I realize this means I can drive to work in the morning and at noon I can replace both slashed tires.
“Thank you,” I say. “I can drive now.”
“That you can,” Danny says. He smiles, and it is a real smile. “And I have a suggestion: move your car tonight. Just in case that vandal comes back. Put it over there, toward the back. I’ll put an alarm call on it; if anyone touches it I’ll hear the alarm.”
“That is a good idea,” I say. I am so tired it is very hard to say this.
“For nada,” Danny says. He waves and goes into the building.
I get into my car. It smells a little musty, but the seat feels right. I am shaking. I turn on the engine and then the music—the real music—and slowly back out, turn the wheel, and edge past the other cars to the slot Danny suggested. It is next to his car.
IT IS HARD TO GO TO SLEEP EVEN THOUGH — OR MAYBE because—I am so tired. My back and legs ache. I keep thinking I hear things and jerk awake. I turn on my music, Bach again, and finally drift to sleep on that gentle tide.
Morning comes too soon, but I jump up and take another shower. I hurry downstairs and do not see my car. I feel cold inside until I remember that it is not in the usual place and walk around the side of the building to find it. It looks fine. I go back inside to eat breakfast and fix my lunch and meet Danny on the stairs.
“I will get the tires replaced at noon,” I tell him. “I will return your spare this evening.”
“No hurry,” he says. “I’m not driving today anyway.”
I wonder if he means that. He meant it when he helped me. I will do it anyway, because I do not like his spare; it does not match because it is not mine.
WHEN I GET TO WORK, FIVE MINUTES EARLY, MR. CRENSHAW and Mr. Aldrin are standing in the hall, talking. Mr. Crenshaw looks at me. His eyes look shiny and hard; it does not feel good to look at them, but I try to keep eye contact.
“No flat tires today, Arrendale? ”
“No, Mr. Crenshaw,” I say.
“Did the police find that vandal?”
“I don’t know.” I want to get to my office, but he is standing there and I would have to push past him. It is not polite to do that.
“Who’s the investigating officer?” Mr. Crenshaw asks.
“I do not remember his name, but I have his card,” I say, and pull out my wallet.
Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin, “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.
I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin, who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin, following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.
I put this out of my mind when I start again on my project.
At noon, I take the tires to another tire store, near the campus, and leave them to be replaced. I have the size and kind of tire I want written down and hand that to the desk clerk. She is about my age, with short dark hair; she is wearing a tan shirt with a patch embroidered in red that says: Customer Service .
“Thanks,” she says. She smiles at me. “You would not believe how many people come in here with no idea what size tire they need and start waving their hands.”
“It is easy to write it down,” I say.
“Yes, but they don’t think of that. Are you going to wait or come back later?”