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It had taken a month. Paul is more than ready to stop spending an hour after school, blaming it on non-existent detentions and then being interrogated for the crime that had resulted in them. Smokey is starting to think the school was picking on him, but the secret is nearly due to be revealed. He lifts up the dust sheet one more time to check on the project. Still in one piece. Still so goddamn huge that there is no way Smokey will miss it.
But he'll like it. Paul thinks he will. He's been needing one, looking with longing at the shops in town that could create a custom one, but the cost has always stopped him.
"If I wasn't here, could you afford it?" Paul had asked once.
Smokey had turned those bronze eyes on him, the fierce yellow light from the bare overhead bulb making them blaze. "You don't cost that much, sparkplug. Matter of fact, with your help around here, I've been getting more done, so you're saving money. Custom stuff is just always expensive and I have way more important stuff to spend money on."
Like the kid he'd invited in four years ago. Paul might not be a source of financial distress but the dollars clinking together in his wallet come from Smokey as payment for the work he does in the garage. More important stuff. There's plenty of kids in school who barely get a thank you for the hours they toil in their family's farms, small businesses and stores. Smokey could easily follow suit. It really wouldn't bother Paul. He's fed, watered, clothed and sheltered. And Smokey never hits him. He's as different to Paul's father as it's possible to be. Better than him. A real one.
Smokey's biggest issue is that when it comes to things like Christmases and birthdays, it always turns out he's an asshole to buy anything for. Doesn't care about clothes, doesn't read anything but the newspaper, doesn't care about any of the new technology coming out, and has owned the same pair of boots since he was 25. He's happy with a bag of sunflower seeds, his cigarettes, and a beer in hand. Which would be fine, but none of those things scream 'thank you for being nice to me.'
This does.
"What you doing in here?"
Paul spins his head, his eyes confirming that Smokey is indeed right where he's not meant to be. "You're not supposed to be in here either!" It blurts out before he can stop himself. Never mind the fact this shop literally has Smokey's name on its weathered sign.
His lack of subtlety is noted. Smokey rolls his eyes heavenward and gets him by the back of his shirt, using it to propel him toward the worn steps leading up to the creaking porch. "Little punk," he grouches, "Let me guess, you were in detention again, huh?"
"Nah," Paul says because he doesn't want Smokey trying to get to the bottom of yet another imaginary detention. "I just lost track of time. I took the shortcut home through the woods today."
"That makes it a long shortcut." Smokey says and he lightly pokes him in the back of the head. It's as close to physical as he'll ever get. For a man who looks like he could fight a grizzly and win, he's soft as butter. Which is kind of why Paul finally bit the bullet and decided to try something for Father's Day.
"It was a nice afternoon," Paul tells him. "I'm sure you were out on the porch with an ice-cold beer in hand, weren't you?"
"I may have had something cold." He's being vague because he's been caught out. Stubborn old man. "For your information, I had that something cold in the camp chair by the garage on my lunch break." He waits for Paul to open the door and follows him in, taking his shoulders and steering him to the designated shoe piling area.
"You had a liquid lunch, is what you had."
"You'll be doing the same when you're my age, Paulie."
"I'll be doing it way before I'm in my fifties."
"Punk."
The rough wood is blissfully cool under his feet as he walks to the kitchen. He eyes the cooker, the stovetop, thinking of the heat produced. It's already so hot. "Do we have to cook?"
"We can't keep eating sandwiches for dinner."
It's true, and reasonably put, but Paul sighs at the idea of it. "But it's hot!"
"I know, but bread ain't the fuel you think it is."
So he's condemned to death by overheating, with Smokey telling him he's such a drama queen that acting would be his ideal career. And then threatens to make him cut up the onions if he doesn't quit griping.
What kind of man threatens to make his kid cry? "You're a monster," he tells Smokey, grating thin slivers of bright orange carrot.
"I gotta get my entertainment from somewhere." Smokey squeezes his eyes shut. "The shit I gotta do to make sure you don't get scurvy."
"We're not pirates, you old grease rag."
"Oh, that's fabulous. I'm making a gourmet meal and you think you should call me names. You want to be careful that you don't end up in the pot."
Paul can't help himself. "It'd probably improve the flavour."
"Go set the table, you little punk. One of these days..."
'One of these days' nothing. Smokey's all talk. Paul looks out of the window at the open door of the garage as he puts the forks and knives on the table. "Do you want me to lock up tonight? You left it open."
"I gotta finish up Henry's Camaro."
"I can do that."
"Do you know what needs doing?"
"No, but I do know it's a Friday night. You don't want to do that. You want to drink a beer and fall asleep in front of the football." And not go in the garage.
"Don't tempt me, Paulie." Smokey looks longingly at the door leading to the living room. "You know I like to leave things clear so if there's a weekend emergency, I can take it."
"Can't we just do it on Sunday?"
"Afraid not. Come serve yourself up."
"But-"
"Is this about the thing under the tarpaulin?"
Paul stares at him. He really had thought he'd done a good job at disguising it. "What thing?"
Smokey looks into his defiant eyes and slightly lowers his head in a short nod. "Must've been a part I ordered, then. I guess I better take a look at it-"
"No! It's not for you." It's such a huge lie that his ears burn with it. He doesn't like lying and there's never any point because Smokey always just knows. Paul is fairly certain he knows he hasn't had that many detentions too.
"Then you can say what it is, right?"
Paul narrows his eyes. "It's a secret."
"It's not illegal in some way, is it?"
"No, I know where we keep the illegal stuff."
Smokey absently pats the front pocket of his shirt where he keeps his trusty carton of cigarettes. "It's not illegal to own a still."
"It is to make moonshine with it."
Smokey is trying so hard to be serious, but he has to look away and rub his cheek so he can hide a smile. "Then it's a good thing I don't do that, ain't it?"
It's a good thing the local sheriff grew up with Smokey and is partial to some of the stuff. Paul shakes his head. "You're a strange old coot. It's all good if I wanna make moonshine or if I'm driving without a licence, but if there's a stolen part in your garage, it's the end of the world."
"Distilling your own product is a skill, and you're a good driver because you had a good teacher." Smokey would say the same thing to a high-ranking judge. "Stolen parts means I failed somewhere in teaching you morals."
"Well, it isn't stolen anything. It is a secret, though. You can't see it yet."
"It's a big secret, too." Smokey points at the bowls on the countertop, reminding him that he needs to come eat. "I do need to fix that car, but I promise I won't look under the tarpaulin."
It's enough to placate. Smokey is big on keeping his word, so Paul nods. "Alright. But you can't look until Sunday."
"Cross my heart. You getting this pasta or do I need to eat it all?"
On Sunday, he doesn't immediately barge into Smokey's room. He really wants to, especially as he wakes up earlier than usual, but as a little extra Father's Day bonus, he holds off. Smokey likes his sleep. At eight, his patience wanes and he goes to the kitchen to make coffee and then debates internally if breakfast in bed is just for moms or if it's something a dad person would want too. In the end, he puts some bread in the toaster and spreads lemon curd on it when it violently springs into the air, bringing that warm smell with it. Plate in one hand, cup in the other, he uses his elbow to open the door. "Rise and shine, you old grease rag! Daylight's burning."
Smokey groans, but any complaints are disappeared once he sees there's sustenance being delivered. "I could get used to this."
"I wouldn't bother."
Smokey flips him off, without even the decency of looking at him, which really should mean no gift.
But Paul can't wait any longer. He grabs Smokey's wrist, pulling futilely, like Smokey isn't twice his size. "Come on, you've slept, you've eaten, it's time to get up."
"Hell, Paul. I ain't even read the newspaper yet."
"Read it later! I want you to look under the tarpaulin now."
"Alright, alright." Smokey gets up, knees popping, shoulders cracking and lets Paul drag him down the stairs. "Boy, put shoes on. It's the golden rule of my domain."
Smokey has so many golden rules that they all shine. Paul sticks his bare feet into what he knows are Smokey's boots and awkwardly stomp-shuffles out the door, one hand still on Smokey's wrist, though this time it's for balance.
"Over half the shoes in this house are yours, you little punk." Smokey so gently reminds him. He obligingly helps him down the porch steps and takes his sweet time getting the garage keys from where he hides them. The doors creak open and this time he holds Paul's wrist as he skirts around the two vehicles parked side-by-side, bumping into the workbench with its 'organised mess'. Something tiny and metal clinks onto the concrete. Smokey sighs.
Paul points at the tarpaulin. "Well, look, then."
"Hang on, I don't know what just dropped down there-"
"Please? I'll help you look after."
"Ah, fine." Smokey abandons his search and unceremoniously rips the tarpaulin off its secret.
Paul could sigh. Sometimes he wishes he'd been at Smokey and Jen's wedding just to prove to himself that Smokey stood at the altar and grunted 'sure' when asked if he took her for his wife. One day he might be dumb enough to come out and say it. But then, something incredible happens.
"Wow, Paulie." Smokey says it almost reverently, his fingers reaching out to brush the sharp corners, still fresh with the scent of forest. "Where did you get this?"
"I made it in shop." It's far from perfect. It's very rustic to look at, half the drawers have a slim gap, meaning it'll always rattle. But it's definitely going to be big enough to hold the multiple different tiny pieces that make up a vehicle, and there's even a row of extras, just in case. "I know you wanted one of those things to store the small things in. It's not as nice as one from the store-"
"It's perfect." Smokey tells him, sounding like he fully means it. A sure sign his eyes need testing. "Is that the real reason why you had all those 'detentions?'"
Paul shrugs off the mildly smug look he's getting. "You knew I was lying."
"I did have my suspicions." Instead of asking him why he made a huge storage block, Smokey places his hand on the back of his neck. "Thank you."
Paul thinks about saying it. Happy Father's Day. Smokey would probably like it, but he's a little like Paul. He doesn't need to hear what he can already see. Smokey's hand leaves the back of his neck and he instinctively reaches up, hugging around Smokey's shoulder with one arm. He feels a thick arm wrap around the middle of his back and smiles a little. There's only one problem now.
How is he going to top this next year?