Chapter Eleven
Next morning the park near the motel was busy. Rodger and Mike were conscious of the noise before they knew why. Eventually driven to look, they saw a car show getting started. Hot rods and muscle cars were arriving, with ordinary rides parking outside the tape.
Rodger took Mike’s hand and walked over. No one would bother them there, and it was something they understood. The rods, mostly with “A” bodies, looked vintage compared to the pony cars. Other models were pretty rare by Hutchinson standards—a Lotus Elan, a Porsche 365, and a couple Cobras. There were even Chevelles, all of the V-8 sort.
Rodger fell into conversation with a Chevelle owner. His was an SS model, also a ’64, but with rust-free metal. Looking at the fenders and rocker panels, Rodger compared it to his own daily driver, used on the salted roads back home. When he remarked on the difference, the man asked Rodger about his car.
“Oh,” Rodger replied, “it’s an SS, but with the six-banger.” He shrugged a bit. “It lugs down in a climb, but I like the way it runs out.” The man then asked about the transmission and rear-end ratio. Rodger answered diffidently.
“Would you consider selling it?” the man asked. Entirely unprepared, Rodger just looked at him. The man patiently looked back. “Well, I never thought of it. I drove it out here from Kansas. I’d have to get home,” Rodger finally said.
“The reason I ask is I’ve been thinking about an inline-six. It’s simpler, and I could give it to my wife to drive. After I fix it up, that is.”
This made no sense to Rodger, but he found the prospect attractive. He would eventually understand what the Chevelle represented to him: Veronica’s career, emptiness at home, and her death. All he felt at the car show, however, was a freighted liberation at the thought of letting go. The man sensed Rodger’s vulnerability, but he did not withdraw his inquiry. This was business.
Rodger walked Mike back to the motel, and they returned in the Chevelle. The man took it around the block a few times. After inspecting the engine and floorboards, he made an offer. Mike wandered amongst dune buggies, wondering if he could ever drive one to school, as his father and the man came to terms. A handshake and a promise to mail the title to California were sufficient. Rodger accepted the cash, handed over the keys, and the man drove them to the motel to unload.
Mike may have felt the loss more than his father. The Chevelle was, so far as he had known, Rodger’s only car. He had traveled with his dad in it and said goodbye to his mom in it. He always trusted his father, but a substantial part of his life had just been transferred away. He felt his heart tear a bit, not in itself, but away from something else. And to his surprise, he then felt closer to both of his parents. He retained the lesson the rest of his life.
Rodger, for his part, had never taken a cab and was too embarrassed to ask. He went to the front desk where, luckily, the manager was happy to set things up. A cab would take them to Mass at the Redemptorist church the next day.
That settled, Rodger thought for the first time about taking Veronica home for burial. The manner was obvious. The Super Chief had run through Hutchinson all his life. He could buy tickets, ship the casket, and be home in about 24 hours. A call to the Sante Fe office secured the details, and he would contact the funeral home on Monday.