The headlights were coming toward him too fast, though still half a block away.
He quickened his pace, premature, probably unnecessary.
He stepped on something, and the noise it made under his boot was like corduroy ripping.
Not that he remembered ever hearing or seeing corduroy rip, but that’s what he imagined.
The undercarriage of the car caught a speedbump both he and the driver had forgotten about and the scraping noise traveled up his spine like dancing glass.
The heel of his boot sent whatever was under it skittering across the pavement and into the glow of the streetlight.
It was a bolt.
Nothing out of the ordinary, but nothing that belonged to a car that had hit the speedbump previously.
The bolt shined silver in places, but had dark corrosion on the thread where it had once been attached to something.
The driver of the car slowed to a rolling idle.
Mark stepped on the curb, looking back at the bolt.
It had once belonged to something, had been part of a larger mechanism.
Might have once come in a clear plastic bag to be assembled by the purchaser of…whatever it might have been.
If you were the driver of the car, or looking out the window of your home, you might have wondered what that guy was looking at.
He paused, pondering a bolt, though the pause was long enough that one might have guessed a hurt bird or a discarded pack of menthol cigarettes that oddly resembled currency.
One might have thought he was really stoned, because it was 3:24 am, late Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning, depending on your perception of such things.
The last name on the driver’s license in Mark’s back pocket was Contreras. He stared at the bolt and wondered about that name.
The car with the scraped bottom made it through the intersection.
Mark walked out and picked up the bolt.
His first job was washing dishes at Quanthea’s Chik-n Ribs.
That’s the first time he heard someone say that Felix Contreras wasn’t his daddy.
Mark got fired for fighting in the walk in cooler at Quanthea’s Chik-n Ribs.
At 18, he had taken it to mean that his momma had cheated on his dad.
Tonight, twelve years later, he had seen emails.
Emails between Laurie Foley Contreras and Lynette Bellagando.
Laurie Foley Contreras was the woman he called momma.
He rolled the bolt in his hand, wondered what it had been used for, where it came from, how it had maintained its shine, how long the nut that caused the corrosion had clung to it.
Lynette Bellagando.
Mark thought about putting the bolt in his pocket.
One time, at a soccer tournament, Mark Contreras had looked up Lynette Bellagando’s skirt on a dare.
He was twelve.
It was dangerous, exciting. Lynette Bellagando was pretty, really pretty.
According to the emails, George Bellagando didn’t know his daughter was pregnant, and he was due home from Mogadishu.
They were gonna induce on Saturday the 21st.
Felix Contreras worked in transmission assembly at Ford’s.
Would Felix and Laurie take the baby, give it a good life?
They were nineteen. Felix was making UAW money. Laurie had miscarried. She could have Lynette’s baby. Lynette’s mom would make sure it was all legal and make sure George didn’t kill Lynette for getting pregnant unmarried.
Mark Contreras had a scar under his eye from one of the fights. It was small, no one ever noticed except him when he shaved.
“You ain’t Laurie and Felix’s kid.”
And he would fight, every time.
And Laurie would deny it when he confronted her, every time.
Felix, the only dad he ever knew, was dead, had been for years.
Car accident after softball at Rotunda Field.
Tony Duncan showed Mark the emails.
He was Felix’s best friend and didn’t get along with Laurie. Dated Lynette for a hot minute. Knew the truth. Said Lynette kept the emails just in case she ever got a good job and something bad happened to Laurie and Felix.
Laurie was still alive though.
The child she raised was an adult now, standing on a street corner after 3 am. He had read the emails fifty times, no mention of who the father of the baby was.
Mark tossed the bolt on the grass and envied the soft landing.
***
But not about “Ford’s”. 95% of Michiganians call the Ford Motor Company “Ford’s”.
***
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
“Mark tossed the bolt on the grass and envied the soft landing” Great line, and yes I can imagine that finding out you are adopted through email would be like getting hit by a truck. But Mark’s parents were Felix and Laurie. They may not be biologically related, but they’re still his parents.
Wow, so much learned and so much unresolved.