“Thanks.”
Neal asked him how he was liking Palmetto. Graham answered all his questions politely. They had gone almost a mile before he said uneasily, “Mr. Patchett, we need to turn around. The site’s the other way.”
“Hell, I know that. But I thought we’d get your flat fixed while we’re at it. I know this mechanic who’ll do it for free. While we’re waiting, we’ll have a cold drink. Doesn’t that sound good?”
“I guess so.”
A drink did sound good. He was parched. He might be a few minutes late getting to his mother’s office, but consoled himself with the thought that it couldn’t take much longer to have the flat fixed than it would have taken him to ride the rest of the way on his bike. As soon as they left the garage, he’d tell Mr. Patchett to step on it. The slick Cadillac would get them to the site in no time, a hell of a lot faster than he could pedal it.
“I’ll call my mom from the garage and tell her I’m running late,” he said with a sudden burst of inspiration.
“Sure, if you think it’s necessary.” Neal glanced across at him. “Does she still go out to the Parker place every now and then?”
“Where?”
“The Parker farm.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh. I’ve seen her out there and thought she might have mentioned it.”
“I know she’s buying property for her company,” Graham offered, trying to be helpful.
“She’s a regular go-getter, isn’t she?”
Taking that as a compliment, Graham responded with a happy smile. “She sure is.”
When they reached the garage, a man in greasy overalls sauntered out to greet them. He smiled at Mr. Patchett, revealing three snuff-stained teeth. While he fixed the flat, he invited them to wait inside the office, where it was cool.
Graham followed Neal into the cluttered office. It was only marginally cooler than outside and reeked of an overflowing ashtray, axle grease, and motor oil. Graham would have found it unpleasant if he hadn’t been stupefied by the glowingly naked girl on the wall calendar. He hadn’t realized that nipples could be that big and red, or pubic hair that lush and dark.
“There’s the phone if you want to call your mother.”
Graham wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, but he felt too iniquitous to speak to his mother right then. Besides, he didn’t want Neal Patchett, who was supercool, to think he was a geek.
“Naw. It’s cool.”
Neal kissed his fingers and patted the calendar girl’s round behind. “She’s something, isn’t she? When I was your age, I used to come here just so I could ogle the calendars. Later, I bought my rubbers here. Quicker than the drugstore, you know. There’s a vending machine in the bathroom yonder if you ever need some in a hurry.”
Speechless, Graham tore his eyes away from the calendar to gape at Neal.
“You know what rubbers are, don’t you, boy?”
Graham nodded stupidly, then cleared his throat and his vision, and said, “Hell, yes, I know what rubbers are.”
“I figured you must. How old are you anyhow?”
It was flattering that Mr. Patchett talked to him as one man to another. Proudly, he stated, “I’ll be fifteen my next birthday.”
“And when’s that?”
“November twenty-seventh.”
Neal gazed at him for a moment, then broke into a wide smile. “Around Thanksgiving.”
“It’s on Thanksgiving every seven years.”
“Imagine that. Well, what’ll you have to drink?” He opened a cold-drink machine, the likes of which Graham had never seen before. It was a chest of refrigerated air. The bottles stood in rows formed by a metal grid.