I'm Your Girl by J. J. Murray Read Free Book Online Page B

up with the Mustang, the grandson driving, Noël’s Mustang bucking like, well, a mustang. I dig the “FOR SALE” sign from the kitchen trash can, smoothing out the strips of masking tape, then go outside.
    And Mrs. Williams is with them again in…a Buick Regal? My luck.
    Life has a way of making circles.
    More like spinning wheels.
    You’re so negative.
    I’m just full of positive negativity these days.
    That made no sense.
    I walk by Mr. Williams, who rests beside the Mustang and leans heavily on a metal cane, to Mrs. Williams in the Buick. I open my wallet and take out the check, handing it to her.
    “Dry run,” she says.
    “Yeah. I guess so.” I turn to Mr. Williams. “You have the title?”
    Mr. Williams fishes in his pocket for the title, and then holds it out to me. I take the title, rolling it into a little scroll.
    Now you’ll have to go to the DMV to get that fixed.
    I can’t wait.
    You’ll have to get Noël’s name taken off it .
    I know. I’ll have to find the death certificate.
    If you sit in a DMV long enough, everyone you have ever known will eventually show up .
    Yeah, the DMV is one of the only true melting pots left in this country.
    I can’t blame Mr. Williams for losing his nerve, but what did he think he was buying? It’s a used car with close to 100,000 miles on it! I was practically giving it away!
    If he really wanted a safe car for his grandson, he would have bought him a Volvo or something.
    “I filled up the tank,” Mr. Williams says.
    Oh, that makes everything better.
    I nod. “Are all the records in the car?”
    “Yeah,” the grandson says.
    I don’t look at the can’t-drive-a-stick grandson. I open the back driver’s side door and press the “FOR SALE” sign into the window, using my fingernails to smooth out the strips of tape.
    You should trim them .
    Yeah.
    They look like claws .
    They do, kind of.
    And get a haircut. You look like a hippie.
    Thanks for the compliment.
    Mr. Williams takes out his wallet. “What can I give you for your trouble?”
    Well, you gave me your word, and look what happened. “I don’t want anything from you. This is a solid car, and I don’t want you to think I was trying to put one over on you. The gas is enough.”
    Mr. Williams looks at his wallet. “I’m going to do some more investigating on this car. I might still buy it.”
    How can you investigate the car without the car? If I don’t see you or your no-driving grandson again, I’ll be a happy man.
    Mrs. Williams can come, though. She seems apologetic.
    I nod to Mrs. Williams, close the door, and take the key from the grandson. “Good-bye,” I say, and I walk back into the house.
    “Merry Christmas,” Mr. Williams says.
    I don’t return the phrase.
    Why not? It’s Christmas Day!
    It’s a rotten thing to say.
     
    On the day after Christmas while others are standing in line at the malls returning gifts, I’m giving slightly used toys to the Salvation Army, and I’m not the only one waiting in line at the loading dock. There are other dads and moms with boxes of “last year’s” toys and clothes. I guess they’re making room for the new load while I’m just…making room.
    When it’s my turn, I hand Stevie’s toys to a stranger, a young guy in jeans and a red flannel shirt.
    Let go of the box .
    The man tugs a little on the box, saying, “You need a receipt?”
    Let go .
    I release the box, my hands shaking. “Uh, no.” I look past him and see huge piles of clothes inside. “Um, do you need women’s and children’s clothes?”
    “Sure do, especially boys’ clothes.”
    You have some of those.
    “I’ll, uh, see you later today.”
    “Sure thing, chief.”
    I get into the truck, but I can’t take my eyes off that box, still in—Oh! He’s just thrown it down! There are years in that box! There’s a little boy in that box!
    Get a grip on yourself.
    “I’m sorry, Stevie,” I say, starting up the truck. “I’m so sorry.”
    Back at the house, I