Return to Oakpin(27)
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Saturday morning Larry Ralston delivered a television, a little Sony with a remote that Craig had pulled off a shelf in Ralston Hardware and offered Mrs. Brand as a loaner. Jimmy was reading in the old upholstered wing chair in the small space when Larry knocked.
“You must be the guy that ordered a television,” Larry said, backing through the small door with the appliance.
Jimmy watched the boy cut a distended silhouette in the rectangle of daylight, and the sudden sight shocked him, and he took a breath and decided to say what he saw, even the gambit of a joke: “It is without a doubt Craig Ralston Junior bringing it in.”
Larry footed the gray milk crate around and placed the set on it. “Oh, please don’t say that. I can’t look like my father.”
“Twins. You are twins.” Jimmy put his book on the bed. “Thirty years between models. Haven’t you ever seen the photographs? And I’ve heard your football exploits celebrated by an expert. I think, that rainy day, I might have seen you play. This was at some distance.”
The door opened again, and another figure cut the light. A young woman stood there with a long cardboard box and an extension cord. “Hello!” she said, then quickly taking in the oddly bright room, she added, “This looks great.”
Larry went to Jimmy in his chair and introduced himself and turned to the girl. “This is Wendy.”
“Hi,” she said. “Where do you want this?”
They spent ten minutes arranging things, adjusting the television, fooling with the rabbit-ear antenna, the girl sitting on the bed while Larry turned the ears, trying to get the PBS cooking show to come in clearly. The chef was making a clam sauce. Jimmy smiled at the two young people. He hadn’t been lonely, but their association affected him, filled the room. They talked and moved in a way that told him unmistakably that they were falling in love, destined to, an orbit of innocents, but neither knew it yet. The garage was too small a space not to reveal all the unspoken things between them. It was a heady dance they did, and he smiled and smiled, saying, “Not to worry. I’m not going to be doing any cooking.”
Wendy pointed at the screen from the bed: “You almost had it. Go back.” Larry was on his knees in the corner.
“Is that static, or is he frying bacon?” Larry said.
“Both,” Jimmy said. “And both is perfect.”
Larry came around, and they all watched the chef bend and pull half a squash from his oven on a tray. He raised his fork, waving it once, and grinned at the camera. Then he raked the squash into spaghetti strands.
“Spaghetti squash with clam sauce,” Wendy said. “We could do that.”
“Looks good,” Jimmy said.
“So are you Mr. Ralston’s friend from New York?” the girl asked.
“I’m Mr. Ralston’s friend from Oakpine. But I lived in New York for a long time.”
“You’re the writer.” she said.
“I was,” he said. “I wrote some books, reviews of plays.”
He could feel her now looking at him. “It’s pretty weird that you’re out in the garage,” she said.
Larry had opened the long box and was carefully assembling the tubular electric radiator. “Dad said this will heat the whole place,” he said. He lifted the unit and secured it on a wheeled frame and plugged it in and rolled it over beside the wide garage door. “It heats the oil,” Larry said. “There’s no fire danger.”