The Ghost in the Machine

by Mary Woodbury

  He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He needed help. He couldn’t do this alone. He was setting himself up for one colossal crash.

  Read the books. That’s what they were there for. His grandpa never read the directions to anything. He just stared at a machine until it gave him a clue to what was the matter. Grandpa Rod had watched his daddy fix everything on the farm until it fell apart. Then they’d bought used stuff that still had hope. Frankly, Ty thought his Grandpa hollered and yelled at the machinery until it decided to give him a glimmer of how it worked. He took it apart “just to show the frigging thing that he was boss.”

  Ty wadded his hankie and polished a spot on the windshield so he could see out. This might be a bigger project than he could handle. The pessimist in him shouted, “You’re right. It’s too big a job. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Ty enlarged the clean area on the windshield on the driver’s side. Sitting on the unused picnic table by the old skinny garage from way back when, was the ghost. He was paler than last night, if anything. He jumped down and swung open the doors of the ramshackle cedar-shake building close to the laneway.

  Ty leaned out of the window and looked more closely. The ghost wasn’t visible any more. Ty shuddered.

  An old gas pump sat in front of a crooked worn sign saying Graham’s Garage. It was a remnant of his great-grandfather’s time on the farm. Evidently the old man had planned on making a mint out of summer traffic, but he never did. Money avoided the Graham clan like mice avoided the black cat that lived in the old building.

  Except for his new mountain bike, a couple of ancient bicycles, a broken wheelbarrow, and three ladders, the garage was empty. The black cat meowed fiercely and scurried inside to move her kittens. Maybe ghosts talked to animals.

  Okay! Ty got the point. Saying no was not an option. Unless he wanted to be haunted all his life. He started to laugh. Too bad his friend Nat Ferris wasn’t around. Even if he were, would Ty have the guts to tell him he had seen a ghost in the ancient VW Beetle?

  What he needed now was to get his mother on side. The car idea might work, but it was this car and its history that had him worried. How safe had it been? Why had the accident happened? Was there some fatal flaw? Where had Uncle Scott gotten it? Mom would remember. She kept souvenirs of events. She remembered dates — like birthdays and anniversaries of all the good and bad things in life. Ty needed some history. If he was going to commit himself to fixing this car, he had to feel as if he knew its whole story.

  His family, just like this car, had too many secrets, and they wound like ivy vines over everything and everyone. He vowed he wouldn’t keep secrets, not from his family, if he ever had one.

  He was facing enough mechanical problems with the car itself. He didn’t need to play games around the car’s history. He hated the games people played on television sitcoms. The laughs all came because someone kept something secret out of fear or stupidity, and someone else misread the situation and a pile of miscues, mistakes, and miscommunication followed for twenty minutes. Then they told the truth and everyone was happy again. No one ever had to get over anything though.

  Any time Ty made a mistake or got into trouble at school, he needed time to recover. Maybe television actors were supposed to sort their lives out during commercials.

  Ty’s life didn’t have commercial breaks. He had to talk to his mom.

  Chapter 7

  Robin Nixon’s house sat so close to the highway you couldn’t miss it. It was old, surrounded by apple trees and elderberry bushes, its two stories of clapboard painted a faded green. Sitting on the lake side of the highway, it was the tallest building between Ty’s place and the Cedar Pub, on the road to Benton, the town that anchored the Valley at the southern end of the lake.

  The gravel in the lane crunched under the wide tires of his sturdy mountain bike.

  Ty had ridden past the house for years and seen Robin working in the huge garden that spread beside the road for nearly a quarter of a mile. Sometimes the pumpkins escaped onto the highway and were slaughtered by speeding drivers. Best cotton-picking gardener in the whole valley, Grandpa claimed. “Supported her kids through school with that garden; biggest goldurned squash and pumpkins you’d ever seen. That woman has a truly green thumb, even if her choice in men stinks to high heaven.” No one in the valley escaped Grandpa’s judgement.

  Basil Silverbirch and his partner Sage Willow were sprawled in deck chairs near Robin in the shade at the back of the house. Grandpa called Basil and Sage the final vestige of Hippie Heaven. Their beat-up yellow Volvo station wagon with the flowers painted on the side and the sign saying “Whole Health Herbs and Aromatherapy” was pulled up beside an elderberry hedge. The three grown-ups waved as Ty coasted in and leaned his bike against the side of the house.

  “Hi, Ms. Nixon,” he said as he walked over. He nodded at Sage and Willow. “Folks.”

  “My helper,” Robin said.

  “See that,” said Basil.

  Sage nodded, stood and waved Ty to her seat. The boy shrugged and pulled up a sawed-off barrel as a stool.

  “We’ve been meaning to drop in on your mom, Tyler,” Basil said in his slow, singsongy voice. “How’s the Labrador tea working?”

  “And the rosehip candles?” added Sage in a whisper.

  Their house must be awfully quiet. Basil probably wrapped a rag around his hammer before he pounded in a nail. He was tall, balding, thin, and willowy as an asparagus plant. He even wore faded green chinos and a green T-shirt. Grandpa called them funny names like “eco-pacifist-vegetarian hippies.” Ty liked Basil and Sage. They gave the valley a dash of otherworldliness.

  “Robin, you should stop eating white flour or pasta products,” Basil said. “It’s toxic, especially in your condition.”

  Robin just nodded as Basil continued with his recitation of herbal remedies. Arrowroot and wormwood, flax and soy and aromatic oils would help her condition. Tyler tried to look interested. He really believed people should use everything to fight illness — the regular doctor’s prescriptions and the herbalist’s. It was just that Sage and Basil seemed so committed to their beliefs that they made a guy nervous, as if he’d been a bad kid just because he ate a normal meal.

  Basil’s partner turned to Ty and grinned. “You should drop by our shop, Tyler.” Sage did everything in slow motion, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she knew some happy secret. She was short, plump, and warm-looking, wearing gold and brown East Indian baggy pants and a long jumper with a pattern of circles and swirls. Her hair was faded blond in a ponytail with a length of brown hemp knotted to keep it in place. “It must be hard on you, with your mom feeling so bad.” Sage wandered over, moving more like a dancer than a chubby middle-aged woman. She put her hand on Ty’s arm, pulled him up and gave him a hug. “Take lots of Vitamin C. Kava would be good too.” She smelt of lavender and herbs.

  “Cut down on the red meat and sugar,” Basil added. Sage slipped away from their embrace, trailing the sharp smells of garlic, rosemary, and some spice Ty didn’t recognize.

  Ty stood inside his awkward, too fat, too short teen body, blushing, feeling suddenly the centre of attention. Robin came to his rescue. “If you two would excuse us, I’ll just set Ty weeding the garden.”

  “Sure, Ms. Nixon.” Ty didn’t feel he could call her by her first name. After all she was older than his mom.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if you sprouted this summer, young fellow. That’s about when your uncle did, as I recall.” Basil was staring at Ty’s tubby body. He ran his long fingers through his silver hair. “Get lots of calcium in you for good bones. Yoghurt. Major in yoghurt and greens like kale and endive.”

  Ty hoped Basil was right about him sprouting. No guy wanted to be beefy all his life. But Basil could keep his greens. Ty couldn’t stomach them. He nodded goodbye and ran to the old willow where all the garden tools leaned like soldiers on leave. He grabbed the hoe and a white plastic bucket for weeds. Robin moved slowly down the path
past the tomatoes and peppers to the rows of zucchini. She pointed to the intruding weeds. “Take all that advice with a grain of salt, Ty. Decide for yourself.”

  Ty set to work, whistling a pop tune. People were funny. Maybe folk in their valley were stranger than most. Ty didn’t know. He had only been to Vancouver and Victoria a couple of times on school trips. Mom and he had gone to visit Uncle Scott in Calgary once before Veronica came along. All that sun and sky and bare hills, it was a wonder people didn’t get bored. The scenery was so dull. Made Ty glad he lived where there was such lush vegetation, so many tall trees, big mountains, deep lakes. He felt safer, hidden in the valley, like that old car, waiting for the right moment to be discovered.

  The work went quickly. Before Ty knew it, Robin was beside him telling him to come and wash up and have a glass of juice.

  “Did I tell you my niece is coming for the summer?” she asked as they strolled along the path picking off the rare ripe berry and letting it melt on their tongues, so sweet, so perfect. “Seems my brother and his wife think I need help.”

  Suddenly Ty was afraid she wouldn’t need him any more and he’d be stuck at home. He frowned and his shoulders drooped.

  Robin read his body as if it were a book. “Oh, she’s no gardener, Ty. She’s a swimmer, canoeist, runner.”

  Ty nodded.

  “Haley needs to lighten up. Her parents schedule her whole day. I know what my brother is like. His wife’s the same. They may come from different backgrounds but they both believe in education.” Robin picked some dead branches off the strawberry plants. “She’s a really smart kid. You and she should get along great.”

  Just what Ty needed, a smart-aleck girl with muscles and speed. Ty had a build like a tank. He had muscles from working out and wrestling but he was flabby. The Beaton boys called him Tubby and Fatso. He didn’t know where he got his body from — the Grahams were mostly muscle and bone and a thin coating of skin. The Armstrongs were taller and thicker. His mom was a little plump, but that was the medication and sitting around like she did. She used to be pretty active. Before Veronica. Before Scott died.

  “Why don’t I drive you home?” Robin said. “I have to drive into Benton anyway. Throw your bike in the back of the pickup. Toss in the rhubarb plants as well.” She reached for her portable phone to call Ty’s mom. It was best to warn her. Grace didn’t like surprises.

  Ty dug up the rhubarb plants while Robin changed to go to town. She usually wore black leggings with snags and bags and a big grey T-shirt. She changed to newer tights and solid black tennis shoes instead of flip flops.

  When they got to Ty’s house, his mom was on the porch watching for them. She had had a shower, put on a summer skirt and blouse, and combed her hair. Ty grinned. What was going on?

  There was a plate of freshly thawed Granny Graham muffins and a pot of real brewed coffee and folded napkins at each plate.

  “I was thinking I might go into town with you, Robin,” Mom said.

  Then she looked at her son. “I notice someone moved my brother’s car out of the bushes. What about it, Ty?”

  Robin glanced at Ty to see if this was true.

  Ty blushed, felt the red glow in his cheeks, his ears. “I was going to ask you if…”

  “He’s a good kid, Grace,” Robin said.

  “I was going to ask you…” Ty started again, blood pounding in his skull.

  His mom interrupted. “I was afraid that car was going to stay hidden, buried forever. My brother loved that car, treated it like a friend, better than his girlfriend, sometimes I thought better than anybody. He loved that car.” Ty’s mom was picking lint off her blouse, her nervous fingers plucking. “So that’s the car you’re thinking of fixing up, of driving?”

  “I’m sure young Ty didn’t mean any disrespect,” Robin said quietly.

  “I know that, Robin, I know. Scott took great care of that car. Now it’s mine and I’ve let my brother down. I haven’t been able to take care of my kids, my husband, or myself since he died, let alone one beat-up car.”

  “You’ve had a hard time, Grace.” Robin sounded unsure of herself. “Too many bad things in a row. Too much loss.”

  Neither Robin nor Ty knew what to say. All Ty had done was move the car and his mom went on, talking more than he’d heard in a month of Sundays. Sometimes she got excited like this and then went down in the dumps real fast. Ty didn’t want that to happen. If Dad found out Ty had set a bad cycle off, he’d be grounded for eternity.

  “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, up there in my room. Right after Ty left for your place, Leo started barking like a herd of elk was in the yard. I went down to hush him up and saw the car. I knew Lyle wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. I knew Grandpa Graham thought it was jinxed. It had to be Ty.”

  “I didn’t mean….”

  “You want a car. You mentioned it this morning. All teenagers want cars. Lyle had a pickup as soon as the law let him. I had an old Ford I loved. It was a beater, but it got me places.”

  “Ma, if it’s a problem I could just roll it back into the bush.”

  “I know, I know, you don’t want me going into a nosedive.” She sighed out loud. “Can’t you see you’ve just brought me out of one? If the car could be repaired and driven again, it’s a hopeful sign, isn’t it? If my son wants to care for that car, that takes a load off my mind. I can’t feel guilty about the car if you are working on it. It’s one less thing I’ve failed at.”

  Robin interrupted. “So you want to go to town.”

  “I want to see about transferring the car to young Ty for his birthday in August. Sell it to him for a dollar. What do you say to that?”

  Ty couldn’t help himself, he let out a regular Graham war whoop. “Right on.”

  “But you’ve got to promise to fix it good,” Mom said.

  Ty nodded his head. Now he’d have to follow through. His mother’s well-being might depend on it.

  Chapter 8

  After lunch the next day, Ty curled up with the most worn of the two manuals. It said it was a book for complete idiots. He nibbled his bottom lip as he tried to get his mind around the problems facing him.

  His mother had told him the Beetle’s history as they drove into Benton with Robin. Uncle Scott had bought the car from a departing hippie family in the ’80s. The repair books in the car had been left by the former owner, a real mechanic who had taken a week of his time showing Scott the ins and outs of keeping an old VW in tiptop working order. According to Mom, the guy had cried as if he was selling his child into slavery and kissed the hood. Princess had been a loved car.

  The perky red Volkswagen Beetle had never had an accident until Scott skidded off the road into a tree, his mother had said. She’d paused as if there was more to the story. Ty had asked what happened. Ty’s mom had frowned and shaken her head. She’d told him the police didn’t know whether a deer had darted out or a rock had fallen on the road causing him to swerve. “I can’t talk anymore about it, Ty. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine, Ma. That’s enough for now.” Having all that data helped.

  Ty had to get on with the nitty gritty. He sipped a cola and read on.

  The author said there were three kinds of procedures: diagnostic, maintenance, and repair. Diagnostic was the first step: that’s where the car and Ty were. He needed to figure out what was wrong with the car and how to fix the problem if it was minor. The author had some good advice — like follow directions and don’t try to take short cuts.

  Ty wrote himself some notes, just to get the ideas in his head.

  Read each procedure through carefully. (That should be easy.)

  Get the tools and materials ready and sweep the floor before you put the car in the space where you are going to work on it. Have safety equipment ready. Get a friend to help you. (With Nat away at forestry camp, who could he get?)

  Cars are dangerous and deadly weapons. Carbon monoxide is a killer. Gasoline can burn or explode. Jewellery or scarv
es can snag. Use solid wooden blocks, used rims, or jacks to support the car on level ground. Use safety goggles. Disconnect the battery strap. Watch your step when working around dangling wires. (His dad was a walking ad for doing things the safe way. Lyle only had three fingers on his left hand. He’d forgotten to put the guard down on the table saw.)

  Get someone to read the instructions while you are working. Take your time and you will only have to do the job once. (He couldn’t see his mother doing this, or anyone else in his family.)

  When you make a mistake, don’t worry. Other mechanics do that all the time. You can always fix it. Find the right procedure in the manual and follow directions. (Okay for this expert to say.)

  Keep everything clean as you go along. Clean your tools and put them away. Wash your hands and change before you drive the car. (Mom already complained about him using up all the hot water.)

  You must think of this as a work of love or you will fail. Buy good tools. See them as art objects in your hands. (He wasn’t an artist, but he was persistent.)

  Good Luck! (It’s going to take a lot more than luck.)

  Ty lay on the couch with the book on his lap and stared ahead at the maple hutch in the dining room. A misty rain fell, washing the windows. Not enough to really damp things down though. His dad had gone to work with his buddies. Mom and Veronica were reading stories in Veronica’s bed. A small fire crackled in the wood stove, taking the chill off the house. The car sat outside in front of the garage with a boat tarp of Grandpa’s thrown over it. Ty needed to work on the garage before he put the car in there. He wondered what the ghost did in the rain and grinned at his own wild imagination. He didn’t have a friend to read the steps of a procedure to him, any more than he had anyone to tell him how to work on his life. He’d just have to do it alone.