Cinder Fella

There was once a grouchy man with three sons. The two older boys looked so much alike they were often mistaken for twins and actually shared a birthday precisely one year apart. The two boys took after their father with bright red hair and color in their cheeks unlike the youngest son.1

He had dark black hair, a darker complexion and a fragile body. He looked a lot like his mother who had been sick in giving birth to him and then passed away. The father would sometimes get angry with Davey and grumble, “The way you look, you only remind me she’s not here. Now see to your little job at least and keep the oil and gas spills covered with ashes.”2

It was a family business. A garage for car and truck repairs. A spacious tin building that loomed up behind a small stone house. On cold days and through the cold months the house and garage were heated by square wood stoves made of cast iron. One sat in the little house while a large stove squatted at either end of the long garage floor. The two older boys worked on the trucks and cars with their father.3

It was Davey’s job to add wood to the stoves to keep them burning. Once the wood turned to ashes Davey would open the stove’s yawning front door and shovel out the cinders. Then Davey would let them cool and then spread the ashes over the gas and oil puddles to soak them up.4

One day the father brought in an old car that had been sitting in the garage yard for over a year. It was a black two-door ’69 Skylark with a tattered white vinyl roof. 5

“Well,” the father said, “I’ve tried locating this Mr Richards for the transmission overhaul we did on this old bird. But he’s nowhere to be found. The way I see it, the work we did is worth more than the car. So the car goes to one of you boys." The older sons frowned at each other while Davey’s eyes lit up like two shining coals.6

The father and two sons began a light maintenance check on the car’s engine. A few minutes later the two sons, winking to themselves, called over to Davie cleaning out one of the big stoves. “Hey Davey,” they shouted together. “We never let you work with us on the cars and trucks. We’ve been too mean with you. Why don’t you come drain the oil from the Skylark for us?”7

“Really?” asked Davey, his face flushed with excitement. “Why sure,” answered the two older sons at the same time. Davey quickly slid in behind the wheel, started the old car and steered the two front tires up onto the ramps. He had watched his older brothers change oil many times. His chest swelling with pride, Davey strode to the workbench and chose a 9/16th wrench. Noticing the car keys still in his hand, he stuffed them into a pocket. Davey then walked back to the car and wriggled underneath the engine on his back. 8

He fit the wrench around the bolt head in the bottom of the oil pan and tugged hard. The bolt had already been loosened though and the hard yank brought the motor oil gushing down over him. Davey squirmed back out, soaked in the warm gritty syrup. The two older sons, sharing the same grin, stated, “Well there’s an idea, Davey. YOU soak up the oil spills, then throw the ashes on yourself and we’ll call you Cinder Fella!"9

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Trudging out of the garage Davey peeled off the slimy shirt and threw it in the corner. He could hear pitches of laughter behind him, followed by a low chuckle. His face was smeared in black streaks while his ears were burning red.11

He ran to the house, washed up, put on a clean sweat shirt and marched straight over to Mrs Thornton’s place three blocks away. Jumping up the steps to the veranda, her shaky voice sifted through the screen door, “Why Davey you’re early, but come in son, come in just the same.”12

In a rocking chair beside the gas stove sat a thin gray-haired woman squinting behind a thick pair of glasses. Davey liked coming here. The old woman had a great collection of old books and he sometimes read aloud to her when he wasn’t helping with small chores.13

“Before you start on anything Davey, “ quivered Mrs Thornton, “why don’t you finish off reading the King Lear.” “Not a problem,” sighed Davey. The heavy Shakespeare book still sat on the corner of the kitchen table with its bookmark from last week. 14

Opening the book at the marked page and sitting down, Davey felt the prick of the keys in his back pocket and took them out and placed them on the table. “Did you know that King Lear is based on the Cinderella fairy tale, Davey,” mentioned Mrs Thornton. “Yes,” she nodded, “just look at young Cordelia.”
“Whatever,” muttered Davey. He was really only into Edgar, disguised as Mad Tom. 15

Finishing the story, he stood up, closed the book, brought it into the parlor and set it back in its open spot in the bookshelf. Back in the kitchen, Mrs Thornton had dozed off in her chair. Davey adjusted the blanket over her lap and let himself out quietly.16

At home, he marched straight to his room. Chuckles came from the tv den as he passed by. The sun the next morning made his eyes squint. He was still in his clothes and started patting his pants pockets. Hadn't he looked foolish enough already without losing the car keys too.17

It was late morning. Everybody was at work in the garage. “Why didn’t someone get me up to tend the fires,” wondered Davey. He was at the kitchen sink running his head under cold water when there was a knock at the door. He grabbed a towel and went to answer it. 18

It was the new girl who’d recently moved in to the house across the street from Mrs Thornton. “Hi,” she said as she held up a pair of silver keys. “Mrs Thornton thought you might be needing these and since I was going to be in the neighborhood if I wouldn’t mind dropping them off.” 19

Reaching for the keys Davey couldn’t help noticing the curious pair of shiny black shoes she was wearing with a bright gold buckle on the side. And her eyelashes looked darker.20

“Okay, well, thanks,” he heard himself saying. “And maybe would you like to come in for a minute?” 21

The girl merely shrugged her shoulders. “Sure,” she said.22