The Ghost in the Machine

by Mary Woodbury

  Grandma shrugged, poured herself another cup of coffee, and took a sip. “I don’t know for sure. Your uncle was an Armstrong same as your ma. But the Armstrongs moved to Victoria after he died. Didn’t come back here. Died maybe. Ask your ma.”

  “But Grandpa hauled the car back here, didn’t he?” Ty licked his gooey fingers.

  “Ask him then.” She started washing the bread and bun pans, clattering and banging them more than necessary. Ty shook his head. She had funny ways of dismissing a person. She turned her back to him, his Granny Graham. She was developing a hump on the left shoulder. She probably had that bone disease, osteo-something, that afflicted old people. She was wearing pink polyester pants and a pink sweatshirt with a scene of flying geese on the front and back. Must have bought them in the teen section, they were so small. She was one tiny woman, reminding Ty of a skinny nuthatch, always flitting and pecking. She sported two pink curlers in her sparse white hair at the top. Who was she curling her white hair for? Surely not Ty’s grouchy Grandpa.

  “Where is that child? A body doesn’t want to spend all day in the kitchen. I’ve got things to do, places to go.”

  Where, Ty wondered? Out to her patch of garden, down to her washer and dryer, or her winemaking room, or onto the porch to sit and read Harlequins, or crochet another frilly something for the back of one of her too many overstuffed chairs, grouped like hunched velvet elephants in her draped and carpeted living room. She rarely left the farm.

  “Grandma, can I have a poached egg on toast?” Ty’s little sister Veronica appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes, tossing her blonde curls out of her eyes. “Hi, Ty, what are you doing here?” The kid thought she owned the place. She and Grandma’s stupid short-haired, short-tempered black dog who was busy eating his very own cinnamon bun — one without the icing.

  “I smelled the cinnamon buns as soon as I got up.” No sense saying what had happened last night, or how he felt, or why he wanted to be here in the light airy kitchen. Veronica was just a little kid.

  “I don’t like cinnamon, do I, Grandma?”

  Grandma was already poaching an egg and making toast.

  “You’d think I was running a ruddy restaurant,” Grandma muttered.

  Veronica, the little diplomat, her Mickey Mouse toy clasped firmly in her left hand, pushed past the cluster of stools and snuggled up to her Grandma. “Good morning, Granny Graham.”

  What a suck. Ty bet he had never been like that.

  “Crazy cow broke the fence again, woman!” Grandpa bellowed from the door where he was changing out of his work boots into knitted slippers. “I’ve spent the last hour mending the dad-blasted thing.”

  Grandma didn’t say anything, just poured a cup of coffee and set it in Grandpa’s regular spot.

  “What are we, running a ruddy restaurant here?” His bushy eyebrows furrowed and he glared at Ty — not at Veronica, Ty noticed. She could do no wrong.

  “I wanted to ask you something,” Ty muttered.

  “So, ask already, what are you waiting for, the Black Death to descend?” Grandpa pulled a stool up to his place, buttered a cinnamon bun, and started eating. A gob of icing stuck to the bristles on his chin.

  Veronica laughed. “Grandpa, you got icing on your chin.”

  Ty expected Grandpa to roar at Veronica, but he just grabbed a tea towel and wiped his chin. He grunted.

  “Who owns Uncle Scott’s car?” Ty asked.

  “Nothing like getting right to the point, eh.” There was a pause as Grandpa took a big slurp of coffee. “Don’t like the taste of this here fancy coffee much, Ida. Stick to the regular, why don’t you? You sissies and femme fatales can drink this special hazelnutty, homegrown, harvested-by-Mexican-donkeys brew.” He dumped the coffee in the sink. Grandma flew around the kitchen, pouring the flavoured coffee into a butler, refilling the coffeepot with regular fine-grind Maxwell House and put it on to heat.

  “I was just wondering,” Ty said.

  “Why, you want to buy that car? Stupid things, VWs. A Nastimobile, that’s what I call them. Hitler himself got the Porsche family to design it. Too bad he didn’t stick to inventing cars for the common folk instead of making war on his neighbours and massacrating millions. I’d never own one of those little sewing machines in a trillion years myself. All those beatniks and hippies drove ’em, tried to set up camp here in the Kootenays in the sixties, gave up and went back to their pottery and pot-growing somewheres else, thank God. I sure as shootin’ didn’t think much of them. There’s still a few around.”

  Grandma banged a cupboard door so hard the glasses inside clanged against each other. She glared at Grandpa.

  Grandpa ignored the interruption and ranted on. “But your mother’s family, the Armstrongs, always had this streak of artsy fartsy in ’em. Thought they were a cut above us riffraff. A bunch of nuts and bolts, if you ask me. They thought, if life doesn’t go my way I’ll bolt — out of here — like your other grandparents, eh. As soon as the goin’ got rough and their son died, they bolted. And nuts, I don’t want to say anything, but...”

  “Now, Rodney, don’t you say nothing….”

  “I know, I know, but a person would have to be blind not to see the way the land lies over there. Claims she’s sick. Popping pills and potions. She’s sick all right. It’s all in her head.”

  Grandma looked at Grandpa severely and over at Veronica and me.

  He didn’t stop. He rarely did when he got going on a track. “If I were Lyle, I’d soon shape her up. But my son’s a real gutless wonder. He’d rather run than fight. That woman of his needs to get a life.”

  Ty bowed his head, to hide from the tongue-lashing. He steeled himself for the endless criticism of his parents. Grandpa Graham ranted on.

  “Life is too short to toss it away with daydreams and night terrors.” Grandpa paced the floor. “Give in to your demons and the Holy Harry will get hold of you. A good day’s work will do more to snap anyone out of the doldrums than all the bloody rest in the world.”

  Ty started to walk away, carrying a napkin-wrapped cinnamon bun — to take to his mom.

  “Did I tell you some coyote caught the dumb chicken with the limp, Ida? Saves chopping off its head. Would have made a good meal though.” He stood in the doorway, taking more space than his spare, wiry, tanned frame called for. “You coming with me to town, little lady?” He was talking to Veronica.

  “About the car?” Ty turned and asked again. He wasn’t going to let Grandpa off the hook, the old coot.

  The old man was putting his work boots back on. His dog sat by his heels, tail wagging, tongue drooling. “Ask Lady Astor’s pet horse for all I care, boy.” And he strode across the porch with the heavy walk of a cowboy. “Ask your mom, if she’s up to talking today, that is.”

  The kitchen was suddenly quiet. Grandma avoided Ty’s eyes by running water in the sink, polishing the clean counter with a scrub cloth. Veronica had gone to put some clothes on so she could go with Grandpa to town. Ty sighed and walked down the rutted path from Grandma’s house to his own. Dad was climbing into the cab of his truck.

  “Thought you were at your grandma’s.” He leaned out of the window. “Need anything from town?”

  Ty shook his head. “Dad, who owns Uncle Scott’s car now?”

  “That heap? It’s a write-off.”

  “Yeah, I was just wondering...”

  “A boy doesn’t want a car like that. That’s a wimp of a car if there ever was one. I saw a real good second-hand Chevy truck in Benton for less than $2000.”

  Ty shook his head. “Never mind!”

  Lyle Graham started the motor, let it run a minute, backed up, driving like he was some kind of macho dude, backed it around so he was heading out the lane. He nearly hit one of the slower-moving chickens as he turned into the familiar ruts. Thank goodness Leo always had the sense to hide under the porch while Ty’s dad was moving the truck.

  “That car’s your mom’s. I don’t want you bugging her about it. Leave sl
eeping dogs lie,” he shouted over the motor sounds. “It’s a write-off.”

  Ty sauntered into the house right past the sleeping dog. Except for the light filtering through the kitchen curtains, the house was dark. His mom hadn’t come down yet. Ty poured himself a second glass of milk and grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the refrigerator. He hadn’t wanted to eat his grandparents out of house and home as he was likely to do with his big appetite, as his dad so often reminded him. Leo stretched, ambled up on the porch, and sat thumping his tail on the grey painted floor, so Ty filled his bowl with fresh water and put some kibble in the old metal dish pan that served as his dog dish.

  He picked up his latest Motor Trends magazine and flipped through the pages. Nothing about Beetles.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be cool driving a Beetle. Maybe he should concentrate on saving his money for a good used muscle car or truck. But a guy would have a tough time fixing his own car. That’s where a Beetle was good. Uncle Scott had kept his own car running.

  Ty sighed. Maybe he was just stubborn. His dad would be happier if he had a Chevy or a pickup truck like Nat was planning on getting. Ty had enough strikes against him what with being a chubby “brain” with a sick mom.

  Ty walked to the bottom of the steps and stared up, willing his mother to emerge. His parents’ bedroom door remained shut. Wasn’t any sense bothering Mom about this if the car wasn’t sound. He waited around, reading an article about the advantages of adding a special lubricant to your oil change.

  Leo nosed open the screen door and returned to the yard where he barked at some unknown animal in the bushes. “Shut up, Leo,” Ty shouted.

  Still no sound from upstairs. He phoned Robin Nixon. She said she’d like him to come and weed later in the day when it cooled off. “Sure thing, Ms. Nixon.”

  He could picture her long slim body stretched out on the sofa or her chaise lounge. She would be reading a novel by some famous person or writing in her journal. She loved pens, all colours, all shapes. She collected interesting paper too, mottled, handmade, some thick like cardboard, or thin as tissue paper. All shades and shapes piled in neat stacks or cubby-holes behind her old-fashioned oak desk where her portable computer and printer sat. They were unused now because of her mysterious illness. She was a real writer — with a couple of published books out for grownups.

  Ty liked working for her. She couldn’t do the garden or any of the chores. She needed Ty. He liked hanging around at her house. It was so different from his.

  Ty pulled the third drawer in the kitchen cabinet open and rummaged through it. This was the junk drawer, the one that had old AA batteries, pencils, crayons, napkin rings, bottle openers, elastics, meat skewers, and keys. He found the key to the old Nova, a trailer, the broken ATV, and a group of three keys on a Banff key ring. One of them had a Volkswagen symbol on it.

  He chewed his lip, waiting for permission, frightened suddenly by what he had so foolishly decided to do last night. He stared around the kitchen waiting for someone to show up and tell him it was okay.

  “Is that you, Ty?” Mom called from the top of the stairs. “What are you looking for? What’s all the banging?”

  “Nothing, Ma.”

  He heard her slippered feet on the creaky steps and waited. He didn’t know what to do. Dad had said not to bother her about the car. But there were some things Ty needed to know. He shoved the keys into his pocket and closed the drawer.

  “I’ll be right there, honey.” Mom went into the bathroom and closed the door. The water started running.

  Ty set cereal packages, milk, and orange juice on the table. He put the kettle on for tea and turned on CBC radio. Mom listened to CBC all day. She knew the announcers better than she knew her neighbours. Ty couldn’t remember when she had gone to town on her own. Aunt Celia had taken her to Cranbrook. With a car maybe he could talk her into going into Benton. He could drive her.

  Finally she emerged and came slowly down the hall. She had Dad’s old blue terry housecoat on and multi-coloured knitted bootees that Grandma had made for her years ago. There was a hole in the left toe. Her hair had tangles in it. Her eyes remained puffy from sleep or tears. She cried a lot. Ty heard her sobs through the thin walls between their room and his. Dad snored his way through most of it or took off to the pub or to some logging work out of the valley.

  Ty poured boiling water into the brown teapot over the two orange pekoe tea bags, brought it back to the table, lifted the lid, and stirred the tea with his spoon to speed the steeping. He cleared his throat.

  Mom stared at the selection of cereal boxes as if they were the enemy.

  “You like those Mini Shredded Wheat with brown sugar,” Ty said.

  Mom nodded. He poured her a cup of tea.

  She sat holding it in both hands as if her hands were cold. Her nails still needed cutting. The bathrobe looked worn out. Ty wished he knew how to help. Bring back my other mom, he thought, the one who wore tank tops and shorts in summer, whose hair smelt like kiwi shampoo and was tied in a ponytail, who looked young and full of life.

  “Fix it,” the ghost had said. How Ty wished he could.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked.

  She shrugged. She leaned her head towards the radio, listening to the announcer talking about the future of the country and here was someone famous to explain his views. Natter, natter, natter.

  She frowned at something, turned, and squinted her eyes. “Did you want something, Ty?”

  “Nothing in particular.” That was a lie. He was scared to ask her about the car. He needed more time with the whole idea. “I thought I might do some work on the mower. If you hear clunks, bangs, and faulty starts, that’s just me. Did you want me for anything?” His throat was dry as an old leaf. Why was a lie easier than the truth?

  Mom tried to smile. “I get the feeling that something’s up. Is Grandpa Rod mad at you again? Are you in any kind of trouble?”

  “No, no trouble, Ma.” Ty pushed his chair back from the table, put his tea mug in the sink, and headed out the door. “I’ve got something on my mind, that’s all.”

  “Is it something I can help with?” Mom asked.

  Ty was torn. He didn’t want her to get upset. He didn’t want his dad finding out. He gulped. “I was thinking I’d like to fix up an old car. Won’t be long until I can get a license, take you for a drive.” That’s all he could trust himself to say.

  “Hard to believe I’ve a son old enough to learn how to drive. I could teach you highway driving. But I don’t like trucks.” Mom was staring out the window, smiling to herself. “You could drive me places. You’d need me in the car. Learners have to have an adult with a license. I still have mine.” She sighed and her eyes on Ty’s were filled with hope, a desperate hope. “It’s the one thing I haven’t had taken from me.”

  Ty left quickly. He couldn’t stand the weight of her hope.

  Chapter 6

  No ghost sat in the Beetle. The car was empty, half-hidden by dogwood and tall grass. Its nose was up against a sturdy bush. Ty walked around it, tumbling the keys in his pocket. He discovered the missing wheel leaning against a huge rock. He took a rag and a bucket of water and dish detergent and washed it off. The tire was ripped to shreds as if it had been blown. It needed to be thrown out.

  “There’s no sense fixing this car if the frame’s bent or the engine’s lousy,” he said to no one in particular. He wrenched the broken driver’s door open. The hinges screamed.

  First, he had to attach the missing wheel. Couldn’t really work on poor Princess when she didn’t have all her pins under her. He took the tools he needed out of his dad’s tool box. Ty broke into a sweat cranking the car up so he could slip the wheel back on. He finished and pumped up the other tires using his grandpa’s large hand pump. He dug the spare tire out of the front and put it on the rescued wheel. Then he filled it with air to the pressure recommended in the VW repair manual.

  Ty stood back, surveyed the car, and shook his head. There was a hell o
f a lot to do. “Well, Princess, it’s going to take more than a kiss from Prince Charming, I can tell you that.” He patted the hood as if the car was a family pet.

  He made sure the gearshift was in neutral, the wheels straight, and then shoved with all his might. The blasted thing was stuck in the grass. He heaved again and the car started to roll, clunkety-clunk backwards onto the gravel. It stopped short. He moved the small rocks blocking the tires. The dust rose and he coughed, tasting dirt and old oil. Ty stood and wiped sweat from his eyes, gathered up his strength, leaned his shoulder against the opened passenger door of the heap, and put all his effort into a mighty push.

  Once he had backed the old Volkswagen clear of the bushes into the lane Ty climbed in and sat in the driver’s seat. He clutched the steering wheel. It was covered with ratty tan fur and smaller than the one in Grandpa’s truck — real up close and personal. The birds had stopped singing when he moved the heap. Leo sprawled in the shade. Bent grey scrub grass showed where the car had rested for nearly four years. Leo sat at attention as if he was being talked to by someone familiar. His tail wagged. Then the dog stretched out, sighed, and put his muzzle on his front paws. But he was still alert.

  The hairs on the back of Ty’s neck stood up. Someone was watching him. The dog knew it. Ty knew it. “So, maybe I can’t see you in the day time, ghost. I’m doing the best I can?”

  “Okay, princess, let’s go!” Ty put the key in the ignition. It fit. He glanced around to see if anyone besides the ghost and the dog were there. He mentally crossed his fingers, gave the accelerator a little pump with his right foot, and turned the key. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada. Not even a whir or flutter.

  Okay — the gas was old and full of impurities, the gas line would be dirty, the battery run down. What about spark plugs, carburetor, air filter, pistons, points? The Banged-Up Beetle could have major problems here — or just a whole batch of little things Ty could handle. Please God, don’t let there be anything major.