The Yellow Packard (7 page)

“My name’s Samuel Johns. I was Mrs. Watling’s attorney. She was sure proud of this car.”

“There’s a lot to be proud of,” George agreed. “Don’t see many like this in Oakwood or even Danville. I guess you’d have to go to Springfield or Chicago to find more than a half dozen. And I doubt there is another in the state this color.”

“No, the color was a special order,” the attorney explained. “And you’re right, most folks are a bit too practical to drive something like this in this town.”

“Or too poor,” George added.

“Well there is that, too,” Johns agreed. “You thinking about making an offer?”

George shook his head, “No, just dreaming. We just had a baby this morning, so dreaming is all I can afford to do.”

Patting the steering wheel a final time, George eased out of the car. As he closed the door, an elderly man approached.

“I wouldn’t buy that automobile if it were the last vehicle on this planet,” he loudly announced to no one in particular. Then looking at George, the stranger added, “I knew Abbi pretty much all her life. I’ll tell you this, it wasn’t her heart that killed her; it was this car. She’d still be with us if she hadn’t bought that Packard.”

“Frank,” a man in a blue suit, white shirt, and black tie laughed as he joined them, “you don’t really believe that. You’re in my congregation every Sunday morning. You’ve got to have more faith than to believe owning a car can kill you.”

As if buying time to organize his thoughts, the old man ran his bony hand over his balding head before replying, “When it comes to this Packard, I think it’s cursed. That man at the dealership who got killed when this vehicle fell on him was my nephew. Good young man, too! He and his wife had a baby. That lift had never failed before, and it hasn’t failed since. How do you explain that, Reverend Morris?”

“I don’t explain it,” he replied, his voice soft and reassuring, “but I’m guessing that your nephew might have done something that caused the lift to fall, maybe he didn’t set the locking mechanism. I do know this: that car didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Believe what you want,” Frank muttered just before stomping back to the main part of the barn.

No one spoke until the little man was well out of earshot. It was the attorney who finally broke the silence. “Preacher, you thinking about buying the car?”

“I’d love to own it,” the middle-aged clergyman replied, “I’ve wanted a Packard since I was a kid. My Grandpa once owned one of the Packard twin-six models. That was about the time of the war. But I’m going to pass on this one. Just don’t have the money right now.”

The preacher forced a grin, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned his head toward George. “I found out a few minutes ago that you’ve got a daughter. I figure that gives you an excuse to miss church tomorrow morning, but we are looking forward to having you and Carole bring that little one real soon. Congratulations!”

“Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to showing our Rose off. She is a pretty one!”

Patting the new father on the shoulders, the preacher added, “I’m sure she is. You take care. I need to get back over and grab a seat for the auction. Molly wants me to buy a sideboard for her.”

Morris ambled back toward the front of the building, once more leaving George alone with Johns. Both stared at the vehicle for some time before George broke the silence. “So I take it you don’t believe that the car’s cursed?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“George Hall.”

Johns propped his foot on the front bumper and leaned over until his elbows rested on the top of the driver’s side fender. “George, I’m fifty-two years old. I’ve been around long enough to remember when there were no cars. I went to college by train. I didn’t buy my first automobile until I was twenty-five. It was a used Buick. Since then I’ve owned more than a dozen different makes and models, some have been good and some have been bad, but none of them have been possessed by evil spirits.”

Tapping the Packard’s hood, he added, “In my profession you learn that at least half of what you hear is nothing more than rumors. I’ve found that gossip fuels more court cases than real facts. Yes, a couple of men did die after this car came to town. But what killed them was their own carelessness, not the Packard. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that this car had absolutely nothing to do with Abigale Watling’s death. If you and I were to listen to the conversations of others in this barn, I figure some of them are giving Abbi’s Packard credit for every soldier’s death in the Great War. They might even be blaming it for our current dismal economic times.”

George grinned. “People are strange.”

“Sure are,” Johns agreed. “When you get them together in one place they spook easier than wild horses. But I’ll assure you of this, if someone doesn’t buy this car, I will. I’m not going to let a good deal or a great car pass me by.”

“You’re serious? You aren’t worried?”

“George, I’m worried about a lot of things, but none of them concern this car.” Johns pushed off the sedan and walked over to where the young man was standing. “I sense you’re not buying into the gossip either.”

“No, but even though my car is busted so bad it will never run again, and even though I love this Packard, with its canary yellow paint, I’ve got four hundred I can spare. That’s all. So I’m going to have to sacrifice my dreams and be satisfied with something like a used Ford or Plymouth. Nothing wrong with that.”

“You mind taking a bit of advice from an older guy?”

“No, not at all.”

“Everybody in this town is scared of this car. There’s an hour until the sale part of this event is over. Make Janie an offer. Who knows? You might be the only one with enough courage—no, not courage,
sense
—to bid on Abbi’s favorite ride.”

George considered the words as he turned and looked back at the sedan’s long nose. “Are you serious?”

“What do you have to lose?”

Chapter 8

E
ven as he heard the auction heating up behind him, Timmons’s voice on the loudspeaker, and the shouts of members of the audience as the most impressive pieces of furniture crossed the block, George could not pull his eyes from the Packard, much less allow his body to stray more than a few feet from where it sat. Like a kid with a new bike, he was constantly touching the car, studying every angle, and dreaming of all the places it could take him. Yet even as his hopes deepened, his faith eroded like a beach taking on a hurricane. So as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became a half hour and then an hour, he grew more and more skeptical. No matter what Carole believed, he just knew miracles didn’t happen to people like them. The Depression had made that plainly clear. For those without wads of cash, there were no surprises. Life was all about getting what he paid for, and the fact was that those without money couldn’t pay for much of anything. So why was he hanging around? Why was he holding on to the hope that somehow he could buy this car for less than fifty cents on the dollar? He might as well hope to win the Irish Sweepstakes.

Yet as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was still here because of his faith. It was faith alone that was holding him in the barn. Maybe the imagined curse was even the Lord’s way of making sure he was the only one who would make an offer on it. Yet, even as he clung to hope, it seemed as silly as believing the Easter bunny left chocolate eggs. A few might hold stock in bizarre curses, but most logical people saw them for what they were, just twists of fate. And rich folks, the kind with the money to buy a car like this, surely wouldn’t back off because of a couple of accidents. Or would they?

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.