Cars

For some strange reason, my mind is stuck on cars this morning. Maybe it’s because of yesterday’s Mobile Mystery of the Month. A couple of days ago when I drove into the garage, I noticed that hot metal smell that every driver dreads. A rivulet of water and antifreeze oozed from under the car and puddled into a miniature pond on the garage floor. What happened? I raised the hood and stared at the maze of hoses, knobs, strangely shaped objects designed to make the car move and asked my car’s engine what was going on. I was glad to recognize the bright, new battery, the one thing that I could identify by name. But it wasn’t the battery that was the problem.Why had it turned against me, the one who regularly saw to it that it was fed a proper diet of oil, water, antifreeze, and whatever else the mechanic deemed  necessary for a healthy machine? It answered me not a word, just sat there.

Yesterday Matt filled it with water and  shepherded me over to the car hospital. And left it. All day I worried. Were the hoses loose? Had it grown tired of its old water pump and did it long for a new one? Had it become overwhelmed by the complexities of life and cracked its poor head? Had it succumbed to a metal breakdown? When the mechanic’s receptionist called with the diagnosis, I could barely squeak out the question: What’s wrong?

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s working fine.”

What? Impossible. A puddle of coolant and water under my car, the smell of hot metal were not symptoms of a healthy car. But she insisted. And actually, the person who knew all about the internal workings of a car couldn’t fix it if it wasn’t broke. He had driven it, pressure tested it and it refused to leak. So he had replaced coolant and it was ready to go.  Matt and I went to get it and I drove it home.

Now it sits smugly inside my garage, lulling me into believing in it once again. It acts as if the hot-tempered episode never happened. Maybe even cars have their moments of rebellion. True, each time it takes me out on the street or highway, to the mall or visiting a friend, it faces danger that comes within inches of its shiny body. Other cars seem out to get it, seeing how close they can come, thumbing their noses because they are brighter, newer and faster. Some even whack its poor sides with their doors in parking lots. And if it ventures onto the interstate, it is in a virtual state of nerves until it safely exits. Maybe the stresses of life just got to it and it needed some attention, a little TLC. I just hope that yesterday got the whole thing out of its system and it decides to behave.

Darcy Campbell and Flora Tucker never have car trouble. Well, except for once in the first book, The Cemetery Club. Darcy started out driving a Passport. But, sad to say, it came to a violent end when it took a tumble down Deertrack Hill. So now Darcy drives the car of her dreams (or is it the car of her creator’s dreams?) It’s a …but wait! Have you read The Cemetery Club or Grave Shift? If you have, can you tell me what Darcy is driving now? Let me know if you know. Put your answers in the “Comments” section.

A car is necessary in today’s society. I respect mine and, in fact, through the years have grown quite fond of it. But if it is going into a temperamental phase, I may look at replacing it. That should show it who’s boss! Or not. Perhaps my car, like some of us humans, is ready to retire.