MYER STOOD WITH HIS hands on his hips in the empty space in the parking lot where the car had been. He tried to believe he had imagined it. The man and woman and boy and their old Caddy. His offer for help, their rejection of it. Maybe the damn thing did run. Maybe they cranked it and drove off. Wouldn’t be the first time that crew lied to somebody. Maybe they’re headed toward Tennessee like the man said. Myer kicked at a rock and then looked down at his own shadow from the morning sun. His shoulders slumped to ease the pain that lived in his back, his tall frame having settled over the years in ways that pinched. You need to get out of the cruiser and walk around every now and then, his wife told him. You need to do your stretches like the doctor said. You need to stand up straight and be the tall and proud man God made you.
You need to hush, he’d tell her. I’ve grown old and no amount of walking or stretching is gonna fix that. Old and lazy ain’t the same thing, she’d tell him. No matter how bad you want it to be.
He stared at his shadow and he straightened up. Pulled his shoulders back. Raised his arms over his head and stretched. He then bent at the waist and let his arms dangle toward the ground. It felt good and when he raised himself he kept his shoulders up high. Walked a lap around the cruiser and he saw the wet circles on the ground from the drips and leaks from their car and he knew they were gone from this parking lot but they were not gone.
He got in the cruiser and drove around downtown. Looking in alleys and behind storefronts and then making his way into the neighborhoods. On one side of the railroad tracks were the woodframe houses with their paint chipping and porches sagging. Tricycles in front yards and potted ferns on porch steps and magnolia trees growing wild as if reaching out to hold the houses erect. On the other side of the tracks the streets were lined with short houses. Stubborn, meanlooking structures of brick and mortar. He waved to old women in housecoats who sat on porch swings drinking coffee. He waved to mothers and their children playing in front yards. He waved to men climbing in their trucks, lunchpails in hand. But he saw no ragged Cadillac and none of the ragged people that arrived with it and as he lapped back around and parked in front of the downtown café, he wasn’t even sure what he’d do if he found them.