Bygones – Chapter Ten

Tim walked out of the licensing office clutching his temporary learner's permit, his face lit up brighter than the Christmas decorations on the town hall. Miss Hall thought about the Grinch and how it must have felt for him to have his heart grow three sizes and she laughed out loud for sheer pleasure at Tim's reaction.

"I don't know how to say thank you properly." It was a question. Tim looked at her hopelessly, arms out, grinning stupidly.

"Oh, well, let me explain something before you thank me, young man," she stated and pointed at the paper in his hand. "This is a contract between you and me and if you don't like the terms you can turn around right now and take it back into the clerk. And furthermore, this contract comes with a serious rider."

Tim couldn't think of anything she could possibly say that would make him want to relinquish his grip on this document, but he figured it would be prudent to have her explain his indenture. "Okay," he prompted, a little nervously.

"You must finish high school. No excuses."

Tim ran his free hand through his hair, relieved. He always intended to graduate. That wasn't a hard promise to keep. "What's the rider?" he asked.

"I'm on the hook now, Timothy, for your driving, even if my name isn't on that paper. If this gets back to your father then I'm in trouble, so you had better take your driving seriously. I'm putting a lot of faith in you. I wouldn't if I didn't trust you, but it's important that you understand that you are taking on the responsibility of protecting my good name."

"I won't do anything stupid," he promised.

"Good. Too many kids die driving in this state."

He walked with her back to her apartment, glancing periodically, possessively at his permit. While she unlocked her door he leaned against the building contentedly, wondering if it would be possible to get Mr. Nickell to take him out driving when he got home. But then the low hum of the question he'd ignored while reveling in his good fortune started to grow louder, distracting, and he screwed his face into a knot and asked, "How did you get him to sign off on this?"

"The clerk or Frank?"

Tim paused before answering – he hadn't considered the clerk's conspiracy in this. "Both?"

She leaned in to whisper, "I have some good dirt on the clerk."

Tim stared blankly while his mind raced through his experiences with her, running algorithms to determine if she were joking. The results were inclusive. She was an enigma, still.

Her eyes danced, wicked and mischievous. "As for your father, I told him it was a parental permission form allowing us to stop you from any extra-curricular activities as punishment for skipping so many classes. I had him sign duplicates. He didn't look too closely at either of them."

"What was the other one?"

"You would have to be especially bad to find out."

It took mountains of discipline for Miss Hall to hold her expression unreadable while Tim's features ran an obstacle course of emotions, scaling concern, swimming through curiosity, hurdling disbelief at the finish. When he was done, his face settled into wary and he looked down at his permit with a little less enthusiasm. "I've probably just signed my soul over to the devil, right?"

"Now I've been called a witch before and often, but never a devil." She smiled. "Merry Christmas, Timothy. You've earned it." She opened the door, reached in, pulled a book off the stairs and handed it to him. "Holiday reading assignment."

He took the book, glanced at the cover, Cider House Rules, but it barely registered in his whirring thoughts. "Do you work for the mob?" he asked, almost serious.

Tim had spent every Christmas with the Nickells after his mother died. The holidays at their place on the hill in Wolfe County were his favorite – he felt like he belonged there. But the times they packed him up with them and went away to visit their grown-up children always felt like a hand-me-down holiday to Tim, only borrowed enjoyment. The families were kind and welcoming and maybe that was the difference, that he was treated like a guest rather than one of their own, bickering and casual.

This year the Nickells were invited to their daughter's house in Lexington. Tim would've been happy staying alone in his trailer now that he was old enough but Mrs. Nickell would've been miserable leaving him behind. At least that's how Mr. Nickell explained it, though he was thinking more along the lines of preventing Tim from having a girl over without supervision. He sweetened the deal by suggesting Tim might like to drive part of the way. In the end, Tim agreed to join them willingly enough. He always liked Katie, their daughter and their youngest. She would look after him on occasion when he was little – she made it fun – and she hadn't changed much as an adult. She had a lot of her dad in her.

Her husband though, Richard, he was a dick in Tim's view in more than name. A college graduate, he had a job at a bank and acted like he was better than everyone else because of it. He always found an opportunity to talk down to Mr. Nickell, and when that happened Tim couldn't control his tongue. Faster than the banker could counter, Tim would whip out sarcasm in Steve's defense, accurate and scathing. Millie would intercede, sending Tim out of the room on make-believe errands and insisting that Steve go too, ostensibly to help but everyone knew it was to have a word with his champion. The two would drag the errand out a little and laugh together in private, then Steve would say, "He's good to Katie," and that would be that.

Tim tried this year to act more mature now that he was driving. He kept a leash on his tongue, allowing it only as far as his cheek, and expressed himself exclusively for Mr. Nickell with a well-timed roll of the eyes. Steve allowed him to have a beer or two on Christmas Day as a reward for his restraint and let Tim drive most of the way back home on Boxing Day.

Mr. Nickell had some time off and spent quite a bit of it with Tim. He took him shooting and they hiked the hills. One time they ended up over the ridge at the cut. Mr. Nickell had requested to see it, the infamous rock face that beat Tim Gutterson, he teased. When they arrived Steve stopped at the top of the incline and stared unfocused, thinking.

"So this is where you fell, huh?" he finally asked, loosening his feet and walking down to meet Tim at the bottom.

Tim made a disgusted face and pointed at the shrub at the base. "This bush sacrificed itself to save me," he joked, ducking his head when Steve laughed, too, a bit forced.

"And what did you learn in all this, you idiot?"

"Don't climb drunk."

Steve stood at the bottom and looked up the cliff, looked back at Tim, measuring the boy, then said, "I was hoping to hear, 'don't climb without proper safety equipment.'" He sighed, feeling the weight of age and the burden of experience and certain knowledge that came with it. "Is it too cold to try it again today?" The sun was low but had been gently warming the face since noon and he could feel the heat radiating off the rocks. He reached out a hand; they were warm to touch, just.

Tim was confused at the question, watched Steve a moment then answered, "It's probably warm enough."

"Better get back on that horse then." Mr. Nickell gestured up to the top and moved back.

Tim couldn't believe he was getting permission to do what he'd fully intended to sneak out and do anyway – try that route again. He took off his jacket and Steve held out a hand for it. Then Tim rubbed his hands together warming his fingers and had a clear-headed look at the rocks above him. It was an easier climb sober though still challenging and he arrived at the top satisfied. His shoulder didn't bother him much, either.

Steve grinned in appreciation, a part of him wishing he could try it. He gave Tim the thumbs up and headed up the slope and around to meet him, threw his jacket at him. They sat at the top and shared a thermos of coffee and had a serious discussion about girls.

"Mr. Nickell," Tim said when the topic had been covered from every angle, "I have no intention of being a daddy at sixteen."

Steve huffed. "Nobody ever does, Tim." He collected up the mugs and the thermos and stood up. "You know, I'd happily be your father but since that's not going to happen I guess I'll settle for being your friend. It's probably a better thing, less baggage." He turned away and looked at his feet. "Come on, we'd best get back. There's not much light left."

As they reached the top of the cut, Mr. Nickell stopped and looked back, letting his eyes wander over the area. "Why don't you call me Steve? Makes more sense. And Tim," he said then paused, chewing on his bottom lip, "don't come back here climbing, okay? This is where your mother died." He pointed. "Right there. That's where they found her."

The garage was open the week between Christmas and New Year's and Tim gladly picked up a couple of extra shifts and some extra money helping the owner do inventory and pitching in for the annual cleaning of the shop area. Often it was he and Andy working alone together and when they were finished the day's list of chores Andy would teach him more about car engines or let him ride his motorcycle around the lot.

One particular day, Andy showed Tim a new trick – how to hotwire a car. The shop owner had acquired a used pickup, the frame damaged in an accident, had it towed in and asked Andy to strip the engine for parts, suggesting it would be a good opportunity for Tim to learn more. Andy saw an opportunity for more than just an education in mechanics and before they started on the engine he opened the steering column and initiated his protégé in the not-too-subtle art of car theft.

"Now, you do understand that I'm showing you this in case you ever lose your keys, right?" Andy stated, with a wink.

Grinning widely, Tim replied, "Uh-huh, sure thing."

"And remember, this doesn't work on most new cars with computer chips in the ignition switch – kills the engine and the fun."

"Okay," Tim nodded, grinning still.

"And don't electrocute yourself on the starter wires. They're connected to the car battery. I never leave home without a roll of electrician's tape," Andy explained, pulling one from his jacket pocket. "And always use a tool with an insulated handle."

"Right, okay," Tim said, grin fading slightly. "You done this before?"

"A few times."

Andy walked him through the process, contingencies, irregularities between manufacturers, then let Tim do it. It wasn't difficult and the truck started the first time.

"Have you considered a life of crime?" Andy joked, cuffed Tim on the shoulder. "You're a natural."

"I'm still working on getting the hang of picking locks," Tim confessed.

"That's a finesse thing. You'll get it. Keep trying."

"Can you hotwire a motorcycle?" Tim asked, imagining the possibilities.

Andy pulled the wires apart, shutting the engine off and stepped out of the cab, flicked a look at his accomplice, a half-smile creeping onto his face. "Yeah, sure. It's not hard at all," he answered concentrating on his hands as he spoke. "Come on, I'll show you and then we'd better get started on the engine."

They stayed after hours, working away happily until the job was done and the truck was ready for the junkyard. Andy gave Tim a lift home and promised to help him get his motorcycle license after he passed his driving exam. Tim passed his excitement on to Millie and Steve at dinner. They didn't seem as enthusiastic.

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