If Sunday had been mostly normal and dull without any extra shine to it, Monday sure wasn’t. Meriwether arrived at work on foot, frowning, and Abigail was with him.
“Where’s the bicycle?” I inquired.
Abigail answered, “Someone stole it.”
“Right from here,” Meriwether added. “I came in on Saturday like your daddy asked me to ’cause cars needin’ to be fixed were backed up. And when I went to leave that evenin’, it was nowhere to be found. Strange I didn’t hear anything, but then again, I had the radio goin’. Matthew didn’t see nuthin’ either.”
Before I could stop myself, I’d said it. “Lucas.”
“That’s exactly what my daddy thought,” Abigail confided.
“Likely it’s true but I got no proof. Now I gotta pay to replace my buddy’s bicycle.” He sighed loudly. “And my wife had some family business to tend to in Savannah, so Abigail has to be here with me a few days. Hope that’s all right with your daddy. He in his office?”
“Was last time I saw him.”
Meriwether pointed to a chair and said to his daughter, “Sit there and don’t say anything that’s certain to rob me of any pride I might have in you, understand?”
“Is that the same as tellin’ me to be good?” she asked.
“The exact same. Read your book like you promised. Can you do that?”
As instructed, Abigail plopped down, opened a book in her lap, and responded, “Yessir, I can.”
I was on Meriwether’s heels. “You gonna tell my daddy ’bout Lucas?”
“Gonna give him the facts. Only thing I got proof of is the bicycle’s missin’. Can’t say who.”
“No clues or witnesses,” I asked.
“Not a one.”
“But a definite suspicion as to who might have committed the crime?” I added.
Meriwether chuckled. “Your friend Patrick’s right: you have been listenin’ to too many late-night detective shows.”
Before Meriwether had a chance to open his mouth, I blurted, “I know it was Lucas, Daddy.”
Daddy put down his pencil and looked up from his ledger. “Lucas?”
“Who stole Mr. Hunter’s bicycle.”
“Is that true?” he asked Meriwether.
“It’s true that the bicycle disappeared Saturday evenin’ from the side of the garage where I generally leave it. As far as who dunnit, that I can’t say. Didn’t see anyone or hear anything.”
“Can’t accuse a man without proof,” Daddy said.
“Nossir, can’t, but I got favors to ask. My wife is away for a few days and I’m wonderin’ if it’d be all right if my girl, Abigail, stays in the garage with me while I work. She won’t be any trouble. Just gonna sit and read.”
“All right by me . . . And?” Daddy asked. “You said favors—that’s plural.”
“That black ’36 Chevy ’round back. If it’s for sale, I’m hopin’ I might buy it on one of those installment plans I hear you offerin’ folks. You could hold the money outta my pay if need be.”
“That heapa junk? Can’t no one even get it to start, and some of the best have tried. I tell you what, Meriwether, you get that thing runnin’, it’s yours paid in full. Was ’bout to sell it for scrap.”
“You jokin’ with me, Jake?”
Daddy cracked a grin. “The joke might be on you with that car.”
Meriwether, now smiling, stretched out his hand. “It’s a deal, then?”
They shook and Daddy replied, “Deal.”
But before we could leave, Daddy put on a grim face. “Be best if y’all keep your suspicions ’bout Lucas and the bicycle to yourselves . . . seein’ as we got no proof.”
“Learned a long time ago when to keep my mouth shut,” Meriwether told him.
“That includes you, Gabriel. Not even a word to Patrick . . . clear?”
“Yessir, clear.”
Instantly, my daddy’s face switched back to pleasant.
“About that car, what if you can’t fix it? . . . No one else has been able to,” I remarked as Meriwether and I headed toward the garage.
“You’re forgettin’ two things, young man.”
“What?”
“Number one, I’m not no one else. And number two, I am Meriwether Hunter. And I’m mighty good at fixin’ things.”
Abigail was right where we’d left her, reading. She glanced up. “Did he say I could stay?”
Meriwether nodded. “But you gotta do like you promised, Abigail.”
“I am,” she said, holding up the book. “B’sides, no one has to make me read. I’m already on page fifteen.”
“Whatcha readin’?” I asked.
“The Magical Land of Noom. It’s from the library at church.”
“Churches don’t have libraries,” I informed her.
“Ours does. Pastor and my mama started one ’cause there’re hardly any books like this . . . you know . . . for children”—she waved the book at me—“in the colored section in the Birdsong library . . . maybe only five, and I’ve read ’em all.”
Meriwether chimed in, “They were gonna have the library at the school, but havin’ it at the church lets almost anyone check out a book if they like.” He popped the hood of a car and got to work.
“But only one book at a time,” Abigail said. Then she asked, “Have you read The Boxcar Children?”
“No.”
“What about The Cat Who Went to Heaven?”
I shook my head.
“Whatsamatter with you . . . Can’t you even read?”
“What kinda question is that? ’Course I can.”
Meriwether looked up from the car engine. “Abigail?”
“Sir?”
“Watch yourself. And Gabriel . . . don’t mind her. She likes to brag on herself about all her readin’.”
“Right before school ended, I read The Yearling,” I boasted.
“Parts of it were too sad . . . made me cry,” Abigail declared.
Because it was the only book that had ever brought me to tears, I was about to agree, but before I could say anything, embarrassment got all up inside me, so I didn’t.
“Soon as I finish this book, I’ve got my heart set on one called Twig, unless somebody already checked it out. Once, I tried reading more than one book at a time, but the stories started to get mixed up inside my head, so Mama told me just to read one at a time. That way, I won’t get mixed up. You ever get mixed up?” she asked.
“Spoze everyone does sometimes.”
“Yeah, I spoze.”
“I’ma be a writer someday . . . did you know that?” Abigail asked.
“No.”
“Well, I am . . . You just wait and see,” she said.
“That’s ’bout enough talkin’, ain’t it?” Meriwether asked. “Might be work out there for you, Gabriel, that needs doin’.”
“Likely,” I replied, and off I went, but the station was quiet and still.
One good thing about having nothing to do is that it gives you time to ponder, and as I waited idly at the gas pumps, that’s exactly what I did. I thought about Abigail, though only ten, already seeming to know she was going to be a writer. Then I imagined Tink traveling the world, toting her camera, having her photographs printed on the pages of National Geographic and Life magazine. Suddenly, my thoughts flipped to Patrick, who seemed certain he had a future as a navy frogman. And Rosie Riley’s path toward becoming a doctor seemed crystal clear too. How did they all seem so absolutely sure, when the thought of me becoming a pilot or even a detective somehow felt like questions instead of answers?
If Auntie Rita’s claim about me having a special destiny was true, I asked myself exactly when and how I’d know what it was. Would it come straight at me like a fastball from a major-league baseball pitcher, leaving little doubt? Or maybe it would inch toward me slowly like a hairy caterpillar. Or perhaps it might come from out of the blue, like buckets of hail on a day it wasn’t even supposed to rain, startling me unexpectedly.