Radical (6 page)

I let my head fall back against the house to keep from yelling. It was one time. One pipe bomb. For fun. And Mark was there, too. But every time Mom wants to make a point about how much she hates me training, she acts like I’m some kind of pyro, blowing stuff up every day.

“
If
I’m interested,” Dad says, “I’m in it for the work. For the hope that it leads to more work.”

“But?” she prompts.

“But . . . they make a lot of sense. Things
are
getting worse. Unemployment, tensions. More taxes, and no one looking out for us.” I can’t hear what Mom says, but Dad says, “Charlotte, I’m just suggesting, maybe it’s time to be a little more serious. It couldn’t hurt to be better prepared, just in case.”

“In case what?” Mom asks.

“In case . . . whatever,” Dad says.

Shivers crawls up my spine and down my arms. This is what I’ve been saying for a year.

It’s quiet for several seconds, and then Mom says, “I don’t want to see you get your hopes up and then find out it’s a scam. Or not a scam, but not something we can afford. Not now, anyway.” I can’t hear anything, and then Mom says, “It just sounds too good to be true.”

A bang, a cabinet slamming shut or something. “Why is it so damn hard for you to accept that maybe, just maybe, someone thinks I have value? That
we
have value?”

“How much value?” Mom asks eventually, and even I can hear the softening in her voice, maybe because it’s clear Dad’s already made up his mind. Or maybe because it’s been a long time since Dad had any leads.

“I don’t know yet,” Dad says. “I need to see what all they have planned and put in a proposal, but Jim Riggs said they’d rather a member did the work. So I think it’ll go hand in hand.”

They must have moved, because I can’t hear them. I inch around the porch, closer to the screen door.

“Then if it is a bust or too good to be true,” Dad says, “we say no thank you and we’ve lost nothing. But if it means work and more — a support system — I don’t think we can pass up the opportunity.”

“Not a penny to them,” Mom finally says.

“Fine,” Dad says.

“If it gets weird, you’re out.”

“Of course.”

Weird
for Mom means anything beyond shooting and camping. For a while she was convinced I was going to run away and join some kind of radical survivalist cult or, like, fall in with white supremacists. If she knew anything about anything, she’d know that none of them would want
me
, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want anything to do with
them
. I’m about the prep, not the politics or racist bullshit.

“And Bex?” Mom asks.

Crap. Maybe she’s not done fighting.

“They’ve got girls, too,” Dad says.

“Really?” Mom asks. “Girls?” she asks, meaning
girls who look like girls
.

“Some of them were there today,” Dad says. “Seemed like a nice group of girls,” he says, meaning
yes, girls who look like girls
.

“We agreed to start trying to redirect her interests back to normal things, things that will help her integrate back into a normal school,” Mom says.

“Bex is fine,” Dad says, but even I don’t believe that he means it. “Maybe it would be good for her to be around other girls. To see that they shoot and camp, and still . . .”

Look like girls
is what he wants to say. Act like girls. Want to do girl things, and date boys.

“I want her to come to the city with me,” Mom says. “There’s a summer program. She’d be back in a classroom, around normal kids. And then if she wants to do this stuff on the weekends, at least she’ll have both.”

No way.

“Hannah is in a program at the same place. They can go together. It will be good for her.”

No freaking way.

“What does it cost?” Dad asks. “It’s a valid question,” he adds, in response to whatever face or gesture Mom must have made.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it covered.” Nice. Dad will love being reminded that Mom’s making the money right now. “We will have to pick up a few things for her. She can’t go looking like she’s wearing her brother’s hand-me-downs. Just a few things to start, until she can see what the other girls are wearing. I can take her to the outlets next weekend.”

I can only imagine what Mom would make me wear. And I’d have to deal with Aunt Lorraine every day, and Hannah.

“What about the station?”

“Skip will have to find someone else for during the week.”

Mom doesn’t like me working there any more than she likes me training. I can’t win. I let my hair grow out the way she likes. I pay for everything for myself. I give her money. And still all that matters is that I’m not like Hannah, all girly and interested in “normal” things.

She’ll never let me train for real.

She’ll never let me really join Clearview.

She won’t stop until I look like she wants me to look and act like she wants me to act.

“Phone’s already ringing,” I say as Uncle Skip unlocks the door to the station. It’s not even seven yet.

“Everyone with a weekend problem’ll be champing at the bit.”

He flicks on the lights in back and in the service area. I head straight to the front.

“Hey, Bex, what’s shaking?” Mike asks, leaning over the counter reading the paper.

“Not much. Coffee?”

I start filling the pot. Uncle Skip hollers from the back, “Go ahead and open. Bud’s coming by.”

“Better be bringing doughnuts,” I shout.

Bud does indeed bring doughnuts, and his own coffee because he says ours is weak as spit, but I’m busy taking the messages from the voice mail and just wave a thanks as he goes by.

“Mullin’s Service Center,” I answer the phone, shuffling the messages in order of emergency. “Depends what it is. . . . Yeah, we can handle that. Yeah, no problem.”

“Whatta we got?” Mike asks, already three-quarters of the way through a doughnut, powdered sugar all in his beard.

“Two won’t-starts, blown tire, a weird clunking noise, Sanford seeing if you have time for a quick oil change and once-over this morning, a guy named Ben who says he’s calling about the camper?” I ask, and he takes that one. “And Mrs. Presley, twice. She says it’s shimmying again.” I waggle my eyebrows, and he laughs. Mrs. Presley has a thing for Uncle Skip.

“Call Sanford and tell him to come on over,” he says. “I’ll take the rest.”

It’s a steady stream of calls, cars and trucks at the pumps, lost tourists, regulars stopping in to see who’s around or to get a pop or gas. A lot of equipment, lawn mowers, and ATVs to be gassed up. Deliveries. Parts, pop, the supplier servicing the kerosene pump. Monday.

Late morning I go out to help Mrs. Johnson at the pump so she doesn’t have to get out of her car, and then do a once-around, checking the pumps and picking up trash.

Mr. Hirsch, Mr. Hoff, and Mr. Henderson (three of the Four Hs) play cards at the picnic table, drinking my coffee and talking, like they do most Mondays.

“How’s tricks, Bex?” Mr. Hirsch asks.

“Fine. Where’s Mr. Heinman?”

“Prostate,” Mr. Hoff says, and the others grunt. “Gin!”

I don’t ask for clarification on whether Mr. Heinman is dead, dying, or merely off getting probed. I hope it’s the last one, but I don’t want the details.

Uncle Skip calls around to track down a part, and then he hands the phone off to me, “his girl,” to handle the order and shipping details. We have a deal: I don’t give him shit about being “his girl,” and I get to learn something new every time he says it. By then Mike has some things that need to be ordered, too, but those we get from a supplier. He and I work the computer for a while, reading part numbers and checking prices.

By noon things quiet down out front. Uncle Skip and Mike are both working on cars, but nothing I can help with. There are too many cars and trucks and customers waiting to hang back there and watch. I snag my lunch from the office and settle in to play around online for a while. I check for any good rebuild prospects. I need my own truck, especially now that we’re all the way out here. Uncle Skip promised to help me fix one up. I have to find the truck, pay for it, and learn how to do all the work. He’ll supervise. But so far I’ve found nothing remotely interesting in my price range.

Then I check into my usual sites and forums. The group in Washington has their new training schedule up and a recap of their latest event. If they were closer, we could join them. They already have their shit together. The Second Amendment newsgroup has a few new posts. I copy one and e-mail it to myself to read later. I check into my message boards, at least the few left that haven’t gotten all riled up about gay marriage. They don’t know about me, but I don’t need to read their bullshit. I leave a reply to one of the guys looking for info on a site in Michigan and the new permitting requirements here. Yet another argument over prepper versus survivalist versus whatever. And it’s the usual suspects, too. I sign in so I can quote the main arguments and respond, “Who cares what people call themselves? I’m not a prepper. I’m not a survivalist. I’m a realist who plans to survive.” I post replies in a few other threads, and then I check the chat rooms, but no one is around. There’s a new post up from the guy in Virginia recruiting for his Mutual Assistance Group. If I were closer, I’d be tempted to apply. Of course, I’d have to fudge the application, at least as to age. And getting from Michigan to Virginia, or the meet sites, would be near impossible in a grid-down situation. I’ve thought about suggesting a few northern sites as their backups, but it’s not worth disclosing them to a MAG I’m unlikely to join.

I answer a few direct messages and e-mails. Delete a few without answering, like Kelly back home, wondering what I’ve been up to. Last time we hung out, she played hot and cold all night, and then the next day tried to pretend the hot was all because of half a can of beer.

More calls. Then I ring up a few gas customers. By the time I check back on the forum, there are several responses to one of my posts. Some agreeing with me, but a few calling me a bitch or stupid, sometimes both.

Another customer comes in, and so does Uncle Skip, so I close the browser.

“Did you get ahold of Mrs. Presley?” Uncle Skip asks, flipping through the work orders. He runs his hand through his graying hair and then puts his cap back on. Salt-and-pepper stubble dusts his chin and upper lip, standing out on his red-tanned face.

“Yeah.” I hand the customer his change. “She’s going to bring it in Wednesday, when her daughter can follow her and take her home.”

The alert dings, and I glance out the door to the pumps.

“Best thing I ever did was getting those new pumps,” Uncle Skip says behind me.

We both watch a guy in expensive clothes and expensive glasses wash the windows of his expensive car. Guys like that don’t bring their cars here for service unless they have no other choice. Especially now that the fancy dealerships and big places are expanding out this way. When I was little, I wanted to work here when I grew up. Now I just hope it’s around long enough for Uncle Skip to follow through on teaching me how to do rebuilds and restores, and to keep me employed until I figure out something else to do. Long enough for Uncle Skip to work as long as he wants, then sell it and retire. Maybe someday I can still have my own place, even if cars are different in the future.

I watch the guy buff a spot on the side of his shiny car. Will you need a college degree to work on cars when they’re all electric, or whatever else they think up? Assuming the world hasn’t imploded before then.

Some of the guys on the forums think you should avoid newer cars — too many computer components in newer models make them hackable and susceptible to electromagnetic pulse. And soon there may even be non-nuke EMP weapons. Safer to stick with an older model.

“Where’s your brother?” Uncle Skip asks. “He said he wanted to barter for some work on his truck today. I was going to have him run into town to pick up a few things.”

“He went out to Clearview.”

“Right.” A lot of meaning in that one word. I don’t comment.

It’s not like I have anything to say. Dad and Mark have been out there a bunch of times since we visited, acting all father-son chummy, like they are so proud of themselves. For what, a club and some part-time work? Every time I ask when I get to go back, Dad makes excuses or says not today. I’m not going to stop asking, but I have to be careful about Mom. If I push the issue at the wrong time, Mom will dig in her heels on taking me to the city. I need to strike at the right time so that Dad is willing to back me up, or else I need to make Mom change her mind.

“How’s he swinging that, without a truck or cash?”

“Daniel Trace, I guess.”

I can feel him wanting to say something. I know how Uncle Skip feels about “the militia stuff.” Even if this isn’t anything close to militia, it’s close enough for Uncle Skip.

He rubs his jaw, a scratchy sound of contemplation, and the look on his face gets the better of me.

“What?”

“Seems like a bad time to be spending money,” he says.

We’re staying in his house, mostly for free, so I guess he gets to have a say, but it doesn’t mean I have to like the criticism.