The Bantam is in the garage, where Dale’s been fiddling with it. It is dank inside, nearly cool in comparison with the outside air, and it smells of whatever solvent Dale uses to degrease, an odor that always makes Ora’s head spin. She finds the keys hanging above the worktable and climbs into the driver’s seat, but when she tries, the truck won’t start. She tries with the choke, without the choke, tries with and without gas, takes the keys out and puts them back in and tries again. Still, it won’t start. She hits the steering wheel with her fists in frustration; all she wants is to do this thing the boy has asked, because she can, because it’s something, a departure from her life. Damn it, she mutters. She sits there for a minute, breathing. Then she gets out of the truck and goes back into the heat outside.
She walks around to the station’s back door. She passes quietly through the dark kitchen and down the hallway to their bedroom, where she sees Dale asleep in a pair of boxer shorts atop the sheets. She goes to the bed and looks at him; even in sleep, he seems worried, unhappy, and she feels a quick stab of something—love? sadness? tenderness?—pierce her body.
“Dale,” she whispers, and touches his shoulder.
He wakes up at once. “Ora,” he says. He sits up and puts his feet on the floor. “Ore,” he says, “Ore.” He pulls her close into him and wraps his arms around her, his head against her thighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing her. “Oh, Ora, I’m so sorry.”
Ora lets him hold her, surprised by this. Then he loosens his grip around her legs and looks up at her.
“Dale,” she says.
“What is it?” He grabs her hands.
“Truck won’t start.”
His face transforms: confusion, dismay. “What do you mean, truck won’t start?”
“Just like I said.” She takes a step backward.
Dale reaches over and turns on the light, frowning. “Look, I’m sorry I said what I did. I’m sorry I did how I did. I love you. I hope you know I love you.”
Ora regards him, puzzled. “I’m not leaving you, Dale,” she says. “Lord knows I don’t know where I’d go.”
Then they are quiet, just looking at each other, and Ora can see that Dale is trying but unable to make sense of things. “I just need the truck, is all,” she says, finally. “Can’t get it to start.”
Dale reaches for the T-shirt on the floor. “What do you need the truck for?” he asks, hardening into himself again. He glances at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Ora, you can hardly drive. What do you want with the truck?” He pulls the T-shirt on.
“I can drive just fine,” Ora retorts, blushing.
Dale stands.
Ora looks at him, beseeching. “Please just get the truck to start.”
“You want me to start the truck, you best tell me why.”
“Dale,” she whispers. “Just do this one thing for me. Please. This one thing is all I ask.” Tears gather, and she quickly swipes them away, but not before Dale notices.
He studies her, and he looks both frightened and concerned. Again, he reaches for her hands. “Ora,” he says.
She shuts her eyes. “Please,” she says. “Dale. Please. Just start the truck.”