CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

WAKING UP WEDNESDAY morning felt different to Timothy. No pounding at the door. No fogginess. No guilt.

Today, he had to drop off Scoot’s truck and pick up something else to drive. Scoot was a great friend. Always there. Whatever Scoot had for Timothy to drive would be fine with him. And he needed transportation to meet with Father Schmitt. After that, he was to meet Leslie and Frank to work out the details for the house. Timothy was discovering the difference between having problems with solutions versus problems by themselves.

As he pulled into the lot at the shop, Scoot came out to meet him. He motioned Timothy to park on the side of the building.

“Hey, dude. You look better today.”

“Feeling better, too. Listen, man, I appreciate you letting me use your truck. If it puts you in a bind to let me borrow something else, I can figure out something else,” Timothy said.

“No problem at all. I’ve got something else for you. It’s around back. Let’s go get it.”

As they walked around the corner of the building, Timothy saw a jade green Ford Fairlane shining like new money.

“Looks good, don’t she?” Scoot said.

“What happened? What is this?” Timothy asked.

“This is your old heap with a few changes. A buddy of mine owns a body and detail shop. He owes me big time, so I asked him to do a rush job fixing it up. Did a nice job, too. I got a deal on the tires. Our tire guy is a Nam vet, and when I told him about your situation, he sent these over. My guys did the engine work. Wasn’t as bad as the guy at the station said; it was worse, but it’s all good now. She runs like new,” Scoot said.

“Scoot . . . I don’t know what to say.” Timothy’s eyes leaked, and he bit his lower lip.

“Just say you’ll take care of it,” Scoot said.

“I will. Hell yeah, I will. This is amazing. I’ve never seen this car look this good. I don’t know how you got all of this done in a couple of weeks.”

“All we did was adapt to the situation, bro. You remember that, don’t you?” Scoot said.

“Yes, I do. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

“You already did. Remember, you saved my ass. I’m the one still payin’.”

Timothy opened the car and sat inside. His smile filled the car. “It even smells new,” Timothy said.

“This should last you for a while, buddy,” Scoot said.

“Scoot, thanks.” He got out of the car and gave Scoot a bear hug. Scoot nodded. “I have to go see Father Schmitt. How about we get together later and have a beer? On me,” Timothy said.

“You know me, I never turn down a cold one. Now, go see the priest.”

“Thanks again, man.”

“Always,” Scoot said.

Timothy turned the key and the engine roared to life, answering his call. Timothy no longer requested it to start, he commanded it. He drove away like a sixteen-year-old who just got his license. He punched the accelerator, and the Fairlane lunged like a youngster. He couldn’t wait to share his good news with Cheryl. He thought she needed it as much as he did. He drove to school and parked away from the building, ensuring no one would park near his reborn Fairlane. He looked back at it several times as he walked to the administration building that housed the College of Arts and Sciences and Father Schmitt’s office.

Father Schmitt walked through the office door a little winded. “Tim, good to see you. C’mon in.” They sat across from each other in Father Schmitt’s office.

“So how goes it? Missing your mom?” Father Schmitt asked.

“Yes, Father, I am. I’ll make it. What option do I have?”

“Good thinking. No other option. You feel it. Let it work its way into your life, and keep going. You never want to forget, but you never want it to hold you back, either.”

“Thanks, Father. Makes sense. Why did you want me to swing by?” Timothy asked.

“It’s about Professor Leibert. He came to see me.”

Ah, shit. Just when I thought things were getting better for me.

“Why?”

“He told me about your grade and how you missed the final, but he wasn’t complaining. In fact, just the opposite. He was singing your praises.”

“You gotta be shitting me. . . . Sorry, Father.”

Father Schmitt smiled.

“That guy hates me.”

“Not so much, as it turns out. It seems a paper you wrote impressed him more than he let on. He told me he disagreed with nearly everything you said, but loved the way you argued your point. He said he recognized great talent when he saw it.”

“He kinda said the same thing to me; it’s why he gave me a passing grade. Guess it wasn’t good enough to let me take the exam, Father. I really needed a B in that class.”

“He took the liberty to show it to a couple of folks in the English department. It seems one of the professors in that department was so impressed with your style that he wants you to TA for him next semester. That’s a position they reserve for grad students, but, in your case, they made an exception. How about them apples?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Timothy said.

“Say yes, son.”

“Yes.”

“Good, because he told me if you have a good semester with them, they will be able to help with tuition next year. In fact, he said that tuition bills should not get in the way of a talented student getting an education,” Father Schmitt said.

“Father, I’m stunned.”

“Tim, I know plenty of good psychologists. We have them in our department, but we don’t have many talented writers in this school. Have you ever considered that path?”

“Uh, maybe at one time,” Timothy said.

“Maybe it’s time to dust off those thoughts. You never know—we may have a budding Hemingway here.”

“I don’t know about that, but I sure want the TA position. Who do I need to see?” Timothy asked.

“You will get a formal offer letter in the mail next week. It will have all the information you need to get the ball rolling on this.”

“Thank you, Father. Why didn’t you tell me this the other night?”

“Tim, there’s a time for sorrow and a time for joy. You needed to grieve. Now, you need to celebrate.”

“I have the perfect person to celebrate with,” Timothy said.

“I thought you might. And since part of your tuition will be taken care of with the TA position, enroll next semester, and we’ll figure out the payment schedule.”

Timothy jumped up and shook the priest’s hand vigorously. “Father, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Father Schmitt looked straight into Timothy’s eyes and said, “Yes, you do, Tim. Write good stuff.”

“I will. I promise I will.”

Leaving the office, Timothy was awestruck by the sudden changes in his life. Two days ago, he lived in cold darkness. He had few options. Today, hope and warmth illuminated his path. He drove his new car to Leslie’s house. When he got there, Frank’s rental car was gone.

“Hi, little brother,” Leslie said as she greeted him at the door. “What’s that you’re driving? It almost looks like—”

“It is,” Timothy said. He filled her in on Scoot’s resurrection of his car.

“He’s a special friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” Timothy said. He then told her about his conversation with Father Schmitt. Leslie smiled as widely as her lips would allow.

“Good Lord, you’re having a great day,” Leslie said.

“Yes. Where’s Frank?”

“Well, this may top your day off. I called Frank to meet with us. I told him your idea of paying for the insurance and taxes with the sale of your baseball cards. He was ecstatic. He said waiting a year to sell, provided he didn’t have to pay anything, might make more sense anyway. Something about his business troubles. I don’t know, but it seemed to make sense to him.”

“That’s Frank,” Timothy said.

“Yes, he said there was no reason to meet. Pay the bills, and we’ll sell the house next year. He was thrilled he could catch an earlier flight and make it home today,” Leslie said.

“Old Frank, huh?”

“Yes, brother Frank,” Leslie said. “Do we need to go over anything else at this point?”

“None I can think of. I think I’m going to take off. I have someone I need to share some good news with,” Timothy said.

“She deserves that, Tim.”

“I know she does, thanks.” He leaned over and gave his big sister a hug before leaving.

Timothy drove home and rushed into the house—his house—to immediately call Cheryl.

“Hey, I’ve got something to tell you,” he said.

He shared his good news with her. Car. Father Schmitt. Frank.

Next, he owed Scoot a couple of beers, and they met at Junior’s. Good sense prevailed, and they called it a night after two beers.