Shred of Evidence

Elroy Twade loved wheels. Always.

It started before he could walk or talk. Toy trucks, toy cars, toy anything with wheels. It didn’t even matter if it was a girl’s wheel toy; baby buggies were included. If he could push it, pull it, make growling sounds as he made it move, he was in heaven.

Elroy craved just wheels, at first. And then he learned that he could ride them: a foot push fire truck, tractor, jeep, even a play horse that rolled.

And then came pedals! Pedals that he could push. Handlebars that he could turn!

Finally he was big enough to ride a three-wheeled tricycle. It was his two-year birthday present, shiny red with a white metal seat and red and white streamers on the handlebars. And Elroy could make it go and go…he was four blocks away and pedaling fast before his mother caught up with him. That put him in the yard for a spell, but it didn’t stop him.

By the time he was old enough for a two-wheeler, there was not a block within five miles he didn’t know intimately. Elroy was on the move, day after day. Wheeling. Wheeling.

It never stopped. He got his first car at sixteen, a jalopy that used more oil than gas and looked like it should be on its last trip to the junkyard, but by that time Elroy was clever about motors and under the hood his jalopy was as excellent as the finest car on the street.

That’s just the way it was with Elroy. Didn’t matter what else he had to do, his spare time was wheeled. He got jobs delivering flowers as soon as he got a work permit. From there he moved to shuttling passengers from the motels to the airport; got a job as a taxi driver, even bought his own vehicle. Along the way he married Myrtle Ann, who’d been his best friend since grade school. She understood about him and wheels. He couldn’t have married anyone who didn’t.

Myrtle Ann worked at the grocery, helped him save for his life’s dream: to own an eighteen-wheeler. Elroy was on the road most of the time after that, wheeling goods of one kind or another from one end of the country to the other. Myrtle Ann understood and raised four girls who didn’t give a hoot about wheels but loved Elroy a lot when he was home.

Life was good.

Until age caught up with him. At seventy-nine, Elroy’s peripheral vision closed him down. He wasn’t able to renew his carrier license. Or his individual driver’s license.

He’d known it would happen some day. Known he’d be grounded, that’s how he put it, grounded, like an airline pilot who couldn’t fly any more. Holding back tears, he sold the eighteen-wheeler to a younger driver and went into a deep depression.

Myrtle Ann understood but couldn’t help him out of it. She’d been a mostly grounded all her life and hadn’t cared less. Far as she was concerned, her wheels were to get her to the grocery and back, the doctor and back, run her errands. She and Elroy owned a nice Camero that he kept in perfect shape for her to drive.

But Elroy needed more. Needed wheels. Needed to roll.

He stood it as long as he could. Then, one morning about a month after his enforced grounding, Elroy put on his jacket and kissed Myrtle Ann soundly on the mouth with more zest than she’d seen in a while. She raised her eyebrows, but wasn’t one to ask questions, just give thanks. Maybe Elroy was going to be okay after all. She was stirring up a chocolate cake for dinner and didn’t watch him go to the garage.

He and the Camero were halfway down the block by the time she realized what he was up to and threw open the door, yelling “Elroy! What in the world do you think you’re doing, no license! Elroy Twade! You stop right this minute!!”

He didn’t even hear her. Grinning, fairly wriggling with anticipation, he drove—but oh, so carefully—the few blocks to the Grand Mall parking lot, turning his head widely both ways to be sure to give other cars plenty of side room. He parked and walked around until he saw what he was looking for: an older, unlocked car without an enclosed dash. Within ten seconds he had crossed the two red wires behind the Pontiac’s ignition and was merrily, but carefully, driving out of the lot. Not stealing, mind you, just borrowing.

He drove the Pontiac gleefully across town to another mall, parked it carefully where it was sure to be found soon, and walked around until he found a second unlocked. This one was even better, a little newer. A Plymouth two-door, leather seats, even. Hot-wiring was easy and quick. Chuckling, Elroy drove out of the lot and headed slowly north to the edge of town where the Sears store parking lot was always full. He parked, again, carefully, didn’t want to cause an accident.

Elroy hot-wired a third car in the Sears lot, a dusty blue Chevy sedan, and drove that one to the Country Kitchen, where he stopped long enough to have a hamburger and fries; after all, it was lunchtime. From there he drove a Ford station wagon back almost to the mall, but stopped at a K-mart lot where a real classy old Buick caught his eye. The long-haired, leather-jacketed yuppie driver was just parking it when Elroy drove into the lot, so he waited until the boy was sure to be well inside the store before slipping behind the wheel. Great car! Bet the engine is in top shape, too, thought Elroy, gunning the motor. Yup, took off just like his old jalopy had. Nice to see a young man take care of his wheels. Elroy piloted the Buick to the movie theater parking lot where the four-o’clock matinee had just begun, and snitched a battered pickup truck that smelled a bit like a farmyard. This one he drove especially carefully, not being familiar with its balky stick shift, and headed toward home.

Where had the day gone? Elroy lurched the pickup halfway across the Great Mall’s parking lot, parked it, and walked jauntily toward his Camero. If there’d been time, he thought, he could have retraced his steps, put the pickup back were he’d got it, taken the Buick to its place, and so on. But there wasn’t time. And anyway, everybody would eventually get their wheels back undamaged. He may have just added a little spice to the owner’s lives. Lord knew he’d added spice to his.

Probably to Myrtle Ann’s, too, he thought, still grinning, carefully pulling into the garage without coming too close on either side.

She met him at the kitchen door. “Elroy Twade! Where have you been with that car! You know you’re not supposed to drive it! You’ve been gone all day. I’ve been worried sick!”

“Ah, Myrtle Ann, my love,” said Elroy, hugging her close. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. That Camero has just been sitting in the mall parking lot all day long.” He tweaked her nose. “Let’s have a drink before dinner, shall we? I feel good!”