Oil Can’s coat and sweaters then pressed his ear against his naked chest. “Heart’s still thumpin’. He ain’t a gonner yet. This dang fool better not croak in my truck.”

      I climbed back into the truck, slipped my jacket under Oil Can’s head and covered him with the blanket. “Darn it, Grandpa. Why do you like to pretend you’re mean? He’s a nice man. And he must be pretty lonely. You’re making me sad.” I ran my hand across my cheek.

      “Aw, no. Don’t start your cryin’. We don’t have time for cryin’. Hand me that satchel. He might have some pills in there he needs.”

      I slid the satchel to Grandpa and he frantically started rummaging inside. He pulled out a harmonica, a mouth piece for a musical instrument, and a bunch of junk food wrappers. He reached in again. “Well lookie here. Prescription forms. Get moving, Maddie. You better hope we make it to the hospital on time.

      Fifth Chapter

      River View Memorial hospital, where my dad is Chief of Staff, is about as small as hospitals are allowed to be. I don’t know why they called it River View. It’s not anywhere in sight of the Tennessee River or even a respectable stream. And I don’t think Memorial should be part of any hospital’s name.

      As soon as we arrived with Oil Can Henri spread out in the back of the truck, I rushed into the empty emergency room. “Help,” I hollered. “We’ve got an almost dead guy outside.”

      That’s when the commotion began. Mavis Sorenson, the head nurse, bolted up from behind her desk and looked out the glass doors. I thought her eyeballs might pop out when she spotted Grandpa leaning over the back of the pickup.

      “It’s Layton Clayton, Doctor Michaels’s father-in-law,” she screamed.

      The huge woman grabbed a wheelchair and literally skidded across the floor. I chased after her. It’s a good thing for automatic doors, because otherwise Mavis would have bounced off the glass and knocked herself senseless. She grabbed Grandpa, flung him into the wheelchair, and was fighting to keep him there, while I tried to pull her off and convince her there was an unconscious man in the truck.

      “It’s not Grandpa,” I hollered. “It’s Oil Can. Look.”

      Mavis whirled around and stared at me. “Oil Can?”

      Grandpa jumped up. “Dang it, Mavis. You trying to kill me?”

      She ignored Grandpa’s complaints and immediately hoisted herself up next to Oil Can. She pried an eye open, then felt for his pulse.

      “Is he dead yet?” I asked.

      The big lady went pale. “Get me a gurney,” she bellowed,

      In seconds, two guys in green scrubs had Oil Can on his way to the ER. Grandpa helped Mavis out of the truck, but neither one of them looked happy about it. He fished the prescriptions out of his pocket and crammed them into her hand.

      “High blood pressure. Same stuff I take,” he said. “First one’s dated two years ago, and there were no pill bottles in his satchel. Ten to one he’s never had those scrips filled.”

      Mavis shook her head and handed me the satchel. “Take this to the desk and check it in.”

      After I checked the satchel, I found Grandpa in the waiting room slumped on a sagging leather sofa, sipping a cup of coffee. I sat down and leaned against him. “Do you think Oil Can’s gonna live? He’s been unconscious a long time.”

      Grandpa squeezed me. “He’ll pull through. Can’t imagine it’s the first time he’s gotten himself into a mess like this.”

      Thinking about the part of my assignment that talked about understanding how a person’s life experiences shaped the way they behave now, I said, “this mess could have happened to anyone, even you.”

      “Not a chance. People are responsible for their predicaments.”

      “Well he’s different from you. Significantly different,” I said.

      Grandpa stood up and swirled his coffee. “Dang stuff goes through a fella like drain cleaner. I’m gonna’ hit the little boy’s room. Meet me outside.”

      “No. Someone needs to be with Oil Can when he wakes up. He might be scared.”

      Grandpa tapped his watch. “I’ll wait in the truck. Ten minutes. That’s it.”

      Since there was no one around to stop me, I stepped behind the green curtain where they had rolled Oil Can’s gurney. He was already hooked up, tubes coming and going from every part of his body. I studied his grimy face and the dirt under his fingernails, and to be truthful; even though I knew he wasn’t dead, I was grossed out at the thought of touching him. But the longer I watched him, the lonelier he seemed. I ran my fingers across the top of his hand, took a deep breath and gripped his hand with

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