Night Shift(26)

“Really? Huh.”

“Your daddy tell you the same thing?”

“I never met him, so he didn’t have the chance.” Manfred had had his whole life to get used to this state of affairs, but it was usually a shock to anyone else. Sure enough, Teacher turned and stared. “That sounds pretty rough,” Teacher said, after an appreciable pause.

“I’m used to it. Where did you grow up?” Manfred asked, just to get the conversation across that abyss.

“Alabama,” said Teacher.

“Never been there,” Manfred said. “You meet Madonna there? Childhood sweethearts?”

Though Manfred was focused on the road before him, he got the impression that Teacher shot him a sharp look. “We’ve known each other a long time,” Teacher said.

A curiously nonspecific answer, Manfred thought, and not what he’d expected. “So you grew up in the same town.”

“Nearabouts.”

“Can everyone in her family cook as well as Madonna can?”

“She says her granny could, but the talent sure skipped her mom. We’ll have to see about Grady.”

“Today Home Cookin, tomorrow Top Chef,” Manfred said, smiling. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“How about you, Manfred? Where’d you grow up?”

“Tennessee,” he said. “A town outside of Memphis.”

“Had a big houseful?”

Manfred laughed. “No, just me and my mom, or more often me and my grandmother,” he said. “You have lots of siblings?”

“I did have a few,” Teacher said. “Two sisters and a brother.”

“Do you all keep in touch?” This conversation was on life support.

“Yeah, more or less. We talk at Christmas, but we don’t visit a lot.”

Manfred thought he could let it drop now, and they drove in silence for some time. Manfred was thinking about his business, and the ominous stain he’d noticed on the ceiling after the last rain. He was pretty sure his rented house needed a new roof. He’d have to hit up Bobo, his landlord. Bobo had been in such a bad mood in past few days that Manfred didn’t relish the prospect.

“Have you ever put a roof on?” he asked Teacher.

“I can. A roofing crew can do it a hell of a lot faster.”

“That’s something to think about,” Manfred said. “Hey, you need to make a pit stop? I could use some tea.” Tea was not available at the convenience store, but Manfred was glad enough to get another Coke. While Teacher bought a tube of powdered sugar doughnuts, Manfred enjoyed a gulp of icy sweetness. This road trip was turning out to be— not a disaster, certainly, but less than pleasant. Manfred felt uncomfortable at the prolonged close proximity to Teacher.

After another hour of listening to the radio and exchanging a few more terse comments on the news, they reached Killeen. Manfred couldn’t tell how Teacher felt about it, but Manfred was relieved. Teacher was able to direct Manfred right to his friend’s shop in the older part of town, the main street. Manfred pulled into an empty parking space to let Teacher out. He noted that there were some small restaurants on the same block, and he was relieved to know that if his session with Agnes Orta took longer than he expected, Teacher wouldn’t have to be sitting on the sidewalk twiddling his thumbs. “I’ll call you when I’m through,” he said. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. If I get through with my business ahead of time, the pie at Mary Lee’s Café—over there, see the red awning?—is really, really good. Don’t tell my wife I said so.”

Manfred said, “I won’t. Have good time with your tool guy.”

Teacher nodded. “Okay, man, see you later.” And he was out of the car and opening the door of the hardware store.

He walks like a different person, Manfred thought, watching Teacher go inside. Teacher looked freer, somehow; happier. Either his friend in Killeen was someone really special or Teacher found Midnight oppressive. Manfred navigated his way to Agnes Orta’s house, thinking only a little about Teacher as he drove. Mostly, Manfred felt pleased to be alone.

Magdalena Orta Powell’s mother lived in a neat white house built in the fifties, with a small and well-kept front yard. There was a whimsical statue of a squirrel in one flower bed (the squirrel was smiling), and in another flower bed there stood a painted wooden cutout of a woman with a big butt, bending over. In case Mrs. Orta was looking out the window, Manfred did not make a face. Instead, he knocked on the door, which had recently been repainted dark green. It opened immediately.

“Mrs. Orta?” he said, and she nodded vehemently.