Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  As the image of Rose flooded his senses, he once more pictured her in his arms, realizing how messed up his priorities were. He was wasting time hoping for something that couldn’t happen rather than celebrating something that already had. But as the old Chevy wouldn’t even start, leaving to visit his wife and child wasn’t much of an option either. So even if he walked back home, he’d be stuck at the house until he could find someone to give him a lift to Danville. That reality sunk his spirits to an even lower level. Suddenly all the faith he had in himself evaporated like the dew on a hot August morning. Just like the St. Louis Browns, he was a loser. Always had been, probably always would be, too. And like millions of others he was completely at the mercy of things out of his control. How many people in this world had a new daughter and no way to even go see her? Yet as bad as that thought was, there was something even worse.

  If he didn’t have a car to visit Carole and Rose in the hospital, then he also didn’t have a way to bring them home in two days. And even if someone loaned a vehicle to him for that trip, how could he get to work? Maybe instead of hanging around the sale, he needed to be searching the newspapers for a place to live in Danville. If they lived in the city, he could ride the bus to work and wouldn’t need a car at all. That would be a crushing blow to his ego, but maybe it was the smart thing to do. It would save money, and with a new mouth to feed and all the things Rose was going to need over the next few months and years, he really needed to hang on to what little savings they had.

  Thoughts of the great responsibilities of being a father tore at him like a winter snowstorm, leaving him spiritually battered and cold. Though he tried to keep them at bay, question after question pushed into his mind, and he had answers for none of them. Overcome by thoughts of his own inadequacy, he was suddenly filled with nervous energy that drove him to start walking. But a mind that wouldn’t stop worrying only took him on a trip that lasted no more than a few steps.

  Overwhelmed, George looked back toward the car. A few minutes ago it was all he thought he needed to make his life perfect. Now he realized he needed so much more. The Packard had style, but style couldn’t put food on the table or help him raise his kid. So this was a pipe dream he had no business dreaming. It was time to get back to reality. Yet even as logic urged him to leave the barn and go back to his house, to pick up the afternoon paper and study the want ads for homes or apartments in the city, the car still begged him to embrace it. It called out to him, demanding his attention. In a very real sense, it had gotten so far inside him that he couldn’t walk away from it. Samson had his Delilah and George had this Packard, and that drove him to shove his hands into his pockets and start walking back and forth again.

  After thirty minutes of pacing, his exhausted legs overruled his soles, demanding he find a place to park his body. With no chairs in the vicinity, George opted to once again sit behind the Packard’s big steering wheel. Perhaps it was fatigue, the weight of his worries, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t bothered to eat lunch, but for whatever reason, the plush bench seat had a profound effect on the new father. Within seconds of closing the yellow car’s heavy door, he fell asleep.

  Because all the action was at the auction podium, it was likely no one would have ever noticed George’s unplanned nap if he had just remained in an upright position, which he did for fifteen minutes. Yet, as is human nature, when the mind is asleep, bodies demand comfort. In this case it was the man’s fifteen-inch neck that set in motion what would become one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

  When he had initially succumbed to his need for sleep, George’s head rolled over on the top of the car’s front seat. This angle was anything but ideal. Thus, after a few minutes, he unconsciously lifted his head so his chin rested on his chest. Gravity took over from there. Inch by inch, George’s face fell farther and farther forward. It would be that end of that gradual movement that would take the spotlight off the auction and make the Packard’s perspective buyer the center of everyone’s attention.

  George’s nose hit the horn button first, followed a second later by his forehead pressing onto the outer horn ring. With the weight of his body now pushing on the horn, the Packard’s twin trumpets echoed off every corner of the building’s walls and ceiling. The constant sound blast could have likely awakened the dead and was so loud it caused many adults to bring their hands up over their ears and children to run for the exits. Yet numbed by exhaustion, George didn’t react. He heard the noise, but to him it was nothing more than a part of his dream. It was only the muffled shouts of agitated auction patrons that finally jerked him back to reality.

  As his eyes opened, the car’s round speedometer completely filled his field of vision. Still not fully aware of where he was or what he was doing, George ignored the horn and the shouts, all the while trying to figure why the speedometer was so large. It was only when he realized his nose was as flat as a new dime that he began to grasp what was happening. Finally, the screaming crowd and blasting horns jerked him back to the present. Grabbing the wheel with both hands, he pushed himself upright. As soon as his forehead lost contact with the horn ring, the drone of the steel trumpets stopped, and the barn was immersed in a deep, hushed silence.

  Looking out the window, George noted scores of angry eyes and twisted faces. Everyone’s attention was focused squarely on him. Embarrassed, he grabbed the door handle in his left hand and pushed down. As the door sprang open, he stepped out. All eyes were still on the man as the heel of his size-ten, wing-tip, left shoe caught the Packard’s wide, rubber-ribbed running board. Though he made an effort to grab the top of the door with his right hand, he missed it by more than a foot, falling face first onto the barn’s dusty, wood-planked floor.

  Pain shot through his cheeks and down his neck, as a stunned George found the ground as uncomfortable as the Packard’s seat had been inviting. He remained motionless, and an even more dramatic hush fell over the crowd. Finally, just before he regained his senses enough to push himself upright, a woman screamed, “My God, the Packard’s killed another one!”

  In a different time or place, people might have laughed at the frantic woman’s observation, but even as George rolled over, using the car’s running board to lift himself from the ground, no one laughed. In fact no one said anything. The barn remained eerily silent with all eyes locked on to the man struggling to find his balance.

  “Mr. Hall!” Janie Timmons’s voice was dramatically increased in volume by the public address system. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he meekly assured her. But with blood now flowing from both nostrils he looked anything but the picture of health.

  “I’ll check him out,” Johns called out from the last row of chairs, “you all just keep the bidding going. And remember, every dollar goes to orphans, so don’t be misers.”

  By the time the lawyer got to the car, George had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was applying pressure to his nose. Meanwhile, Timmons refocused the crowd and was asking for more bids on a rolltop desk.

  “You took quite a fall there, son,” the lawyer said with a smile. “You look like you’ve been through a fight with Jack Dempsey, and judging by your nose, I don’t think you lasted the first round.”

  George felt too stupid to acknowledge the joke, but his shame did provoke a need to explain why it happened. “I just nodded off. I haven’t had much sleep, and the car’s seats are so comfortable….”

  “No reason to go into that,” Johns cut in. “For the moment, why don’t you just sit on the running board and lay your head back until the bleeding stops.”

  Sensing that was his only recourse, George eased down on the very thing that had caused his injury. “Maybe it is cursed,” he muttered bringing the white cloth up to his nose.

  Johns shrugged. “I still doubt it, but I’m not the one with the battered face.”

  The bleeding stopped about the same time the last piece of auctioned furniture found a new home. The new father had jus
t risen to his feet when Janie Timmons arrived for a closer inspection.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. I’m just a little clumsy at times.”

  “Well that’s good.” Grinning, the woman added, “I mean that you’re all right is good, not that you’re clumsy.” Turning toward Johns, she grabbed his right hand and announced, “Well about the Packard, I guess it belongs to—”

  The lawyer cut her off, “Yep, you’re right, it belongs to Mr. Hall here. He can bring that new daughter home from the hospital in style. I can witness the paperwork. Let’s get this deal made so he can be on his way to see his little girl and wife.”

  A mystified Timmons dropped her hand along with her jaw, looking first to the lawyer and then over to George as if to ask, “What just happened?”

  Chapter 9

  The car’s new owner had backed the Packard out of the barn and was a half a mile down the road before Timmons finally looked toward the attorney. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and frustration.

  “You outbid that young man by two hundred dollars. Did you suddenly get cold feet? Are you now believing the sedan is cursed?”

  “No,” he quickly assured her. “Not even his tumble got me to believe any such thing.”

  “Give me a hand closing these doors,” she moaned, her displeasure evident in her tone.

  After the pair had pulled the large wooden doors shut and latched them, she poked a finger into Johns’s stomach. “You and your urging bidders to be generous! You cost that children’s home some money today, and I doubt Abigale would have liked that. She told me two weeks ago that when it came the time for me to sell her estate I was to squeeze every nickel out of each sale. There are a lot of nickels in that two hundred dollars you just cost me!”

  He smiled, pushed her finger back from his gut, reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a money clip. As she looked on, Johns peeled off eleven twenties from the roll and handed it to the woman.

  “You gave me one too many,” she noted.

  “Consider it a donation to the cause. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m either superstitious or cheap.”

  After stuffing the cash into her front dress pocket, she said, “I don’t understand. You wanted that car.”

  “Yeah, I wanted it, but I didn’t need it. The young man did. Sometimes needs are a lot more important than wants.”

  “Sam, you sound like your wife has been dragging you to church again. But I’m sure I haven’t seen you there. I can’t even remember the last time you darkened those doors.”

  “No,” he laughed, “and I figure the next time I’ll see the inside of a church will be at my funeral. But that doesn’t mean I don’t read the Bible.”

  “Well, Mr. Johns, that might surprise me even more than your paying for that young man to win the auction.”

  “It is what Abbi would have wanted,” he modestly replied. “Most days I look in that mirror, I don’t like what I see. I let Abbi down. But today I feel a little better about who I am.”

  She ran her right hand through her red hair. “Now I’m really lost.”

  “So am I,” Janet Carson said, walking up to join the conversation.

  “That red skirt looks great on you,” Timmons noted. “And that green blouse, wow, I wish I was still young enough to fit into something that small.”

  Johns shook his head in agreement. “Janet, you always look nice.”

  “Thank you both. I try not to look like the old maid teacher I am!”

  “You aren’t anywhere old enough to be considered that,” the man shot back.

  “But the clock is ticking.” The younger woman laughed. “Now what’s this about a mirror?”

  “We made a lot of money for the children’s home today,” Timmons said. “And there will be more to come with the auction of the jewelry and art.”

  “I’ve noted that,” the schoolteacher assured her, “but it was your comment that has me a bit confused.” She looked at Johns.

  Both women studied the lawyer as he stuck his hands deep into his pants pocket and shrugged. “Here’s the deal. Whenever I read the parables I always feel like Christ is talking directly to me. It’s like I’m looking at my own life through His words. Today I felt like the man who had everything, and I was looking at another man who needed what I had. Without reading the Bible, I don’t think I would have made the decision I made. It is like seeing yourself in the mirror and having that image remind you that you need to change something about yourself. Now let’s cut this Sunday school talk off before I regret not buying that car.”

  “I’ve got the money for the Packard,” Timmons said, shaking her head. “It is young Mr. Hall’s car now, heaven help him. I should get back to work anyway. If you want me, I’ll be in my office making sure I have all I need for the next part of the auction. And, Sam!”

  “Yes, Janie.”

  “There is a mirror that hasn’t sold yet that you might want to buy.”

  After the chuckling businesswoman had made her way to the far side of the barn, Janet lowered her voice and whispered, “So have you and Sheriff Atkins found out anything?”

  “No,” he said, disappointment in his gloomy tone. “No big spending going on. At least not yet. I promise you this; we’ll solve this thing. It might take years, but somehow justice will be served.”

  “Thanks. I have faith in you. My bus takes off in about an hour. But I couldn’t leave without saying thanks for all you did for my aunt.”

  “I was paid well for my trouble,” he assured her, “but I’d have done it for nothing. And from here on in, everything is off the books.”

  “She trusted you,” Janet assured him, “and I think she knows you’re still taking care of things the way she’d wanted.”

  “I hope so.” He grimly sighed.

  Janet turned back toward the barn’s main room. Excited patrons were carrying the treasures they’d won out to their cars and trucks.

  “Kind of sad to see her stuff spread out in a hundred different directions,” Johns said. “It took her a lifetime to bring it all together.”

  Janet shook her head. “I kind of think she’d be happy that so many were blessed with things they’d always dreamed of having. It’s like a little piece of her will now be in half the homes in the area.”

  “With as many people as she helped,” Johns corrected the young woman, “a big part of her was there long before anyone purchased a piece of her furniture.”

  The schoolteacher turned to face him, her right eyebrow arched. “Guess helping others was her legacy. That’s something to shoot for in my own life.”

  Johns nodded. Abbi’s touch was all over the area. She had given away not just her money; time and time again she had given her heart. Everyone in the town was better for having known her. That was what made his suspicions about her death even more difficult to swallow. This wonderful, caring woman, as eccentric as she was, deserved a better final chapter than the one now written for her. He only prayed he could be a part of making sure when the life’s book was finally completed the biggest mystery would somehow be solved, but for the moment he had nothing new to hang those hopes on.

  Chapter 10

  Carole Hall had been delivered to the hospital’s front door in the customary wheelchair and now stood on the hospital steps, her baby in her arms, and her husband beside her. She glanced out toward the parking lot for the family’s Chevy coupe. But even in the bright morning sunlight of a perfect summer day, she couldn’t spot it. As their car was always the most beat-up jalopy in any lot, she was more than a bit mystified.

  “Did you borrow someone’s car?”

  George grinned. “No, I brought ours. You don’t think I wanted my daughter’s first ride to be a charity case. She’s just going to have to get used to our car.”

  Carole surveyed the street and parking lot again. The familiar Chevy wasn’t there. She was sure of it. “Did you park around back?”

  “No, sweetheart. I parked on the str
eet. Didn’t want you walking too far. After all, you just had a baby, and that is a pretty traumatic event.”

  The new mother once again scanned the landscape. There were lots of cars around the hospital. They were old and new. Most were Fords or Chevrolets, but there was a fair number of Dodges, Plymouths, Hudsons, and even a long-nosed Lincoln and a sporty Auburn, but their coupe was not one of those. She glanced back to her husband. As she did, his grin was larger than the cat that swallowed the canary.

  “That yellow one, parked right behind the Auburn.” He was pointing. “That’s ours.”

  Carole’s gaze first darted to the red-and-blue speedster and then to the bright Packard. As the incredible sedan filled her eyes, she whispered, “It’s ours? How?”

  “I bought it at an auction today,” he explained.

  She whirled to face her husband, a half-crazed look in her eye. Holding Rose tightly in her arms she asked, “Have you lost your mind? We can’t afford to make payments on a car like that. George, what were you thinking?”

  “I stole it,” he calmly replied.

  “Did you rob a bank, too?”

  “No.” He laughed. “I paid cash for it. No one made an offer on it. I got it for four hundred.”

  Carole’s eyes went back to the car, desperately searching for flaws. “Four hundred? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” he assured her. “It is like a brand-new car, though it is cursed.”

  “Cursed?”

  “I’ll explain later. It’s just local gossip anyway. But for the moment I want to get you and Rose into our Packard and drive you two beautiful women home.”