Then I climbed out and looked underneath the truck.
No puddle.
No smell.
Nothing.
At seventy, you become aware of something unpleasant.
When you forget where you left your glasses or misplace your keys, people don’t say, “Everyone does that.”
They start saying, “Well, you are getting older.”
And eventually, you begin doing it to yourself.
Maybe I hadn’t filled the tank completely.
Maybe I’d driven farther than I remembered.
Maybe the gauge was acting up.
I let it go.
Then it happened again the following week.
That time, I knew something was wrong.
I’d filled Earl on Sunday.
On Tuesday morning, I was supposed to take Mrs. Patterson to the pharmacy.
I climbed into the truck, turned the key, glanced at the gauge—
and saw less than half a tank.
I slapped the steering wheel.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My phone rang.
Mrs. Patterson.
“You still coming, Frank?”
“Of course.”
“You sound irritated.”
“Truck problem. I’m just running late.”
“Oh, don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I told you nine-thirty.”
“Frank, it’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine to me.
When I tell somebody I’ll be somewhere, I try to be there.
I had to stop for gas first.
By the time I reached her house, I was twenty-five minutes late.
Mrs. Patterson was waiting on her porch.
She eased herself into the passenger seat and smiled.
“You know,” she said, “you already do enough for me. You don’t have to worry about being a few minutes late.”
Somehow that made me feel worse.
Because I hadn’t forgotten her.
Something—or somebody—had interfered.
And I intended to find out what.
Part 2 — The Camera at 1:17 A.M.
The next morning, I drove Earl to Steve, my mechanic.
Steve had been working on the truck for nearly fifteen years.
At this point, I suspected he knew Earl almost as well as I did.
“I think I’ve got a fuel leak,” I told him.
He leaned against the truck.
“You smell gas?”
“No.”
“Anything on the driveway?”
“No.”
“How much are you losing?”
“Several gallons.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Frank, that’s not a leak. That’s an emergency.”
“Thank you for your compassion.”
He laughed and kept the truck for most of the afternoon.
Around four, he called.
“Your truck’s fine.”
I snorted.
“Steve, Earl is thirty years old. Earl has never been fine.”
