Circle View Read Online Free Page B

leather chair, the heat of sunburn radiating off the back of his neck.
    â€œAnd who might this be?” he asked the pale girl. She smiled, her lips pulled back like the skin of a cut.
    â€œRose,” she said. “Rose Shire.” They were the first words she had spoken.
    â€œWhat brings you out to visit me?” King asked her.
    â€œDaddy’s car broke down,” she said. “We’re playing a joke on Mama.” Red and King both looked at John Shire.
    â€œWhere she gets these ideas,” he said.
    They walked out to examine the broken-down Chevy Nova, Red drinking wine from her jar, King carrying his big wooden toolbox. John Shire made small grunts with the effort of working the crutches amid bits of broken concrete. Red walked behind him, watching the jump of muscle beneath the taut, brown skin of his arms, following the rhythm as he worked the crutches, his elongated triceps twitching like snakes. His smell was a mix of cologne and cigarettes.
    Inside the yellow car was a homemade rigging of ropes, coat hanger wires, and levers made from two-by-twos, slick and dirty with wear. King deemed it all worthy of Rube Goldberg; John Shire said no, he’d thought it all up himself. It allowed him to drive with just his hands.
    â€œHere, Ace,” John Shire said to King. “Let me show you what works.” The engine had quit on him, he explained, and would not start. King soon found the problem under the hood. A coat hanger wire leading from a small lever on the dash, through the firewall, to the choke had kinked and caught around the fuel line. In two minutes, it was fixed and running.
    â€œWhat’s the heart of an engine?” King asked, his head still under the hood. Flecks of grease dirtied the tail of his golf shirt.
    â€œNot a clue,” John Shire answered.
    â€œCarburetor—yours is black, carbon fouled. Stay for dinner, I’ll clean her up for you.”
    â€œOkay,” John Shire said, his voice empty of gratitude. King scratched his head under his hat.
    â€œOr stay the night, and in the morning I’ll patch that muffler for you, before you go deaf.” He shouted over the engine noise to emphasize his point.
    â€œAin’t got anywhere to be.” John Shire looked at Red and smiled big. A swirl of dust kicked up and blew around them. She squinted against the flying grit, her eyes blurry with tears. The white of John Shire’s movie star teeth shone like snow in the sun, nearly blinding her before she shut her eyes completely.
    After King had the carburetor apart and soaking in kerosene, he went out back to finish his job on the speaker stalks. Rusted out connections had to be resoldered, and new wiring was needed leading to the main switch box in the projection tower on the back of the house. Rose followed him out and knelt on the tacky pavement beside him, her hands curled like dried leaves in her lap. King explained every step as he performed it, named for her the different tools in his box so she could hand them to him when he asked. She said nothing, would offer her smile, gums and small teeth, when he looked at her. He began asking for the tools with made-up names—Sammy Screwdriver, Wanda Wirecutters—trying to coax a laugh from her. One of the stray cats, the flop-eared one, appeared from around the house. The cat’s ear was bent over, King told her, to mark its place in a fight. She grinned. To King it seemed somehow as if she wanted to laugh and simply didn’t know how, the way he’d like to be able to play piano and couldn’t.
    â€œWe get this all wired up, see,” King said to her. “Patch up the screen and rebead it, crank the projector, fire the marquee, open the gates and boom!—we’re in business.”
    â€œWhat’s it for?” Rose asked.
    â€œWhat’s what for?”
    â€œScreen,” she said. “Rebead, marquee, protector.”
    â€œProjector,” King said.