Excerpt from the book:
I bummed a ride with Rosie Monday morning
after I took my car in to have the wheels realigned and to ask if my
mechanic friend could “buff out” the scrapes on the left side and straighten
the fender.
Rosie mentioned the close call to Jim when he stopped by the house Monday
night.
When we were alone, he asked what happened. My answer did not please him.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it on the phone last night?”
“It was just some jerk in a hurry.”
Although Jim didn’t pursue it, he insisted on going with me to pick up the
car after work on Tuesday. The mechanic was playful. “Jancy, honey, you
can’t ‘buff out’ that kind of damage. You’ll have to take that to a body
man. Here.” He took a note pad and pencil from his uniform pocket and jotted
down an address.
“This guy’ll do right by you. His name’s Da Vinci. Save the cute cracks.
He’s an artist, all right, just in a different medium. Tell him Steve sent
you.”
The Beretta drove fine, despite its appearance, so I didn’t mind that Mr. Da
Vinci couldn’t get to it until the following Monday. They’d make it a
priority job and have it out by Thursday. Jim loaned me his Civic. He would
drive his SBI unit.
“It looks terrific,” I said when I stopped by to settle up with the artist
for the car at noon on Thursday.
Da Vinci gave it a critical look. “I want to keep it until this afternoon,
buff the old paint a little, get a better blend between the new skin and the
old.”
It looked good enough to me but I couldn’t drive two cars and hadn’t had the
foresight to bring another driver along.
“I’ll pick it up after work. But I sometimes get caught. If I’m late and you
close before I get here, leave the key over the visor.” I handed him the
insurance check. “Is that right?”
“On the money. Glad to have your business. Recommend me to your friends.”
By the time I got away from the office and drove to Jim’s so he could take
me to the body shop, it was after six.
Emergency vehicles working a car accident blocked the street and Jim
detoured through an alley. But when we got there, my car was not on Da
Vinci’s lot. We walked over to peer in the shop window, but my candy apple
red two-door was no where in sight.
Turning around, his hands on his hips, Jim scanned up and down the street,
then stiffened. I followed his gaze.
Just beyond the ambulance blocking the street, I caught sight of something
bright red. My eyes met Jim’s. Wordlessly, we made our way toward the scene
of the accident.
A tangled mass of what appeared to have been my car lay twisted in the
middle of the street. The hood was charred and pieces of the engine were
scattered to opposite curbs.
After explanations about what we were doing there, I walked behind the car
to check the license plate. It was twisted but legible. It was my tag—my
car.
One investigator picked up large pieces of debris while another wrote down
measurements just in front of firemen who were attempting to wash away
gasoline and broken glass to reopen traffic lanes.
Medics loaded a sheet-draped body into their vehicle. Another body was
already inside. Both bodies were covered. It looked like there was no hurry.
I approached a fireman I recognized but whose name I either didn’t know or
could not recall at that moment. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “An explosion.”
“The gas tank?”
He shook his head no.
“That’s my car. Whose bodies are those?”
“A couple of kids. Probably not old enough to drive. It looks like they
grabbed the car for a little joy ride.”
“Did they run into something?”
He shook his head again. “No. It was a bomb. Looks like it was set to go
when the engine warmed up, and it did. They hadn’t gone two blocks.”
I turned around, practically leveling Jim with an accusing stare. The
fireman, too, looked at Jim. “The bomb guys from Dominion are on their way.
We’ll hang around until they get here. If you’ve got questions, they’ll
probably be the ones to ask.”
Jim nodded, took a firm grip on my elbow and walked us back to Da Vinci’s.
He put me in his car without even attempting to answer the questions I was
too stunned and confused to reduce to words.
I slept fitfully that night, awakened several times by nightmares and the
sycamore slapping against my window in the barn-like house on Cherry Street.
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Copyright © 2003 Sharon Ervin Last modified:
February 21, 2008