“Saturday,” I said. “The church parking lot. We’ll buy a box of bulbs and some red lens tape. Anybody who wants to can drive through. We’ll check their lights and fix whatever we can. For free.”
“Grandma,” he said. Like I’d lost my mind.
Then he said it again. Slower.
“Grandma.”
“Can you change a bulb on most cars?”
“I can change a bulb on any car,” he said. “I watched about a hundred videos while I was waiting for this part.”
I went to see Pastor Ron on Wednesday morning.
Our church is St. John’s Lutheran. A white clapboard building with a bell tower, right where Main Street bends toward the river. The parking lot is the biggest flat piece of asphalt in town that isn’t the school.
Pastor Ron is fifty-eight. He’s been our pastor for nineteen years. He came to us from a church in Iowa, and according to some of the old men, he still says “pop” wrong. But he’s buried our parents and married our children, and he’s ours.
He listened to the whole thing in his little office, with the radiator ticking. When I was done, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Marge,” he said. “Is this about Craig?”
I thought about lying. You can’t lie to your pastor in his own office. So I didn’t.
“Some of it is,” I said. “Most of it’s about Tyler. I want him to see a different way to fix a thing.”
“And Craig’s going to hear about it.”
“Everybody’s going to hear about it. It’s a town of three thousand people.”
He was quiet for a while. Then he put his glasses back on.
“I’ll put it in the bulletin,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what. If you get to some kind of number, I’ll ring the bell for you.”
“What kind of number?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “You’ll know it when you get there.”
That afternoon, I went to the auto parts store on Main.
The owner is a man named Dale Swenson. He sat behind me in confirmation class in 1971. He listened to what I wanted. Then he went in the back and came out carrying a cardboard box.
“Twenty-five of the 3157s. Twenty of the 1157s. A dozen 7443s. And some little ones for license plates,” he said. “Two rolls of red lens repair tape and one roll of amber. That’ll cover most of what drives around here.”
He punched it into the register.
“That’s a hundred and ninety. I’ll take a hundred and forty.”
“Dale. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t.” He taped the box shut.
“My brake light’s been out since Labor Day,” he said. “Put me on the list.”
Hailey made the signs. She’s a sweet girl. Tyler’s girlfriend since the spring. The kind of girl who says “yes, ma’am” without being told.
She made three posterboards in green marker.
FREE TAILLIGHT CHECK. ST. JOHN’S LUTHERAN. SATURDAY 9 TO DARK.
One went up at the Cenex. One at the co-op. And one in the front window of the café, right next to the poster for the Legion pancake breakfast.
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