Mr. Summerlin, the gray-haired owner of the drugstore and soda fountain, patted the top of my head. “You’re a lucky boy, Gabriel . . . mighty lucky indeed,” he declared. “Must be a guardian angel watchin’ over you.”
“Angel? It wasn’t an angel. It was a man who saved me,” I told him.
“What man?” a handful of people asked at the same time.
I scanned the faces around me, but his wasn’t among them. Then I looked beyond the crowd and saw him standing across the street with his tools, fixing my bicycle.
I pointed. “Him. He pushed me out of the way just in time.”
One by one heads quickly turned, until finally all eyes were on the man who’d likely saved my life.
“Meriwether?” Mr. Summerlin asked.
“That his name?” I asked.
“Yes. Mighty good at fixing things. Does work for me now and then at the store,” he replied.
“He sure kept you from buyin’ the farm, huh?” the butcher commented.
“Yessir,” I replied. “I thought for sure I was a goner.”
And then, I guess because most people could see I wasn’t mangled and others couldn’t wait to go wag their tongues about my brush with death, the crowd began to vanish until there were only three left: Mr. Summerlin, Mrs. Babcock, and Miss Felicity Duval, who plays the organ at church and gives piano lessons for a dime out of her house.
“I should call your mama ’n’ daddy . . . have ’em let Doc Riley give you the once-over . . . just in case, especially that elbow,” Mr. Summerlin advised.
“Please don’t do that! I’m fine.” I gazed at my new possession. “Pleeeze, Mr. Summerlin . . . They’ll take my bicycle away and I’ll never be able to ride it again. I’ll be more careful. I promise. It’s my birthday . . . Pleeeze!” I begged.
Mr. Summerlin sighed. “Just doesn’t feel right . . . your folks not knowin’,” he said, and then he looked at Miss Duval, as if seeking her opinion.
She reached into her purse, took out a fancy kerchief, and wiped sweat from her forehead before nodding in agreement.
Miss Duval then turned to Mrs. Betty Babcock, who said, “Wouldn’t surprise me if they already know.”
As if thinking that Mrs. Babcock was probably right, the three of them snatched looks at one another and grinned.
“Y’all have a lovely Sunday,” Miss Duval told Mrs. Babcock and Mr. Summerlin, and then she turned her attention to me. “And Gabriel?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Please be more cautious. Might not be anyone there to save you the next time you choose to be careless with your life.”
“Won’t be a next time, Miss Duval,” I informed her.
“Good to hear. Have a good day,” she said, and strutted off in that way she does, heels clicking, head held high.
And that was when the man who had saved my life strolled toward us, guiding the bicycle. He and Mr. Summerlin greeted each other politely, but Mrs. Babcock stared off down the street, as if the man were invisible, the way some white ladies do when there’s a colored man close by.
“’Bout good as new as I could get it, young man,” he said.
I checked it over from end to end. He’d even fixed the light.
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed. “It really is good as new! Thank you, Mr. . . .” I’m never too good at remembering names, and with everything that had happened, I’d forgotten his in a flash.
“Hunter, Meriwether Hunter,” he replied. His short wiry hair was black, and his skin was dark brown. He had a nice smile and a thick mustache and was tall, but not so tall that a person would think too much about it.
I introduced myself. “I’m Gabriel.”
“It’s a fine name,” he replied.
I read the sign around his neck again.
“Can you fix cars?” I asked.
“Most things with an engine.”
“Even a P-51 Mustang?” I inquired.
“A fighter plane? Never worked on one, but I suppose an engine’s an engine.”
“My uncle Earl was a pilot, flew a P-51 in the war. He was even at the Battle of the Bulge,” I boasted.
He looked away before replying, “That so . . . Battle of the Bulge?”
“Yeah, but not long after that, he got hurt . . . Broke some bones when he crash-landed, but they were able to fix him so he’s almost good as new.”
“Kinda like your bicycle,” he said.
“Yessir, I spoze so,” I answered, then continued, “He’s a gen-u-wine war hero, and soon as I’m of age, I’m gonna enlist and go to flight school too. He’ll be in Charleston on Saturday. They’re havin’ a big parade for all of the South Carolina war heroes,” I informed him.
He looked up at the sky, squinted into the sun, then gazed off toward the green foothills. “A parade” was all he said.
Mr. Summerlin finally cut in, “’Bout time I headed back to work—and Meriwether?”
“Sir?”
“Thank you . . . for preventin’ this from becomin’ a very tragic day.”
“You’re mighty welcome, Mr. Summerlin, sir,” he replied.
“Gabriel?” Mrs. Babcock interrupted.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Hurt or not, I’d like to see to it that you get home safe and sound.”
“But I was ’bouta go show Patrick . . .”
She didn’t let me finish. Instead, she spoke to Meriwether. “Do you think the bicycle will fit in my car, boy?”
Meriwether’s eyes met the ground. “In a big ole Roadmaster? It sure oughtta, ma’am.”
“But . . .” I pleaded.
“But nuthin’, Gabriel Haberlin. I’ve decided,” she replied softly, but there was steel mixed in with her words, like Mama’s words get when there’s no changing her mind, so I knew Betty Babcock meant it. “Put the bicycle in the car,” she commanded Meriwether.
“Thank you again, sir,” I told him.
“Welcome,” he replied.
And just like that, I was sitting next to Betty Babcock. While she started the car, I swiveled and peered out the back window. Mr. Meriwether Hunter stood there alone on the sidewalk, frozen like something carved out of stone, the Need Work sign still around his neck.
Mrs. Babcock gently patted my hand and put her foot on the gas, and the big yellow chariot zoomed down the street.