That Camden Summer Page 8

  She came to the doorway between the two rooms holding some blue kettles, wearing a dishtowel tied backward around her skirt. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I thought I’d start with the front porch, if that’s okay with you.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care where you start.’’

  Abruptly she hied herself out of sight again.

  ‘‘It’s got to be torn off completely and rebuilt!’’ he shouted.

  Her head returned for three seconds. ‘‘I said I don’t care. Do whatever you have to, just don’t bother me!’’

  He got a ladder, climbed up to the roof and started ripping off the porous wooden shakes, speculating about why the roof on the main body of the house had been done in slate. These houses were old, this one probably a hundred years or more. Sometimes porches and lean-tos had been added as afterthoughts. Dry rot had eaten this one.

  He worked on into the morning and the sun grew warmer, the yard became littered with bent nails and broken pieces of silver wood. By noon he had the rafters exposed and was beating on one with a hammer when he thought he heard shouting.

  ‘‘Mr. Farley?’’

  He looked down and saw Mrs. Jewett standing below, shading her eyes with one hand, squinting up. She still wore the dishtowel around the skirt of her mushroom-brown dress. Her hair was a fright and the armpit of her blouse was damp.

  ‘‘Ayup?’’ he said.

  ‘‘May I ask you a few questions about your motorcar?’’

  ‘‘Ayup. Watch out there.’’ She stepped back and he dropped a length of discolored wood. ‘‘It’s not a car, it’s a truck.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘A Ford C-Cab.’’

  She glanced at it, then back up at him. ‘‘How long have you had it?’’

  ‘‘ ’Bout two years.’’

  ‘‘Do you like it?’’

  ‘‘Ayup, I do.’’

  ‘‘Better than a horse?’’

  ‘‘How long’s this going to take? You mind if I come down there and talk?’’ He’d been balancing his hips against the ladder and twisting at the waist to look down at her.

  ‘‘No, of course not. Come ahead.’’

  He slipped his hammer into a loop on a leather tool belt, backed down the ladder, and they stood their distance, separated by layers of shingles that gave off a smell like an old, unused shed. A sprawling ash tree, still bare, threw thin veins of shadow across them while they stood talking.

  ‘‘Truck’s much easier than a horse. You don’t have to feed it or clean up after it. ’Course, in winter, around here, it can’t take you the places a horse can take you, but then you’ve got the electrics to do that.’’

  ‘‘Is a truck different from a motorcar?’’

  ‘‘Just the body. Chassis’s the same.’’

  ‘‘So it starts and runs the same?’’

  ‘‘Ayup.’’

  ‘‘Elfred says a woman couldn’t own one because she couldn’t start it. Do you agree?’’

  Gabriel scratched a sideburn and glanced at the truck. It was an odd-looking thing, doorless, with a black leather top shaped like an ocean wave that curved over the seat to create a roof. ‘‘That’s hard to say. I’ve never seen a woman start one.’’

  ‘‘Well, what’s your guess?’’

  Gabriel’s gaze wandered back to her. ‘‘Want to find out for sure?’’

  Her eyebrows twitched while she decided.

  ‘‘Yes, I suppose so.’’

  ‘‘All right then, come on. Let’s see what you can do. Be careful there. Nails all over the place.’’

  They traipsed across the clattery shingles onto the thick mattress of dead winter grass and he let her pass before him through the break in some scraggly, weedchoked irises and bridal wreath that edged the yard. He noticed she wore the same scuffed, run-over shoes as the day before. The street was paved in gravel and pocked with mud puddles after yesterday’s rain. They skirted several and made their way to the far side of his truck where the side curtains were rolled up and tied out of the way.

  ‘‘Get in.’’ He motioned her up. ‘‘You might as well do it all, right from the start.’’

  She stepped onto the running board, wrestled her skirt around the brake lever and sat down on the patent-leather seat.

  ‘‘I’ll take you through it step by step.’’ He propped one foot on the running board and pointed inside as he spoke. ‘‘Now that lever right there on the steering column is your spark. It’s got to be on retard, which is where it is right now. If you accidentally leave it on advance she’ll kick back when you try to crank ’er, and chances are you’ll get hurt. These things have been known to split skulls wide open. So this is important: Always set the spark on retard.’’

  ‘‘Spark on retard,’’ she repeated, and gingerly touched the lever.

  Again he pointed to the steering column. ‘‘This right here is the throttle, and it should be halfway up when you start ’er. That gives ’er the gas.’’

  ‘‘Throttle halfway up.’’

  ‘‘And this right here’’—he dropped a hand over the brake handle—‘‘is the emergency brake, but it’s got a lot to do with shifting, so make sure it’s pulled all the way back toward the seat. You have to pinch the handles together while you pull . . . see?’’

  He moved his hand and let her give it a try.

  ‘‘Good,’’ he said. ‘‘Now, get out. We’ve got to go up front.’’

  While she backed out of the truck, he stood back and watched the white knot of the dishtowel riding her spine, thinking if she were any other woman he would have offered her a hand down. But the tongue-lashing she’d given him yesterday had made him wary.

  He led her to the front of the vehicle and pointed to a loop of wire protruding from the left side of the radiator. ‘‘That’s the choke wire. Pull it out.’’ She did, making no comment. ‘‘We could go inside the car and turn the switch on right now, but there’s a little trick you can try that’ll make ’er start quicker. You do like this—see? Pull up the crank three or four times with the switch off, and that draws more gas into the cylinder. Do it or not, it’s up to you. Now back inside again. Come on.’’ She followed him to the driver’s side. ‘‘Just reach inside and turn on the key to the battery position. . . . Now, let’s see if you can crank ’er yourself.’’

  The crank had an unpainted wooden handle. When she reached for it, he pulled her arm back sharply. ‘‘Wait a minute. This is the most dangerous part. Always remember, you have to pull up. Never push down, because you want to get it on a compression stroke.’’

  ‘‘Compression stroke?’’

  ‘‘That has to do with the engine, but you don’t have to understand it. Just remember—always up, never down. And one more thing. Don’t wrap your thumb around the crank. Fold it along the top, that way if she ever decides to kick back, your hand will fly free a little easier. Like this, see?’’

  He demonstrated, then moved aside and let her take over.

  Gripping the crank handle, Roberta felt her heart dancing with apprehension. She glanced up and met Farley’s eyes.

  ‘‘It’ll be okay,’’ he said. ‘‘Everything is set right, so give ’er a try. If you can crank it, you can run it. Go ahead.’’

  She set her jaw and pulled up so powerfully a muscle wrenched in her shoulder. The engine fired and Roberta leaped back with a hand over her heart.

  ‘‘I did it!’’

  ‘‘Go on!’’ he yelled above the noise. ‘‘Get back in! You’re not done yet!’’

  They both got in and the racket was awful, the engine rocking the machine till the two of them looked palsied.

  ‘‘Okay, I showed you this before—it’s your spark. It goes back down to advance while the engine is running, which gives the engine more power so it’ll run smoother.’’

  She put the spark where he said.

  ‘‘Remember which one was the throttle?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘This one.’’

&
nbsp; ‘‘That’s right. Put it back up.’’

  She did, and the rocking leveled out somewhat.

  ‘‘You want to drive ’er?’’

  ‘‘You mean you’d let me?’’ she replied, amazed.

  ‘‘How else are you going to know if you want one of your own?’’

  She had to consider a moment before answering, ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Farley. Yes, I’d appreciate it.’’

  ‘‘Hands on the wheel, then.’’

  She gripped the wooden steering wheel and sat tensely on the edge of the seat.

  ‘‘Relax some.’’

  ‘‘Relax? Doing this? You cannot be serious!’’

  He smiled to himself and pointed down at her ankles. ‘‘Just sit back a little. Your skirt is hiding the floor pedals.’’

  She slid back a few inches, still gripping the steering wheel as if it were a divining rod that was going to suck her down into the earth.

  ‘‘Okay, those three pedals plus the emergency brake are what make it run.’’ The three diamond-shaped pedals were arranged in a triangle on the floor. ‘‘The left one puts it in neutral, the middle one is reverse and the right one is the brake. First put your emergency brake halfway up and push the neutral pedal all the way down. Don’t be scared—halfway up.’’

  She followed orders with far less assurance than she’d shown when she’d told Elfred she wanted to own one of these things. When the moves were made she let out a partial breath, but her knuckles had turned white on the steering wheel.

  ‘‘Now push the emergency brake full forward and your foot all the way down, and that puts ’er in first gear.’’

  She shifted cautiously and the car lurched forward, then began rolling down the boulevard, half on people’s grass, half on the street.

  ‘‘All right. Here we go. Use the throttle.’’

  ‘‘Where’s the throttle!’’ she shouted.

  He took her right hand and guided it to the throttle lever. ‘‘Right there. Give ’er some gas now, slowly.’’

  They accelerated and bumped along the Alden Street boulevards.

  ‘‘Dear God, I hope I don’t kill us both!’’

  ‘‘Turn the wheel.’’ He turned it for her, steering them out onto the street. ‘‘Now take your foot off the left pedal and that’ll put ’er in high gear.’’

  They proceeded toward an intersection, bouncing when the wheels hit potholes and splattered muddy water up on the running boards. ‘‘Now try the brake . . . no the other foot!’’

  ‘‘It’s confusing with three pedals.’’

  ‘‘You’ll get used to it. Look both ways at the corner, then just put your clutch in and that’ll slow us down for a turn. Turn left and go up the hill.’’

  She stomped on the clutch, and just as promised, they slowed. He helped her steer around a corner, then talked her through a ride that took them climbing up the foothills of Mount Battie.

  ‘‘Relax,’’ he told her again.

  ‘‘I can’t. I’m terrified.’’

  ‘‘You’re doing very well. Do you think you’ll want one of your own?’’

  ‘‘Please, Mr. Farley, I can’t talk and drive at the same time.’’

  ‘‘All right, I’ll shut up.’’

  He sat back and watched her. She had gumption like he’d never seen in a woman before, and he couldn’t deny a hint of admiration. He didn’t know any other female who’d have gotten behind that steering wheel.

  ‘‘Are you ready to try reversing now?’’

  ‘‘Oh God,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You’ll do fine.’’ He guided her through the process of slowing, turning around in a driveway and heading back down the mountain.

  Halfway down, they encountered a car coming up.

  ‘‘Mr. Farley!’’ she shouted. ‘‘What should I do!’’

  He resisted reaching for the steering wheel. ‘‘Just steer to the right.’’

  She did, chanting, ‘‘Oh-my-soul, oh-my-soul,’’ while he smiled to himself and waved back at Seba Poole, who gaped as the two cars passed.

  ‘‘You’re lucky I didn’t kill us both, Farley! I never knew roads were so narrow!’’

  ‘‘You did just fine. Seba’s still on the road and so are you.’’

  She relaxed a little and asked, ‘‘Who was that?’’

  ‘‘Seba Poole, runs the fish hatchery at the outlet of Lake Megunticook. He likes to gossip, so word’ll get around you’ve been driving my truck.’’

  She flashed him a fast glance. ‘‘Too bad for you,’’ she remarked, garnering a study from him. It might have held a smirk; she couldn’t tell.

  After that they rumbled the remainder of the way down the mountain without conversing, but a grudging respect had been set into motion during the drive. She found him patient and good at explaining; he found her plucky and admired her grit in spite of her occasional shriek for help.

  In front of her house she stopped and he showed her how to shut off the key and make sure she left the spark lever and throttle in the up position.

  ‘‘So I won’t break my arm the next time I crank it,’’ he explained.

  When the engine quieted, she heaved a sigh of relief and let her fingers slide from the wheel. No sooner had her shoulders wilted than they squared again resolutely.

  ‘‘May I run through it one more time to make sure I remember correctly?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Spark on retard . . . ,’’ She repeated what she’d learned without a slip—in the car, out of the car, touching each of the pertinent parts without actually starting the engine.

  ‘‘. . . throttle in the up position,’’ she finished, meeting his eyes directly. ‘‘How did I do?’’

  ‘‘Perfectly.’’

  They stood in the street beside the vehicle. She studied it as if evaluating. Finally, she said, ‘‘Elfred gave me a long list of reasons why a woman shouldn’t even think of owning a motorcar. He says they break down quite regularly and the tires need patching and something up there needs adjusting all the time.’’

  ‘‘The carburetor.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that’s it.’’

  ‘‘Carburetors are touchy, all right, but I can show you how to adjust them. It’s not very complicated.’’

  ‘‘Elfred says gasoline is heavy and clumsy to put in.’’

  ‘‘Not so heavy and clumsy you couldn’t do it.’’

  ‘‘Where does it go?’’

  ‘‘Gas tank’s underneath the seat. Here, I’ll show you.’’

  He leaned into the truck and tipped up the seat bottom revealing a wooden floor with a hole through which the mouth of the gas tank projected. ‘‘You put the gas in here.’’ He stepped back to let her see.

  She bent over and peered at the spout. Beside it a wooden stick was tethered to a string.

  ‘‘What’s this?’’

  ‘‘A dipstick to find out how much gas is left.’’

  She studied the increments carved into it. ‘‘Gallons?’’ she inquired.

  ‘‘Ayup.’’

  ‘‘Mm, simple.’’ She dropped the stick and stepped back while he replaced the seat and brushed off his palms.

  ‘‘So tell me, Mr. Farley. You can be honest. Do you think I’m crazy to want to own my own motorcar?’’

  ‘‘Well, you certainly can drive one. You’ve proven that today.’’

  ‘‘There’s a garage downtown where I could have it repaired when necessary, right?’’

  ‘‘Mmm . . . well, yes, if the trouble conveniently develops when you’re in town. Elfred’s got a point about these things acting up constantly. Do you mind telling me, Mrs. Jewett, what you want the car for?’’

  ‘‘I’ve got a job as a public nurse.’’

  ‘‘Traveling, you mean?’’

  ‘‘Yes, all up and down the county.’’

  ‘‘All by yourself?’’ He acted surprised.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘In that case . . .
’’ He clamped his hands beneath his armpits. She was beginning to see the pose covered a range of tacit responses.

  ‘‘In that case, forget about the motorcar?’’

  ‘‘Well, let me put it this way. I wouldn’t want any woman of mine driving all over these mountains in one of these things.’’

  ‘‘Yes . . . well, you see, Mr. Farley, it’s my good fortune that I no longer have to answer to any man for what I do.’’

  ‘‘You asked my opinion and I gave it.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Farley,’’ she said. ‘‘Now I’d best get back to work.’’

  She marched inside and left him standing in the thin veins of shadow from the naked ash tree. He went back to work wondering why she’d asked his opinion if she didn’t want it.

  Sometimes, from up on the ladder, he’d see junk come flying out the front door. Once she flung out some scrub water. Right afterward he heard the piano start up and stopped working to listen.

  Strange woman, playing the piano between bouts of scrubbing.

  A while later he smelled coffee but she didn’t offer him any. Shortly before noon her mother arrived on foot.

  ‘‘Mr. Farley,’’ she hailed, ‘‘is that you up there?’’

  ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Halburton.’’ She was tilted back stiffly, eyeing him with a grouchy expression on her face, a jowly overweight woman dressed in a pail-shaped hat, pressing a black purse against her diaphragm.

  ‘‘I can’t believe she hired you to fix up this old wreck. Why, it’s hardly worth the match it would take to send the place up.’’

  To the best of his recollection he’d never heard Myra Halburton greet anyone with anything but complaints. It gave him a twinge of pleasure to disagree with her. ‘‘Oh, I don’tknow. Youmight be surprisedwhenI get all done.’’

  She flapped a hand in disgust. ‘‘That girl’s never listened to me a day in her life, and if you ask me, she’s plumb crazy to put her money into such a shack. I can’t imagine what Elfred was thinking. Plus a person has to walk up that blame hill to get here, and my legs are ready to give out on me. ’Course, she wouldn’t stop to consider that!’’ Myra stumped on toward the house. ‘‘How’s a person supposed to get in here anyway?’’

  ‘‘Stick close to the wall on that porch, Mrs. Halburton,’’ he advised.