Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  Sliding his hand under Carole’s elbow, George ushered her down the steps to the car. As he opened the front passenger door, she couldn’t help but smile.

  “It is beautiful,” she noted as she slid, with her baby in her arms, into the seat.

  George nodded, closed the door, sprinted around the Packard’s nose, and jumped in the driver’s side. After gently touching his daughter’s head, he flipped the key and hit the starter. A second later the eight cylinder motor quietly came to life.

  “It’s really ours?” Carole asked as he pulled out into the street, turned a corner, and headed east toward Oakwood. “I mean this isn’t some kind of joke?”

  “No,” he assured her, “it is ours. I have the ownership documents in the glove box.”

  As her eyes scanned the ornate instrument panel, she grinned, “This is amazing. It’s like we are somebody. I feel like a queen.”

  “In my eyes you are, and that little girl is a princess,” he boomed, his voice filling every corner of the car’s massive interior. “So you should ride in a car befitting royalty.”

  “George, you’re so crazy.”

  “No,” he replied, “just in love. I’m crazy in love with you, Rose, and life in general. And that faith you are always talking about. The faith to say a prayer and expect results …”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Well, I said a prayer that this car could be ours. And I think God convinced everyone else that it was cursed so that we could afford it. He knew we had to have a good vehicle, and He arranged for us to get this one.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

  “Are you sure it’s not?”

  “No,” she admitted. “It just doesn’t sound right to me.”

  As George pulled off of Main Street and onto Highway 150, he shrugged. “All I know is that we should never look a gift horse or a gift of horsepower in the mouth. Take my word for it,” he added as he patted the steering wheel, “this yellow Packard is going to be the best thing that ever happened to us.”

  “Don’t know about that, George,” Carole replied. “I think I might put Rose a bit ahead of the car. But I will agree that it is the brightest-colored thing in our lives. There can be no doubt about that!”

  As the car roared down the highway, the new mother looked down at her baby. And just then the little one smiled. She must’ve liked the car, too.

  Chapter 11

  August 8, 1937

  It was a warm, muggy Sunday morning, a day surely made for being lazy and resting. But at least one person in Oakwood had not slept in. Even though it barely had a hint of dust on the hood, George had gotten up early to wash and wax the Packard. He wanted it clean enough to eat off of before driving it to church. Rose was being christened today, and he had to make sure her six-block ride to the Methodist Church was in a fully polished sedan worthy of a president or king.

  Now, three hours later, outfitted in his best suit, a navy blue, double-breasted pinstriped model, a white shirt, and red-striped tie, he looked every bit the magazine image of a proud father. And in the three weeks since his baby had come home he had learned a great deal. He could warm up milk, fill a bottle, burp Rose, and even change her diaper. Just last night Carole had let him bathe Rose for the first time. So he felt a bit more confident about being able to fulfill the scary and often overwhelming role of being a father. It had not been nearly as hard as he imagined in those moments before Rose came into this world.

  He stood on the porch admiring his work as Carole came out onto the porch with the baby in her arms.

  “It looks brand-new,” she noted, taking a place beside him. “And, Mr. Hall, why do you have such a large grin on your face?”

  “Probably better than new,” he corrected her. After turning and wiggling his finger in his daughter’s face, he added, “Nothing’s too good for my little girl. And the answer to Mommy’s question is that I’m grinning because being a father is just about the best thing in the whole wide world.”

  “Being a mother’s not bad either,” she chimed in. “But I’ve been wondering something.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “George, how much is that car really worth? I mean, if it were on the market somewhere other than Oakwood where people are scared of it.”

  As he moved his gaze from his child to his wife’s face, his expression changed from that of a proud papa to one of a hurt child. “Why do you want to know something like that?” he demanded.

  “It just seems to me that it might be smart if we sold the Packard in Chicago or Indianapolis and then used that money to buy a cheaper car. Then we’d have some savings in the bank again. Might need it for a rainy day.”

  “Are you kidding?” he shot back. “Give up the Packard? You don’t turn your back on a deal like this. You drove it to the market yesterday. How did it drive and ride?”

  “It was incredible,” she admitted.

  “And this baby will last us years longer than a used car. It will be no trouble at all. You know the company saying, ‘Ask the man who owns one!’ Well now that I’ve owned one, I know what they are talking about. Packards are not just good on the highway; they don’t break down. Imagine the money we’d put into keeping an older model running. You know what they say about Fords? The letters stand for ‘Found On the Road Dead.’ And Chevys aren’t any better. We know that from experience. This car will never give us a moment’s grief.”

  “I know it’s a fine car,” she sighed, “and I know we couldn’t replace it with the little money we have in it, but, George, the way people look at it unnerves me. The boy at the market wouldn’t even carry my groceries out yesterday. He was that scared of the car. And you should have seen the looks I got as I drove it. It’s like we’re lepers!”

  George shrugged as he turned back toward the Packard. “So what? You don’t believe it, do you? You’ve got more faith than to believe a thing can be cursed!”

  “No, of course not, but it seems everyone else does, and that changes the way they treat us. Haven’t you noticed that none of the neighbors have come calling since we bought the car?”

  He’d noticed and, though he’d come up with a dozen different rationalizations for the lack of visitors, he knew the treatment they’d received had to be about the car. He figured that after a few days that would change, but it hadn’t. Even Glen Adams didn’t cross the street to talk anymore. Even at work, in Danville, the other employees whispered.

  “George, they’re treating us like lepers,” she noted. “I know you have felt it, too.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted, his focus remaining on the car, “but that will change in time.”

  Carole moved between her husband and the Packard. “But what if it doesn’t? What if a month from now people are still shunning us? What if no one wants to hold Rose or even talk to me?”

  George reached out and took Rose from his wife’s arms. No longer scared that he was going to break her, he cradled her against his chest and grimly smiled. As he studied her tiny face in the morning sunlight, it seemed she smiled back.

  “Carole, she is so beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is,” the woman replied. “I know that nothing is more important than Rose. And you know that, too, right?”

  He nodded, “And I don’t want anyone missing the chance to get to know this little gal.”

  “So,” Carole cut in, her tone hopeful, “does that mean you’ll sell the car?”

  He sighed as he handed the baby back to his wife. “If by Labor Day nothing has changed, then we’ll see what we can get for it in Indy.”

  “That’s a promise?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Carole. But I think that in the next thirty days folks will come to see that car as the bargain they missed. Now it’s time to get to church!”

  “It’s a pretty day,” she sang out. “Let’s walk.”

  George shot his wife a look that would have stopped an angry rhino in its tracks, “My golly, as much
time as I spent cleaning it up, we’re taking the Packard. At least give me that bit of pleasure.”

  Chapter 12

  The service went well. Rose didn’t cry, not even when the preacher held her in his arms to show her off to the church. It was also appropriate that Reverend Morris’s message was based on Carole’s favorite scripture, Matthew 25:35–40. The words seemed to open a door for those in the church to at least approach the family to fuss a bit over Rose. Yet once the new parents left the sanctity of the church building and walked toward the Packard, even the August heat couldn’t shield the Halls from the icy winds of fear and dread from the other parishioners.

  Each Sunday morning the parking places along Elm Street were completely filled for the services. People drove to church early just to grab one of them. Yet even though it meant walking a half a block or more, the two places on each side of the Packard were open. Placing his arm around Carole, George escorted her to their car. As he did, everyone behind them stopped talking. A hundred sets of eyes followed the man, woman, and child as they made their way to the sedan. George opened the passenger door for his wife, and after she and Rose slid in, he closed the door and slowly made his way around to the driver’s side. Only after he’d shut his door did Carole break the silence.

  “Do you see what I mean? It’s like we have a disease.”

  “I can’t believe how stupid people are. It’s just a car, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Carole demanded.

  Sliding the key into the ignition, George flipped it over and hit the starter. The straight eight quietly came to life. As he slid the transmission into reverse, Carole looked back at those silently staring at them. She forced a smile and nodded. After George backed out into the street, shifted into first, and headed the car south down Elm, she took a deep breath. It was good to get away from the church and congregation.

  “This isn’t the way home,” Carole noted as they passed the Green Street intersection.

  “Nope,” he replied, “I’m talking my girls out to eat at the Colonial Parkway.”

  “All the way in Danville? Isn’t that kind of expensive?”

  “This is a special day,” the determined man answered. “Rose will never be christened again. I want to do this day right. Besides, you look stunning in that dress, and I want everyone to know just how lucky I am.”

  Carole shook her head. “There you go again.”

  “Get used to it,” he replied as he pulled the car onto Route 150. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you just how beautiful you really are.”

  “George, do you think people will ever get over the deaths associated with it? I know it’s silly, but I get the idea they are scared of the car.”

  He shook his head, “Who knows? Remember when the Bosh family was killed by leaking gas in their home and then the next couple that moved in—what was their name? Yeah, the Panes. They died just a few weeks after moving in due to some kind of illness. And no one ever bought the home after that. They eventually tore it down. Even normal people can buy into stupid legends.”

  As George concluded his story, the Packard reached fifty, and it left the misguided souls at church far behind. The family’s mood lightened. After all, other than the heat, it was a beautiful day!

  “Turn on the radio,” George all but sang out. “Let’s find a song to sing along with. I love that new one by Tommy Dorsey. What’s it called?”

  “You mean ‘Satan Takes a Holiday’?” Carole laughed as she adjusted the dial. “Not sure that’s a song for Sunday.”

  He shook his head. “Well, maybe that’s not the one I meant.”

  “I think it is,” she shot back. As the radio came to life, a new Bing Crosby tune filled the car.

  “That’s nice,” George said. “Do you know the name?”

  “Whispers in the Dark.”

  He shook his head. “It seems like all the titles are speaking to us today.”

  She nodded, traced her finger along Rose’s cheek, and then looked up. What she saw caused her to momentarily freeze. Finally gaining her voice, she screamed, “George, look out!”

  A three-ton gravel truck was barreling down Mill Road where it intersected the highway. The driver seemed completely unaware of the stop sign that was looming ahead and, even if he did see it, there was no way he’d be able to stop six-thousand pounds of rock before coming onto the highway.

  George craned his head to the left and then the right. Carole knew there was no place to go. The ditches were too deep. If the rig pushed the Packard into them they would surely roll over. Taking on the truck was an even worse option. When that huge Diamond T rig slammed into them it would tear the car to pieces.

  George grabbed the steering wheel in a viselike grip and pushed the brakes to the floor. As they braced for the impact they both knew would be coming, he glanced over to his wife.

  Carole, frozen in panic and fear, was still cradling Rose in her arms. As the truck filled her view, she began mumbling a prayer.

  What good was a prayer, Carole thought. Had they tempted the devil with this purchase? The song was wrong; Satan never took a holiday!

  Turning her eyes back to the highway, she grimly noted that the truck driver had finally seen them. Sadly it was too late, even as the truck driver stomped on his brakes, the inevitable and fatal collision was just seconds away. As the truck’s brakes squealed, Carole closed her eyes and grimly counted down her last seconds of life.

  Chapter 13

  The crash didn’t come. There were no sounds of metal hitting metal, of fenders denting or glass breaking. When the car came to a stop, the only thing filling the air was Bing Crosby’s voice coming from the Packard’s radio speaker.

  Opening his eyes, George Hall stared out the windshield. The gravel truck was directly in front of him; he was staring at the large dual axle’s twin wheels just under the truck’s dump bucket, but those wheels weren’t turning. Somehow the driver had gotten the truck and its thousands of pounds of cargo to stop. George’s car had stopped as well. It was sitting in the middle of Highway 150, its motor idling and its chrome bumper just inches from the truck’s now stationary load. This was impossible! George had been driving long enough to know that cars couldn’t go from fifty to zero in that short a distance. It just couldn’t happen. And yet it had.

  After sliding the transmission into neutral, George looked toward his wife and child. Carole was still praying, and Rose was still sleeping. Yet they were fine. Except for Carole’s purse sliding off the seat and onto the floorboard, everything was just as it had been a few moments before.

  After setting the parking brake, he reached over and placed his hand on his wife’s arm. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “George, I thought we were going to die for sure.”

  “So did I,” he replied. “And she just slept through the whole thing.” Bathed in an overwhelming sense of relief, he gently rubbed Rose’s forehead. As he did, her eyes popped open and she grinned.

  “You all right?” someone yelled.

  The truck driver’s voice pulled George back to the situation at hand. Grabbing the driver’s door handle, he pushed it down and stepped out. As he straightened his six-foot form, the other man leaped from his cab and hurried over to the car.

  “I thought I’d killed you,” he blurted out. “My mind was wandering, and I forgot where I was. And I am so sorry!”

  “We’re fine,” George assured him. He glanced behind their car to the highway. From the skid marks, he could tell the exact spot he stepped on the brakes. Turning back to the driver, he quipped, “Except for leaving some rubber on the concrete, it seems our car is all right, too.”

  “You’re lucky you have such a fine car,” the truck driver breathlessly noted. “If you’d been driving something else, something that didn’t have those big brakes, you’d’ve plowed right into me. I’d have been carrying that guilt for the rest of my life, too.”

  The man walked over
to the yellow car and lightly tapped on the hood. “Some piece of engineering.” After running his hand along the fender, he said, “I’m Ben Larson. Kind of figured you might want to know the name of the guy who almost killed you.”

  His knees still a bit rubbery, George stuck out his hand. “George Hall. And the important thing, Mr. Larson, is that you didn’t kill me or my wife or our baby. We’re all fine. Just one of those lucky things we got stopped in time.”

  “Mr. Hall, you can call it lucky if you want,” the man shot back, “but luck didn’t have a thing to do with it. It was your Packard’s brakes.”

  A honking horn from an approaching motorist caused both men to whirl and look to the east. The almost-wreck was blocking the U.S. highway, and it seemed the oncoming motorist was not in a patient mood.

  “Looks like we have the whole road blocked,” Larson noted. “Guess we need to get moving.”

  “Guess we do,” George agreed.

  “Sorry about this,” the truck driver said.

  “No problem,” George assured him as he slid back into the car.

  As they waited for Larson to move his truck, Carole leaned closer and patted her husband’s arm. “I overheard what he said. We wouldn’t have had a chance in our old Chevy, would we?”

  “No, honey, we’d have slammed right into the side of his truck. Probably would have taken our heads off.”

  “So,” she sighed, “in this case there are now three people whose lives were saved by the Packard. As I see it, that kind of evens things up.”

  “So,” he asked, “does this mean we keep the car?”

  “I’m not giving away anything that saved my daughter’s life,” she assured him. “I don’t care if people are scared of this old car. I know better.”

  As the truck moved forward, George eased the Packard back into first and continued his trip toward Danville. He’d make sure the story of what happened was told all around town. He would make sure that everyone knew the curse had been broken.