The Big Cat Nap

instead, playing catcher, where his wonderful memory served pitchers well. His knees held up better than if he’d been on the football line, but they creaked. He sometimes wondered how many times he crouched, rose, crouched again.
    Within twenty-five minutes, Herb pulled in to the dealer’s. Light traffic helped, but it was actually faster, although a longer distance, to shop in Waynesboro rather than inching up Route 29.
    Harry picked up some extra parts just in case. She reached into her jeans’ back pocket to pull out her wallet.
    Herb grabbed her wrist. “Church purchase.”
    “I don’t mind. It’s my mower and my little offering.”
    “Your work is the offering.” He pulled out a silver credit card and handed it to the fellow behind the counter.
    “I love doing it.”
    “Looks good. My office affords me such a wonderful view, regardless of weather or season. I get most of my best sermon ideas just staring out the window.”
    After Herb paid, they hopped back into the truck.
    “Ready for our next vestry meeting?” Harry asked.
    “We have a good board. Makes it easier. As you know, just maintaining the physical structures takes so much money and effort. Still, I wouldn’t want to be in modern buildings for all the tea in China.”
    “Do they grow tea in China?”
    “I don’t know, but they sure drink it.” Herb gave her a devilish grin. “We aren’t all that far from Wayne’s Cycle Shop.”
    “Yesss?” She lifted an eyebrow.
    “Think what St. Luke’s could save on gas if I rode a motorcycle?”
    Harry laughed, a light happy sound. “And half the board would have a fit and fall in it.”
    Now they both laughed at the old Southern expression.
    “Ever own a bike?” he asked.
    “No. I’d love to. I mean, I’d just lose my mind, go everywhere. ’Course, the real decision would be whether to buy a dirt bike or a road one. Love the sound of the big ones.”
    “Me, too. Like the old V8s from the fifties and sixties. That rumble.”
    “If Fair and I weren’t facing a big bill for the hydraulic system on the old John Deere, I’d think about it. You really can save money on gas. Our gas bills have doubled, and, boy, that cuts into the budget. The estimate from the John Deere dealer—back to the tractor—is ten thousand dollars for a new hydraulic system, all new hoses, the works. We’re gonna get the work done outside the dealer, I think. It will take longer. Still cost, though.”
    Herb whistled. “That calls for serious prayer and maybe a winning lottery ticket.”
    The two people who loved each other drove back to St. Luke’s, chattering away.
    As Herb pulled in to the driveway of the garage, the truck backfired, shuddered, and stopped dead.
    Harry jumped out after Herb popped the hood. “Cut on the motor.”
    He did. Nothing.
    As this was a truck that still had an oil dipstick, Harry took it out, put the clean end to her ear. “Okay, try again.”
    A click sounded, another.
Click. Click. Click
. But no ignition.
    “I just picked this damned truck up, as you know.”
    “I think it’s your alternator. But it could be more than that. Better call ReNu. They’ll need to tow you.”
    He got out of the truck, slamming the door. “I do need a newtruck. Or that motorcycle. But you know there’s no way the church can afford new wheels. Given the hauling and odds and ends we need, half the parish uses the church truck. It has to be a truck.”
    “Yes, it does.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll call ReNu. Got the number?”
    Herb easily recalled the telephone number, as he’d called it so many times.
    By the time Harry had the new pin on the belly mount—an easy job once she found a block of wood to steady the mount and once she was able to dislodge the sheared pin—the tow truck from ReNu had turned onto the driveway. To her surprise, Victor Gatzembizi emerged from the passenger side; Terry Schreiber, the driver, was about as greasy as she was.
    Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry strolled down to them as Herb came out of his office.
    Victor looked up. “Reverend Jones, let’s hope this is a hangover from your former problem.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, otherwise you and the insurance company are throwing good money after bad.”
    Herb explained what happened, then Harry piped up, “I think it’s the alternator.”
    Victor listened. Terry, who didn’t know Harry, discounted what the attractive woman said.
    “If Harry didn’t farm, she’d be working for you,