It was Raymond, a former local mechanic who now lived near the shelter on the edge of town. His raspy voice sounded like gravel being turned over with a shovel.
“Need a hand, Margaret?” he asked.
I paused, my fingers tracing the inside of my palm where my ring used to sit.
“The jack is in the trunk, Raymond,” I said.
He did not reply. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a greasy rag, and began to wipe his hands on his trousers, over and over, leaving dark streaks on the fabric.
He retrieved the spare tire and the iron from my trunk without being asked, his movements quick and practiced despite the stiffness in his shoulders. He knelt in the gravel, his back turned to the road as a semi-truck roared past, shaking the Buick on its frame.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Raymond said, his raspy voice barely carrying over the engine noise. “Not at this hour.”
“My tire gave out,” I said.
“Spikes in the gravel,” Raymond said, tightening the lug nuts with three short, powerful jerks of the iron. “They drop them from the gravel trucks. It happens once a week.”
He stood up, his knees cracking as he straightened, and wiped his greasy palms on his trousers again.
“The spare will get you to the station,” he said.
“Thank you, Raymond,” I said, reaching into my purse for my wallet.
He shook his head once, refusing the bills, and walked toward the passenger side of the car, his tattered coat flapping in the draft of another passing truck.
I got back into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut, the heavy metal click dampening the roar of the Route 9 traffic. The interior of the Buick smelled of old vinyl and the mints I kept in the glove box.
Raymond did not walk back into the pines. Instead, he opened the passenger door and slid onto the vinyl seat beside me, his damp tattered coat smelling of woodsmoke and old oil.
