The Summer of Gypsie Hendricks

GYPSIE HENDRICKS was what my Dad called a man's man. A man of few words who knew everything there was to" know about cars. Not many mechanics want a job on the edge of a prairie village, 'specially if the garage is sixty miles from the nearest decent sized city. Dad was a machinery and tractor man but what he really needed was a good car mechanic. Always had a help wanted ad in the town's post office.

Gypsie Hendricks showed up one morning in April. Dad and I found him sitting on a small duffel bag at six in the morning. No car, no suitcase, just Gypsie, leaning back against the garage doors, soaking up the first sun of the day.

"Heard you were looking for a good mechanic," Gypsie said.

"Do more than engines here. Combines, swathers, binders, you name it. Know how to weld?" Dad asked.

"Yeah."

"If you're no good, you move on," Dad said. "I'll show you the shop." Dad unlocked the shop door. I was all set to go in with them but Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "Go tell Mom to brew another pot of coffee, Jude."

"Aw, Dad...."

"Off you go now. Besides, you know this shop as well as I do." Had to admit, Dad was right about that. And I couldn't wait to tell Mom.

"I bet he was in the war. I betcha any money that's it. Says his name is Gypsie Hendricks. Betcha he's been bumming across the country ever since the war ended."

"I don't want you pestering him with a lot of questions," Mom said to me, "Now finish your chores or you'll be late for school. The man's entitled to his privacy."

Well, that was okay, far as it went, but Mom doesn't know everything. Soon's I got home from school and changed clothes, I headed for the garage. "Want me to put away tools?" I asked. "I know where they all go. Do it for Dad all the time. I'm Judith but they call me Jude. How come they call you Gypsie?"

"Have to ask them, I guess. Hand me that wrench, Jude." His hand reached out, his head never coming from under the hood of the Buick.

"Keys are in the ignition. Start it up. Know how?"

Know how? What a question. Maybe I was a girl and only thirteen, but the closest thing to a son that my folks would ever have. The engine purred to life, smooth and quiet. Gypsie wiped his hands on a rag and shut the hood. He sure did know his stuff. That Buick had been in the garage for two weeks.

"You got kids, Gypsie?"

"Don't think so," he said, "never know for sure though."

"Waddya mean, don't think so? Either you do or you don't. No way you can't know." Maybe he wasn't as smart as I thought. My best friend, Elsie Elaschuk, told me all about having kids and nobody can't know if they have kids or not.

"Ever play chess, Jude?" he asked. I shook my head. "Tell you what, when I'm done, you find me a bucket of water and some soap and I'll teach you how to play chess. Deal?"

"Deal, 'cept, gotta clean eggs first." I filled the enamel basin with pump water, found a bar of soap and stood them on a tool box. Gypsie had parked the Buick outside and was sweeping the garage. "We've only got checkers. Never seen a chess set, 'cept in catalogues." He probably meant checkers anyway.

"I carry a set with me," Gypsie said.

Boy, did I ever clean eggs fast. Didn't even complain about the dirty ones I had to wash and that pump water is really cold in the spring. I guess I could have put kettle water out for Gypsie. There's always a kettle steaming on the stove.

Mom had four places set at the kitchen table.

"He's staying for supper?"

"After dishes are done, I want you to take some flannel sheets and make up the bed in the bunk house." Mom's habit of never answering a question direct really picked my ass. The boys at school always say picked my ass. Not that I would ever say it out loud. Now Dad was different. Just had to ask the question right, something that needed a yes or no, and he'd give it to you straight. Like is swearing okay? That was a definite no.

Nobody talked at supper 'cept for pass the potatoes, or more gravy, or more spare ribs please. Eat? Gypsie Hendricks ate like it was his first meal in a year. Didn't soak up the gravy with bread like we did. He took enough potatoes that there wasn't any gravy left on his plate or in the gravy boat. I could see that Mom was pleased. She liked cooking for company. Her cheeks got two red spots on them when he said she was a good cook. I kept looking at his hands. The way he used a knife and fork. Different, only I couldn't figure out exactly why. Warm water would've taken out more of that black grease for sure. Didn't shut his eyes during closing prayer either. Even when Dad asked God's blessing for the stranger at our table his eyes were open.

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