Chapter 11: Old Number Nine

The retired bus was behind the township garage, in weeds up to the first window.

Garth found it on Thursday morning, because Garth finds things.

It was a 2004 Thomas, forty-four seats, painted a yellow that had gone the color of old butter.

Painted on the side was NUMBER NINE, and under it, in smaller letters, TOWNSHIP OF CUTLER'S FERRY, PROPERTY OF.

"The township sold it for scrap two years ago," said Garth. "The scrapyard never came for it, so the sale never closed."

"Then it's still the township's," said Lucy.

"It is," said Garth. "The road foreman said he can't lend what he doesn't own."

"So we can't take it," I said.

"So he called the township manager from the garage phone. She said if we can start it, we can have it until Monday."

"Did she put that in writing?" said Lucy.

"On a napkin," said Garth.

He showed us the napkin.

It said, in ballpoint, IF IT STARTS IT'S YOURS UNTIL MONDAY. BRING IT BACK. THE MANAGER. Beneath that was a stain I identified as gravy.

I opened the binder to Tab 7.

"Ground rules," I said. "Tires first."

"The tires are flat," said Lucy.

"Then tires first."

Four of its six were flat, and the left rear had a wasp nest on the wheel well.

We stood in the weeds and looked at it.

"I'll take the wasps," said Garth.

"With what?"

"I have a plan."

His plan was a bucket of soapy water, a long pole, and the beagle, who was told to stay in the truck and did.

Garth came back across the gravel at a dead run, with his shirt over his head.

"Two stings," he said. "It's a good bus."

For the next hour I stood with the clipboard.

Garth aired the tires with a compressor from his trailer.

Lucy swept the floor and found, in order, a retainer and a fossilized sandwich in a lunch pail.

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