Nancy couldn’t stand that truck.
Which made it even funnier that she was the one who named it.
“Earl,” she announced one afternoon years ago.
I had looked at her.
“Why Earl?”
She shrugged.
“Because it looks like an Earl.”
I never understood what that meant.
After she died, though, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.
Maybe because Earl had been there through so much of our marriage.
Trips to the hardware store.
Moves.
Home projects.
Rainstorms.
Family visits.
Arguments over directions.
Quiet drives home.
The truck was scratched, noisy, stubborn, and old.
So was I, depending on who you asked.
But I knew that truck.
I knew every rattle.
Every hesitation.
Every strange sound under the hood.
And I knew exactly how much fuel it normally used.
Which was why I noticed when the gas began disappearing.
The first time, I blamed myself.
I’d filled the tank on Monday, driven perhaps twelve miles, and then barely used the truck for two days.
Thursday morning, the gauge showed a little more than half a tank.
I stared at it.
Then I climbed out and looked underneath the truck.
No puddle.
No smell.
Nothing.
At seventy, you become aware of something unpleasant.
