CHAPTER 20-1
1258 Words
CHAPTER 20The antiquated cell phone lay on the counter of Mason’s Fix-It Shop in what Mara could only describe as three clumps. One was a gray plastic casing, cracked nearly in half with the bottom portion—designed to cover the large oval keys—hanging loosely from its fractured hinge. The second was a knot of wires mounted onto a circuit board, and the third was a battery casing, a mounting and more wires.
Mara’s middle-school friend Buddy had been waiting in front of the shop when she had arrived to open up. Now he loomed over the mess with a worried look and said, “Do you think you can fix it?”
“Sheesh, Bud. I don’t know. It’s pretty much destroyed. What happened to it?”
“I was riding my bike and talking to my dad, and it slipped out of my hand, and a big truck ran over it. I tried to put it back together to make it easier for you, but I couldn’t.”
Mara turned over the casing and scratched away what looked like dried white glue. “Oh, Buddy.”
Anguish swept over his face. “You gotta fix it, Mara. It’s the only phone my dad can call.” Tears rolled down his face, dripped off his unshaven chin and painted a couple darkened streaks on his gray hoodie.
“Don’t cry, Buddy. Let me think for a minute.”
Mara’s mother had lectured her about feeding into Buddy’s belief that he could talk to his dead father through the archaic cell phone, and now she had to finally face telling him the phone was gone. She considered trying to convince him that another phone would do the job, but that would be dishonest and would be perpetuating the problem. Fixing the old phone was out of the question; it was a mess.
Buddy make a loud snuffling sound, tried to catch his breath and sounded as if he were about to hyperventilate. With his face reddening, he leaned on the counter for support.
“Please, Buddy, calm down.”
The bell above the door jangled. Sam stood in the doorway carrying a cup of coffee and a Danish. “Ping told me to drop this off.” He held the items up in the air as he closed the door with his hip. He noticed Mara’s frustration immediately. “What’s wrong, sis?” he said.
“Buddy’s upset about his phone, and I think he’s about to pass out.”
Sam moved over to the counter, and set down the cup and plate. He turned to Buddy and patted him on the back. “Hey, Buddy, are you all right?”
Buddy squeezed his eyes closed, forcing out more tears, and made a whimpering, mewing sound.
Sam grabbed both of Buddy’s shoulders and ducked down in front of him to catch his eye. “Hey, man. Mara’s going to fix you right up, I promise.”
“Sam—” Mara tried to interject.
Buddy shook his head back and forth. “She can’t fix it!
“Stop crying, Buddy,” Sam prompted. “You believe that Mara can fix your phone.”
Buddy’s face relaxed, blinked away the tears and smiled. “You’re right. I know she’ll fix it. Huh, Mara?”
Mara slouched over the counter, holding herself over the tangle of technology with two outstretched arms locked at the elbow. Without looking up, she said, “Sure, Buddy. I’ll give it a shot.”
Buddy grinned goofily and wiped his nose with his sleeve and turned toward the door to leave, but Mara looked up and said, “Hold up, Buddy. Let me give you a substitute phone until I get this one repaired. It will probably be a few days.”
She grabbed a pair of tweezers, lifted the piece with the motherboard attached and plucked out the SIM card. Reaching below the counter, she opened a drawer and took out a scuffed-up flip-phone—a newer model than Buddy’s but still dated—popped off the back cover and slipped in the SIM card. She punched the Power button, and it emitted a tone.
“Here, use this one until I get back to you.”
Buddy looked down suspiciously. “What number do you dial for it?”
“It’s the same as your other phone. I put your SIM card into this phone, so people can dial your number, and it will ring this phone,” Mara said.
“You can do that? Will my dad be able to call me?” Buddy said, wide-eyed.
“I don’t know if your dad will be able to call you on this phone, but, if he does, I want you to call and tell me right away. Okay?”
He grabbed the phone and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Okay,” he said and left the shop.
Mara turned and glared at her brother.
He stepped back from the counter, holding up his hands. “What?”
“Did you prompt him to get him to stop crying?”
“Yes, so?”
“Why did you have to make him think that I could fix this cell phone? Look at it. There is no way it can be repaired.” She waved her hand at the mess on the counter.
“I felt bad for the guy and wanted him to stop crying. From the looks of things, so did you.”
“Well, I did, but I think we might have missed an opportunity to get him to accept that his father is dead, and he won’t be able to talk to him anymore. Why didn’t you prompt him to think that instead?”
“It wouldn’t work,” Sam said.
“Why not?”
“When I prompt someone, the thought only stays with them temporarily.”
“So, in a few minutes, he’s going to start crying again and think I can’t fix his phone?”
“I doubt it. People go back to their normal way of thinking when the prompting wears off. Unless he has a tendency to cry all the time, he probably won’t cry unless something else sets him off. As far as him thinking you can fix the phone, he’s probably more inclined to think you can fix it than not. I mean, that’s why he brings it to you, right?”
“Still, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this mess.”
“You can fix it, if you set your mind to it.”
“This is not a repair job. This will be complete fabrication. I’d essentially have to build a new phone from scratch.”
“Well, you better get started. I’ve got to get over to Mrs. Zimmerman’s for tutoring. If I’m late again, she’ll make me write another essay on historic tragedies brought about by tardiness and that means I won’t get out early for Friday afternoon basketball.”
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Bruce jogged up to the shop’s door, reached around Mara and pushed it open for her. Mara looked relieved and smiled as she struggled with carrying the Philco 90 radio and her keys at the same time.
“Thanks,” she said, walking outside onto the sidewalk and turning back to the door. She noticed that Bruce was wearing a light-blue oxford shirt and khaki slacks instead his usual jeans or shorts with a bicycle-themed T-shirt. His hair seemed combed as well. “Please tell me that you are not going out looking for another job. I don’t think I could run this place without you.”
“No, I like the job I have. I’m going to a meeting with some potential sponsors of the ride we do down the coast every spring. I have been informed that I needed to look a little more presentable.”
“Well, you do. Thanks again,” she said as she turned to walk next door to Ping’s Bakery. From the corner of her eye, she swore she saw Abby’s Nissan Sentra turn right at the end of the block and disappear. She looked back at Bruce, who was leaning in the doorway. “Have you talked to Abby today?”
“No, should I have? She’s probably in school. It’s the middle of the day,” Bruce said.
Maybe Mara was being paranoid. Of course Abby would be in school. “I was wondering if she had stopped in when I was preoccupied in the office or something.”
“Not today.”
“Okay, thanks again.” Mara sort of waved with an elbow.
Bruce c****d his head. “Are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“That’s the third time you’ve said thanks in about fifteen seconds.”
“A lot on my mind, I guess. Good luck with your meeting. Could you lock up when you leave? I’m going to a late lunch with Ping. I should be back by 2:30 or so.”
“You bet,” he said.
“Thank—See you later.” Mara grimaced and continued to the bakery.
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- Writer
