fitted the nozzle neatly into place. Kenneth cuffed his son's head and sprayed lubricant all around the lug-nut.
The nut didn't budge.
"Kenny," said Jack. "We'd better call the auto club."
But Kenneth ignored his father and bent back to his work, pulling and jerking at the iron with red, raw hands.
"Kenny," said Jack. "I'm calling the club."
Sweat poured from Kenneth's forehead. His haunches trembled. He straightened stiffly and stretched out his shoulders. The westerly breeze chilled the sweat on his brow--a good feeling, like swimming in the ocean. He looked down at his son, who had never budged, but gazed at him with hope and belief, like a child sports-fan pulling for his favorite player. "You wanna be king, little bud? Pull Excalibur out of the stone."
Darren smiled. "I can't get it out, Dad."
Kenneth bent to his task and thrust upward with a mighty effort.
The nut didn't budge.
"Dare," he said, "get me Granpa's work-gloves from the tool box." He put on the oversized canvas gloves and flexed his fists. He looked, he felt, like a falconer.
"Kenny," said Jack. "The truck'll be here soon, buddy."
But Kenneth set his jaw and pulled against the iron with a weighlifter's grimace. The muscles in his hands, arms, and shoulders strained. They would hurt tomorrow, he knew that much even though he had never played sports or lifted weights. And he knew they would be stronger.
"Dad," said Darren. "What can I do?"
"Nothing," said Kenneth, straining against the iron. His breath was short. "Ten inches," he panted. "The branches are ten inches in diameter at the attachment points."
The yellow tow truck pulled onto the shoulder twenty feet ahead. The driver was a swarthy non-white guy of indeterminate ethnicity, with a shaved round head and a linebacker's build. Kenneth's build, if he lost thirty pounds.
"Darren," he said, straining against the iron as the tow-truck guy made notes on a paper set against a clipboard. Sweat glazed Kenneth's vision, but it seemed to him that the guy was grinning derisively at him. "Look up the plans on your laptop, man. There’s a lumber yard on the way home from Granpa’s."
He strained against the iron as the tow-truck guy advanced like an assassin.
~ end ~
Thank you for reading “Treehouse,” and please look for my novel The Mighty Roman, which likewise examines what it means to be a modern American father and man. For even more of my fiction, and other literary goodies, please visit Jon Sindell Fiction. And do feel free to connect with me on Facebook, on Goodreads, or via email to
[email protected], as I love connecting with readers.
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