Sorry Is Just a Word

He drove steady to the thistlebound town.
Steering careful past letter-faded business windows, notinga particular “Back in Ten” sign, he pulled between a truck face-out and one face-in.
The door of the dark hotel clicked behind him.
Through an archway he strode and then along the deep-tread lobby path to the diner part where two of eight tables were occupied and one man sat face-away at the counter gazing at his mirror reflection.
He slung a leg over the Naugahyde stool. Hi, Mister Teller.
A sidelong look at the boy. Young fella. A glance out the windows. Driving Jimmy’s truck?
Yup.
Not licensed yet, are you?
Nearly, sir.
Thing’s not two years old. What’s Jimmy doing letting you take charge of it?
He can’t drive anymore.
Well I don’t imagine so but neither can you. Teller lifted his coffee cup. Town isn’t that dead.
I’ll park it. Soon as I get back to the place.
You best.
The apron-stain waitress came by. Having anything? Coffee?
No thanks, ma’am.
She wiped hands and moved off.
Teller head-gestured to the street. Mountie drove through yesterday. Might again today.
I have to take my chances.
Whyever for? Isn’t Sam helping out?
Sam took off.
Did he.
Got tired of not being paid.
Understandable. But too close to harvest to be honourable.
Harvest’ll have to be hired. We were going to anyway.
I suppose.
Sam knows I can make out for myself.
I suppose you can. But you’re not legal to drive.
I have to get to the clinic.
Jimmy still there? Thought they sent him to the city.
He wouldn’t go.
Heh heh. That’s Scott all right. Teller paused to look out windows and drink coffee. Damn. Going out like this. Relatively young man.
They warned him it might get rough.
Might as well tell the gophers.
You know him pretty well, Mister Teller?
Since he was less than you.
He requested me to come and ask about something.
He did, did he … Requested. Teller set his cup down. What about?
A personal favour.
Oh?
That’s how he said it.
For who? Him or you?
Me, I guess. Or us maybe.
I don’t know you too well, son.
You know I’ve been helping him a few years now.
Yes.
He says he thinks pretty high of me.
If you don’t say so yourself ha ha.
I don’t know what else to tell about it, sir.
Why don’t you just get to what you’re here for?
I need a favour.
You do, do you?
Jimmy says I deserve one.
He does, does he? Well, you being a fit young fella … Teller turned his stool to inspect the boy more closely. … I suppose a favour to you would at least be more in substance than a favour to a dying man. He shook his head. Poor old Jimmy. How long’s he got anyway?
No way to tell, sir. The boy looked away to break the man’s fixed eye-hold. Doctor won’t say.
Hmmm. Teller finger-tapped the Arborite. Well. What then is this personal favour I can do you on Jimmy’s behalf?
We need to get the forty-two registered.
The what?
Jimmy’s old pickup in the barn.
Oh. Chevrolet was it?
I was driving it on the fields but now he wants it back on the road. A sentimental thing I guess. Took care of it all these years.
He got it running?
Took him about an hour.
From up on blocks?
Had it under a tarp. He’s some mechanic.
Musta packed the cylinders with oil. Put new wiring in. Plugs. Points. Condenser.
All of that, sir.
Jimmy bailed me out when my Buick gave up in a blizzard near his place one time. Late fifties it was.
Jimmy’d help anybody anytime anyhow.
It’s the prairie way, son.
Yes, sir.
But what would he want on his deathbed in this year of nineteen sixty-seven with a beat-up twenty-five-year-old Chevrolet half-ton he’s had stored in a barn for years all registered up and ready to go?
Not sure myself, sir. But it seems to mean something to him.
And you promised you’d see to it, eh? Said you’d roll it up outside his clinic room and let him look at it one last time through the window?
Something like that maybe.
Well … Teller gazed once more into the mirror. If that’s truly what he wants us to do then there’s not much other than to do it. I got the forms in the office.
Can you let me have them?
I can help you fill them out ready for Jimmy to make his mark on them. That is if he’s still making sense. He is conscious isn’t he?
Last I saw.
Well he better. Otherwise it all goes into trust and likely to stay there a long time. Pending whoever comes up with a will or steps in to make a claim or otherwise identifies themselves as a relative or heir. He has a son for god’s sake. I told him a dozen times to come in and set his affairs straight. Instead, now … He’s got an eager adolescent driving his vehicles illegally and running around with putative power of attorney trying to get things formalized last minute. Teller drained his coffee cup. Shoddy.
He’s not one for rules and regulations, that’s for sure.
Hell rules and regs are everybody’s bane but you have to see to the tangible necessities.
I’m sure you’re right, sir.
Jimmy knows I’m right. Always did but never listened.
I think he’d listen now, sir. I think he’s in a listening mood.
He’s still in a bed at the clinic, you say?
Yup. Got a private little room and everything.
Well. I guess a real friend would.
If we could get this paperwork done, I’d sure appreciate it for Jimmy’s sake.
Yeah … Teller stood and dug for coins in his suit pocket.
Okay. Let’s go across the street.
They trekked the wide windy streetspan, dodging a rolling Russian thistle. Teller opened his storefront door and flicked the CLOSED sign to OPEN.
Come and sit yourself down. Robin, is it?
Robin Wallenco, sir.
Of that Wallenco family used to live out toward Arbuthnot?
I’m told. Never met them myself.
Well I did … Teller settled into a swivel chair and pulled at a low desk drawer. Long time ago. And now Arbuthnot itself nary exists.
I wouldn’t know, sir.
Well I do know … He plopped a worn leather journal on the desk and met Robin in the eyes. Take a good hard look at these little towns, son. Remember them while they’re still here. They’re a thing of the fast-approaching past.
Yes, sir.
The family heritage of a lot of people is disappearing.
It seems so, sir.
You likely have kin buried nearby.
I do.
Any other family living or otherwise?
Not around here. My dad sent me out to help Jimmy.
And your dad is where now?
The coast.
The coast. But he was from these parts.
Yes, sir. But gone away a long time ago.
I probably never met him but I knew some others of the clan. Ended up out west you say?
Went during the war. With his dad. All the way to the coast and stayed.
I knew of his father. Your grandfather. He wasn’t around long either as I recall. Haven’t heard of him in decades.
We don’t see much of Granddad. Lives somewhere near Winnipeg now.
Teller rummaged in another drawer. Want a cookie? He proffered a tin with a wavering hand.
No thanks.
Teller took one himself and bit down. They’re pretty darn good cookies. Belgian.
I’m full up, thanks.
You don’t turn down cookies as good as these.
If you really want me to, sir. There was a notable joyousness in the man’s shortbread crunch-munch that oddly eased Robin’s mind. He picked a biscuit. I’m glad you like them so much.
Never know when you might run out of cookies. Munchcrunch. The Depression was like that.
No cookies?
Not a darn one. Not around me anyways. For years and years. Lard sandwiches on hard bread. Smeared-up eggs from the coop three times a day. Ground wheat. Flaxseed.
That all sounds like plain good-enough food.
Oh we never went hungry. Not much. But there weren’t any cookies. Cake neither. Nor white bread.
Well everybody seems to sure make sure they keep lots of that stuff around now.
Ever since the war and prosperity there’s been no shortage. Teller finished his cookie and gazed at length through his office window.
The pause lasted long enough to cause Robin an uncomfortable shift in his chair.
Teller finally shook his head and turned back to Robin. Sure seems strange to be spending good money to put a derelict farm vehicle back on the road.
It’s in pretty fine shape, sir.
Jimmy’s a master tinkerer, sure. But you don’t hear of too many grain growers being antique enthusiasts.
Like I said. This truck is a sentimental piece for him. Farmers round here have no time for sentiment. Hobbies. Diversions. Eccentricities of any kind. Teller’s eyes had turned hard. Not this time of year anyway.
I’m sure everything’s okay.
Oh you’re sure, are you?
All I’m doing is what I’ve been told.
Uh-huh … so you say. Teller swivelled to grasp a sheet of paper from a slot in the wall. But very well. He turned back to the boy. You have the chassis and engine block serial numbers?
Robin pulled papers from a back pocket.
Ah good. Teller applied reading glasses to unfold the documents and peer at the figures. After a moment he handed them back and slid a government form across the desk. You write them in there and the name. Teller pointed with pen at paper. Here and here … both sides. This is where you get Jimmy to sign. Or put some kind of mark.
Okay.
Teller sat back. You fairly know what you’re about here. Don’t you, lad?
I’m just doing what Mister Scott asked me to do.
And going about it with no little sense of pointed purpose, if I may say so.
Thank you, sir.
Bring that back to me and I’ll finalize it after you pay the registration fee. You have money?
Right here.
Good. So upon those two steps being complete I can officially legitimize the vehicle and then for whatever reason a rickety, long-retired farm truck is back running on the public thoroughfare. Chicken feathers, cow dung, mouse droppings and all. You say you drove that thing?
Yes, sir. All around the place. It’s a lot of fun.
I’ll bet it is at that. But not on civic roads until you have a licence. Hear?
Yes, sir.
Now walk over to the clinic and get these papers marked. Then I’ll find somebody to drive you back to Jimmy’s place. Don’t want to take a chance on the police interrupting this here business transaction, do you?
No.
Well then. Get going.
Robin loped the two blocks down and one over, which took him to the one-story cinder-block shelter that was the town’s medical facility. Through the double glass door and inside the air-conditioned cool he bounded past the two empty waiting room chairs. The desk was unmanned so he was wordless down a familiar hallway, stepping briskly. Along the route he met a nurse coming out of the ladies room.
Oh. That was fast. You’re here for his things?
Um. Not yet.
Oh. You just want to sit with him?
If that’s okay.
You have time. I haven’t called the funeral people yet.
I’ll just be a few minutes.
Robin pushed open the door and did not look directly at the covered figure on the bed. The chair was where he had left it the previous evening. He sat down. For the sake of ceremony he doffed his hat and pulled out the document Teller had given him. He laid it upon the sheet near where he reckoned Jimmy’s right hand reposed. He took the pen he’d been carrying and after a glance at the closed door made several Xs. He sat back and sighed, focused for the first time at the shroud where the face would be, fighting a shiver from the rushing air unit overhead. He silent-counted to sixty, then stood, folded the registration document and slid it into a pocket.
The nurse spoke as he passed her desk. I’m sorry we couldn’t get word to you. Before he …
That’s okay.
It happened fast after the last shot.
We were told that would most likely be how it went.
When I called he had just expired. About five minutes or less.
Thank you.
Will you pass the word to the family?
Yes.
She sighed and displayed a typewritten sheet. This is the list of people we have to contact. Guess I better get to it.
Okay.
Through the doors Robin stepped into the afternoon heat and strode away with a solid certainty that he would never again tread those halls.
On the way back he allowed himself a pause before the display window of the last womenswear shop in the town. It stood dark. He had passed it by a hundred times and often felt compelled to gaze at the forlorn, semi-clothed mannequin. The afternoon sun off the sidewalk gave her face a pale glow. Today the light even touched her saddened limbs and he saw that one arm was nearly coming away from the whole. An eerie significance in the assemblage struck him and hastened his continuation down the street. He knew, striding away, that this, too, was something he would not likely return to see.