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PART II OF A TWO PART STORY

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Kitty woke Chuck up in a way that reached back ten years and tapped him on the shoulder like an old friend who still knew all the good stories.

It had been Amarillo the first time. Honeymoon suite. Curtains that didn’t quite close and a bed that squeaked like it was trying to warn somebody. Back then, Chuck had been lighter, quicker, and considerably more optimistic about what a man could reasonably accomplish before breakfast.

This morning in RoadRunner Estates, it wasn’t squeaks or optimism doing the talking.

It was Kitty.

The look on Chuck’s face said everything that needed saying. Surprise, satisfaction, and something close to reverence. A man trying to figure out what he’d done right in life to deserve such a morning and coming up short on answers.

Kitty noticed.

She always did.

She slipped into her robe with the quiet confidence of someone who knew she’d just turned a key in a lock that hadn’t been used in a while. As she moved downstairs, she gathered the evidence of the night before like a woman tidying up after a small, well-executed storm.

Pants near the door.
Sport coat draped over a chair like it had given up halfway through the evening.
A dress that had been abandoned with purpose, not carelessness.

Up the stairs, socks and pantyhose told their own version of events. By the bedroom door, the final surrender—bra and underwear—rested like punctuation marks.

In the kitchen, she set the Proctor-Silex percolator to work. The familiar plop-plop-plop filled the room, steady and reassuring, like a man clearing his throat before saying something important.

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From upstairs, faint but unmistakable, came Chuck’s breathing. Not asleep. Not quite awake. Somewhere in between, like a man drifting in warm water.

Kitty caught her reflection in the glass of the Westinghouse wall oven.

She paused.

There was a smirk there. Not a polite one. Not the kind you’d show at church or the Dairy Twin. This one had a little bite to it. A private joke she didn’t intend to share.

She didn’t hate it.

When the percolator finished, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out the mug she’d bought the day before at Ben Franklin.

WORLD’S BEST HUSBAND.

$1.69, tax included.

She turned it in her hand like a card player checking her chips.

There were three things that appealed to a man.

She’d already taken care of the first one.

Twice.

The second was ego.

That mug handled that nicely.

The third was food.

Kitty poured the coffee—Folgers, strong enough to stand up and introduce itself—and carried it upstairs.

Chuck was sitting up now, looking like a man who had been through something he wouldn’t mind repeating under the right conditions.

She handed him the mug.

He read it.

Then looked at her.

Then back at the mug.

“You serious?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges.

“Drink your coffee,” she said softly. “Then throw on your Wranglers. Let’s go get breakfast.”

He took a sip.

Considered.

For just a moment, the thought crossed his mind. The kind of thought that belonged to younger men with faster recovery times and fewer Marlboro Reds in their system.

The triple play. The hat trick. The trifecta.

He glanced at Kitty.

She met his eyes.

Smiled.

Chuck made a quiet, responsible decision.

He counted his blessings.

The Mercury rolled out of RoadRunner Estates with the kind of calm that follows a good rain, even if there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky.

Windows down.

Air moving just enough to remind you it could.

KFSX drifted through the speakers, and when Last Kiss came on, neither of them reached to change it. It wasn’t a happy song, but it fit the morning somehow. Soft. Thoughtful. A little slower than usual.

Kitty rested her hand at the base of Chuck’s neck, working out tension that had already mostly surrendered.

They didn’t talk much.

Didn’t need to.

At the Dairy Twin, the ritual held.

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Coffee. Breakfast. A booth that had seen more conversations than the courthouse.

They didn’t talk about the boys.

They loved them.

But they knew better.

Children had a way of taking over a conversation like a preacher with a captive audience. Once you started, you didn’t stop. And this morning wasn’t for that.

“Any idea when you’ll be getting your bonus?” Kitty asked, like she was asking about the weather.

Chuck wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Mr. Dilbert said next week or two.”

Kitty nodded.

Filed it away.

She made a passing comment about the play they’d seen the night before. Something about how things had changed. What people were willing to put on a stage these days.

“Amazing what it could lead to,” Chuck said.

Kitty glanced at him.

There was just enough ambiguity in his tone to make it interesting.

After a few quiet minutes, she said, “Let’s drive through town on the way home. Just for something different.”

Chuck didn’t hesitate.

He was still coasting on the events of the last twelve hours and was more than agreeable. With a little extra time before pulling the Mercury into the driveway, the chances of that triple play increased.

Cactus CHEV-OLDS sat where it always had, catching the morning light like it had something to prove.

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“Hey!” Kitty said, just the right amount of surprise. “Why don’t we stop. Just for fun?”

Chuck eased the Mercury over like a man who hadn’t yet realized he was stepping onto a stage.

The lot was quiet. Early.

Cal Cleburne was out front, swapping numbers on windshields, moving digits around like a man rearranging destiny.

He saw them.

Gave a wave.

Didn’t interfere.

Kitty drifted across the lot with purpose disguised as curiosity.

It didn’t take long.

The Oldsmobile sat there like it had been waiting.

Palmetto Mist Metallic. Big. Confident. The kind of car that didn’t ask permission to be noticed.

“Well now,” Cal said, appearing just as Kitty reached it. “That there’s a 1960 Dynamic 88. You’re lookin’ at a whole lot of car.”

Kitty ran her hand lightly along the fender.

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“Tell me about it.”

Cal didn’t need asking twice.

“371 cubic inch Rocket V8 under the hood. Two hundred seventy horsepower, give or take. Paired with a three-speed Jetaway Hydra-Matic. Smooth as butter on a hot biscuit.”

Chuck leaned in, listening.

“The paint’s had some work over the years,” Cal continued. “Little age showing on the left rear door. And you’ll see the beginnings of rust down low on the front fenders. Nothing that’ll scare a man off who knows what he’s doing.”

Kitty nodded like she understood exactly what that meant.

“Fourteen-inch steel wheels, chrome covers, brand new bias-ply whitewalls. Still got its EZ-Eye glass, T-3 headlights. Even the spare’s original, if you can believe that.”

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

Inside, Cal opened the door with a flourish.

“Moroceen cloth interior. Green on green. Carpets, headliner, trim. Padded dash. AM radio. And that safety-spectrum speedometer—green when you’re behaving, orange when you’re thinking about it, red when you’ve already made a decision you can’t take back.”

Kitty smiled at that.

“Odometer reads just under sixty-one thousand,” Cal added. “And she’s been treated right. New Delco brushes in the generator, fresh oil and filter. Dealer maintained, far as anyone can tell.”

Chuck looked at Kitty.

Kitty looked at the car.

Cal held out the keys.

“Take her out. Highway 10’s right there. No rush.”

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Out on the open road, the Oldsmobile settled into a rhythm that felt… inevitable.

Kitty leaned back.

“This would make things so much easier,” she said.

Chuck didn’t answer right away.

“I could go to the store while you’re at work. You wouldn’t have to drop the boys off every morning. Weekends wouldn’t feel like we’re taking turns living our lives.”

Chuck kept his eyes on the road.

“You’re talking about a second car.”

Kitty nodded.

“You’ll have that bonus soon. That covers half. We tighten things up the rest of the way.”

Chuck exhaled.

“Beans and rice?” he said.

“One night a week,” she replied. “We’ll survive.”

There was a pause.

Then she drew the bow one more time.

“We’re one of the last families on the block without a second car.”

It landed.

Not loud.

But clean.

Chuck adjusted his grip on the wheel.

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Back at the lot, Cal was ready.

Paperwork in place. Numbers clean. Smile steady.

Chuck signed.

He stood up.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Beer and coffee. You can’t buy either one. Only rent them.”

Cal chuckled.

Kitty watched him go.

Then she leaned in slightly.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Cal asked.

“For parking it right out front. It made it that much easier for him to see when we pulled up.”

Cal tipped his head.

“Seemed like just the right place for it.”

That afternoon, Kitty’s mother admired the Oldsmobile like it had just been crowned.

“Kitty, you are lucky,” she said. “He’s such a good provider.”

Kitty smiled.

Her sister, somewhere across town, felt a disturbance she couldn’t quite explain.

By Monday morning, things had settled into their new shape.

The Oldsmobile in the garage.

The Mercury in the driveway.

Two cars. Two paths. One household.

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Cal called Chuck at work.

“Just checking in. You still enjoying that Olds?”

Chuck leaned back in his chair.

“It worked out well for everyone.”

A pause.

“And I appreciate the heads-up.”

Cal smiled on the other end of the line.

“Figured you might.”

Chuck lowered his voice slightly.

“Thanks for not letting on Saturday.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cal said.

Fort Stockton has a way of showing you who you are, even when you think you’re just passing through your own life.

A town built on convenience, sealed with profit, and held together by people doing the math in their heads while smiling with their mouths.

Kitty used what she had.

Cal used what he knew.

Chuck used what he believed.

Nobody got hurt.

Everybody got what they wanted.

And somewhere between a percolator, a coffee mug, and a well-timed test drive, the world turned just a little more in their favor.

God bless America.

And God bless Fort Stockton.

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