The Soul Seekers by Amy Saia Read Free Book Online

Rain or no rain, bridge or no bridge, I would make this plan work.
    Stepping out onto a soupy gravel road, I locked the Pontiac and made my way across the lopsided bridge, then walked the rest of the way to the address I’d written on a crumpled piece of paper. I would pay for the car and tell them to hold it for me and come back for it tonight.
    The house was falling apart old, with peeling white paint on warped, rotted wood siding. I stepped up to the front porch, which bowed a little under my feet, and rapped a few times on the screen door.
    A set of footsteps lumbered slowly, stopping just short of the entry. “Yeah?” The door opened a crack.
    “I’m here to see the car. The one in the ad?” I held up the paper, now soaking wet.
    “All right. Let me get my jacket.” The older gentleman was tall and thin, dressed poorly in gray slacks and a stretched white t-shirt. Beige slippers barely clung to his feet and hair puffed out strangely from a balding head. He came out to the porch to look me over. “It’s in the garage.”
    I followed him out and waited while he opened the wide garage door to let us inside.
    I tried not to show my disappointment. What did I expect for five-hundred dollars?
    “Nice,” I lied, running my hand over the rust-patched front hood.
    “She’s a good vehicle. Hardly ever been driven. My wife died last year and it’s been sittin’ here waiting for me to decide if I could sell ‘er. Hate to do it, but seein’ as to how I mostly walk, what with that bridge always out.”
    I cringed.
    “You got the money?”
    “Yeah, it’s right here.” I reached into my purse and handed him the cash.
    “Fine, fine. Well, don’t you want to start it, see how it runs?”
    “Oh! Of course.” I tried the driver’s side door handle and had to yank hard at the stubborn chrome.
    “She sticks once in a while. Lift it a little to the left.”
    I did, and the door opened. Wide vinyl seats crackled under my body, cobwebs dangled from the rearview mirror. The steering wheel was a large ordeal, with corded leather and hand gear at the side. He handed me the key and I shoved it into the ignition, cranking to get the thing started.
    It coughed, it spit, it rumbled. And then it died.
    “Try again. She don’t like bein’ woken up like that.”
    I cranked the key once more, feeling relief as pistons fired up. She was loud.
    “You get some new oil in her and she’ll be runnin’ better than this, believe me.”
    I saw visions of a highway flash before the windshield. “Do I sign anything?”
    “Lord no. Her title’s in the glove box, and I got your money. A handshake is all you need around these here parts.”
    I smiled and held out my hand. “Is it okay if I leave the car here until I get a ride back? I left my grandmother’s out by the bridge, so. . . .”
    “That’ll be fine. She’s used to sittin’ here anyway.”
    I turned off the engine and got out. “Well then, I’ll be back later.”
    I made my way down the sinking road again, cursing the rain, but happy to see the old Pontiac when I turned the last corner by the bridge. Ideas were crisscrossing in my head on how to make it all happen. I’d hire a tow-truck, or find somebody, anyone, that could help me out.
    “Ethel,” I said ten minutes later, making a beeline to the front desk, hair dripping everywhere. “Can I have the rest of the day off?”
    She nodded, and I rushed back out through the door after a quick, “Thanks!”
    The local garage was closed, so I drove around looking for another place that might be of help. Nothing. As I drove by Phil’s Records, I noticed the Camaro parked out front. I pulled in next to it. Time to kiss some ass.
    Jesse was unpacking new arrivals when I walked in to the store. He didn’t bother to look up, just kept sliding records out of plastic wrap and into their appropriate bins.
    I whispered, “Hi.”
    “Hi. You look like hell.”
    “Thanks, it’s the new style. Really wet hair, muddy jeans.