Rust by Julie Mars Read Free Book Online

handshake. “My name is Rico Garcia,” he said, and then he added, “ a su servicio ” because that was the way Elena had taught him to introduce himself when he was a little boy. And he felt happy, like a little boy, in this moment.
    “I’m Margaret. Margaret Shaw,” she said, and she smiled and Rico felt like all the stars in the sky were on his side.
    “We’ll start on Monday,” he said. “Come by my shop in the morning.”
    “What time do you get there?”
    “Eight, eight-thirty.”
    “I’ll be there at eight-thirty,” she said. “On the dot.”
    “ Bueno . See you in a couple days,” he replied, and then he turned and walked away. He climbed into his truck, feeling sure of his direction, the way he had when he laid the first cement step on the walkway to his house just after he bought his piece of property. Even then, his neighbors had stood at the fence, peering in, and said, “Rico, you vato loco , who puts in a walkway before a house?” Rico had not bothered to reply. What was the use of explaining that this was something he could do right now, get it done, if others couldn’t see that already? What was the use of explaining that his vision blurred when it swept past the immediate moment and the few that followed? Rico had lived his whole life as a man without a long-range plan. He had enough to do just managing the day.
    On the other hand, he remembered, vividly, each and every instant that had passed already, as if they were carved into stone tablets which could never wear away. He often wondered how he could possibly have enough room in his head for all the memories, large and small. He remembered the birth of each daughter, of course, the hours of agony Rosalita went through, swearing up and down each time that she was finished with giving birth;, but he remembered, just as clearly, the little dresses each daughter wore for the first day of kindergarten. He remembered the entire sermon Monsignor Frank gave at his father’s funeral mass, and he could still recite the times tables he learned in the third grade. He remembered the sound of the Rio when the dams were open and the water eddied through the roots of the cottonwoods that had fallen over at the edge of the bank, just as well as he recalled the look on Elena’s face when he’d told her Rosalita was pregnant and they were planning to move in together without the benefit of holy matrimony. So many moments lined up behind him, each one lit with a spotlight any time he chose to turn it on, and yet the future was nothing but shadows. Except that now, there was one little beam shining brightly, and if it had a label it would’ve been, “8:30 Monday morning.”
    Rico parked in his usual spot behind Garcia Automotive, unlocked the security gates, and went right to work. Saturdays were always the easiest, the day his customers showed up for routine oil changes and tire rotations. They sat in his office with their takeout cups from the Barelas Coffee House, thumbing through old magazines or just staring out the front windows at the foot traffic waiting for him to finish. He worked with speed and efficiency, and he always kept his mind on the job. But today was different. His mind drifted. He had never taught anyone to weld, and now, as he replaced the drain plug on an oil pan or poured the dirty oil into the recycle barrel, he found himself wondering how to start. His own father had taught him to weld so long ago that Rico could not remember the sequence of lessons, and he took his skill so much for granted that he never broke down the steps, one by one. He wanted to present the material in an orderly manner, lay it out in such a way that Margaret would grasp the basics quickly. But not too quickly, he smiled to himself.
    “You got a shit-eating grin on your face, bro’,” said Benito Aragon, a man Rico had known since they were both eight years old. He carried a bag from the corner grocery store in the crook of his arm. “There’s only