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Truth is, I kept the car at the farm as an excuse to see my parents. I would come out to work on the car mostly when Eve and I were in our off-again moments and it became a time when my father and I talked about everything that didn’t matter, but of course it seriously mattered.
Because at least we were talking.
Now, as I pull up to the yellow, two story house with black shutters, the grass is mowed, the front garden has been weeded, the rose bushes cut back and red geraniums spill out of planters on the wide porch.
The place looks downright cheery.
I pull in next to a dirty caravan with a Brainerd International Raceway sticker on the back window.
By the time I climb out, my mother has emerged onto the porch.
The sight of her causes me to brace my hand against the roof of the Camaro. Mom?
She’s wearing a pair of jeans, a sleeveless shirt and flip flops. She’s lost weight. Put on makeup. Her dark red hair is down around her face and she’s sporting a tan.
My mother hasn’t worn makeup since she attended my high school graduation.
More importantly, she’s smiling. “Rembrandt!” She holds open her arms and I resist the urge to look around, maybe to spot another version of myself who she’s excited to see.
She comes off the porch and her arms circle my neck before I know what to do. “You got my message!”
She feels strong and bright and radiating an energy that stirs up Booker’s words. This…gift…is to help give people closure. To let them live in peace.
Peace. Maybe that’s what it is. A release of the lethal, dark grip of living in limbo.
I hug her back and she gives me a kiss and yes, maybe Booker is right. This might be enough.
Might.
“Your uncle and aunt are inside, but your father is in the barn. I think he’s working on your car.” She pats my cheek. “Go say hi.”
I’m now, apparently, a member of the Cleaver family. “Sure,” I say and head out to the barn.
Once upon a time, my father and I, along with Mikey, would spend Saturdays covered in grease, rebuilding engines, taking apart carburetors, and changing the oil in whatever beaters my father was currently rebuilding. He had a fling with a few VW bugs, then upgraded to Audis.
No wonder I fell in love with Porsches.
All of my memories include sweaty cans of grape Fanta, my father’s cloth-covered Panasonic radio screaming out Seger, and Mikey trying to sword fight me with one of my father’s Pittsburgh 1/2 inch torque wrenches.
I step into the shadows of the barn with some trepidation.
He’s got the tarp off the Porsche, the trunk is up and he’s leaning inside, looking at the motor. “What happened to this thing anyway?”
“The engine died after a high-speed chase.”
“It’s running rough. Sounds like it’s hitting only a couple cylinders.”
The familiar smell of engine oil mixes with the scents of dirt and age in the barn, and I almost hear the echo of Mikey’s voice. Ghosts. I stick my hands in my pockets, fighting a shiver.
“Yep. The timing belt is loose.” Dad leans up. “My guess is that it jumped a tooth on the right bank. We’ll have to loosen it up and take a look.”
Dad is wearing a pair of old work pants, an oily flannel shirt and his cap on backwards over his thinning hair. He goes to his work bench and lifts a cup of coffee from the ancient green thermos. “It’s a pretty car, though. I can see why you like her.”
It’s like we’re continuing a conversation I can’t remember. “Thanks.”
He returns to the car. “Hand me a 10mm ratchet.”
I walk over to his standing toolbox and pull out the drawer with the ratchets. My father is an electrician, but he knows cars and keeps his tools immaculate.
