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Inroads: Stories
My recent book is Inroads, a short-story collection.
A stock-car driver gets money any way he can for his son’s birthday present. A girl meets a horse for the first time. Two firefighters help each other while a storm delays their camping trip. A museum employee is asked to monitor her colleague. A boy wavers saying goodbye to his friend. A super receives an evening call from an elderly resident. A brother decides between the family business or his estranged wife. A daughter delivers a memento to her mother. After losing his main income, a craftsman continues supporting his grandsons…and more.
And now for this month’s story.
“Brella Fella”
William Auten
Copyright William Auten
The boy hears his father and the manager around the corner—the woman repeating “you weren’t consistent”; his father, not apologizing, repeating he needs “anything,” adding “I have to take care of my family.” Devin stares outside the office window and at clouds darkening behind his father’s van and mist pooling on the rusty bumper when his father confesses he’s not “had a steady paycheck and things are coming due.”
“Why didn’t you show up to the jobs I assigned you?” the woman asks.
Merwin shrugs. “I need something now.” He gestures like a showman toward her. “And I know you’re the one who can make it happen.”
“You should’ve showed up, Mr. Gillepin. I’m sorry. Good luck to you.” She lumbers away.
Merwin’s head cocks Let’s go to Devin who follows him to the van. “Yeah, I’m done here. It went…” He switches his phone to his other hand shielding Devin. “Good. She said maybe something will open up. The weather has thrown off construction. No, I know. I won’t let that happen.” The engine catches after the third try; the tailpipe gags out smoke under champagne paint flaking off. “We’ll be home soon.” He kisses the phone and chucks it on the dashboard.
Devin clicks his seatbelt as they creak out from Ready 4 Labor. “I could work at the grocery store down from us.”
“You’re not old enough.”
“I’ll lie.”
Merwin exits. “We’ll stop up here before we go home.”
They park in a neighborhood near a church, and Merwin digs out cardboard from under blankets in the back of the van, flicks out his knife, and hands half to Devin. He finds a marker and duct tape in his toolbox and writes WE NEED HELP OR WE’LL BE EVICTED.
“Is that true?” Devin asks.
Merwin hides the knife, marker, and tape in his pants; stuffs his sign under his arm; and, for him, points at one end of the church and, for Devin, at the opposite end. He tucks in his shirt and feathers his thick black hair. “Too bad it’s only us. Having everyone here would milk this. Especially the sight of your mother.”