Camden's Knife

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  He thought about calling Tyler, or his friends Gene and Tris, to see if any of them might want to go along for the ride. On second thought, he decided that he’d be better off going alone because, after all, this was serious business. He was getting ready to pay his entire savings for an automotive bangle he didn’t need.

  Somewhere, sometime in a past he couldn’t remember, he thought maybe he’d seen one, a red 1967 Ford Mustang. It might have been in a movie or in a parking lot, probably he guessed when he was very young. In his 20’s he could have saved and borrowed and purchased one in good running order but his real dream was a fully restored beauty, a classic. And it had to be for cash.

  He’d reached a point where he felt he deserved this luxury. For the past year or so he’d been looking into prices and conditions and rust and oil leaks. He’d actually gone to see four different cars but none of them seemed to match the model he pictured in his mind. The one Hendricks was selling sounded like the best possibility yet so he dialed up the Avis location a few blocks away to reserve a Cherokee. The manager Rudy said it was funny he’d called because the shop had just drawn this month’s Frequent Driver winner so a car of his choosing, except the luxury rides, was his for a week, on the house.

  A few hours later, when he pulled up to the address written in his trans, he was surprised by what he saw. Somehow he expected a run-down green cottage with four or five abandoned car frames strewn about the yard. He’d pictured a pile of tires here, a leaking battery there, a pregnant woman holding a child’s hand and standing on the broken-down stairs. Instead, he found himself in front of a large modern house with an immaculate front yard in a relatively new neighborhood. There was a small pond directly behind it and a larger one with a fountain to the right.

  He walked to the front door and rang the bell, waited for a moment then rang it again. He was looking up at the address when he heard the lock being unbolted. The door opened and a man smiled.”Dave Stonetree?” After a nod of acknowledgment he was ushered into the foyer.

  The interior was open and bright with paintings and lithographs hung attractively on most of the walls, some easily those by a young Peter Max, others probably by Salvador Dali. Retro jazz played in the background, the saxophone purring Stan Getz. Hendricks asked if he’d like a beer and he agreed a cold one would be fine. He sat down on a couch in the high-ceilinged family room and amused himself for a few moments reading the titles on the books stacked neatly in a squat, two shelf bookcase on rollers.

  He returned shortly with two bottles of Newcastle Brown and an ashtray. He deposited the ashtray on the square glass coffee table, sat beside his guest then lit a cigarette.

  He looked tan and relaxed as if he’d just returned from vacation. Although not emaciated, he appeared to be capable of carrying another ten pounds on his frame without any trouble. He wore a pair of gray denims and a fashionably tailored shirt, his thick brown hair parted down the middle, a little long and a little messy.

  “So Dave,” he began, “what can I do for you today?”

  “Well, Mr. Hendricks…”

  “Call me Jay. Please.”

  “Well, Jay,” he continued, “I believe you have an automobile I might be interested in purchasing.”

  “That’s a new Cherokee you’ve got out there, isn’t it? What would a person with a car like that want with a ‘67 pony car? Do you have a kid who just got a license?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’ve just always wanted one, I guess. Where is it?”

  “In the garage. Are you sure you aren’t a dealer?”

  “No, really,” he protested.”I just want a car. A Mustang. You did tell me it was red, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, it’s red. Black leather interior.”

  “No kidding? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one with a leather interior.”

  “Custom black leather. It gets pretty hot in the summer.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette, then a sip of beer, eyeing Stonetree with an apparent mixture of suspicion and amusement.”You sure you’re not a dealer?”

  “Really. Uh, if I can ask Mr. Hendricks…Jay…why do you care whether I’m a dealer or not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’d like to see the car go to a good home rather than put it out on the streets with just anybody. Did you ever have a dog?”

  “No.”

  “I had a dog once. When I left for school my mother was going to move to a smaller place, somewhere that old dog wouldn’t have room to run.”

  Stonetree didn’t respond.

  “So we gave it a shot. Seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. You follow me?”

  Stonetree nodded.”I think so.”

  “Anyway, I just want to make sure it’s not left at somebody’s summer house to rust.” He hesitated for a moment.”I’m sorry. Am I making any sense to you?”

  “Sure. I think I understand. You must have had it for a long time.”

  “Nope. Just a couple of years. That’s it.”

  Stonetree leaned back on the couch and absently scratched his elbow.”Now I’m sorry. I guess I am a little confused.”

  Hendricks reached for another cigarette and left the room for a moment, apparently to change the recording that had just ended.”Anything you’d like to hear?” he called.

  “No thanks.”

  He soon heard a more pop sounding tune coming from the speakers but couldn’t place the artist, a female with a rich, resonant voice singing about being away from the city beat, safe from crime. Hendricks returned, a small basset hound trailing after him.”Rick,” he said, addressing the animal.”I want you to keep your mouth shut and listen to this conversation. You might learn something.” He turned to Stonetree.”So what’s the top end on that car of yours?” he asked, sitting down again.

  “The Jeep? I really don’t know. I’ve had one up to 75 a couple of times. I suppose it could do 90, maybe 100.”

  Hendricks chuckled.”You might be in for a treat, then. The Mustang has a 390 V8 with a four barrel carburetor. I took it out in the country last November and buried the damn needle before I got pulled over. Cop said I was doing 128…”

  Stonetree winced.

  “…but he only wrote 80 on the ticket. Nice guy. Never showed up in court either, so I walked. That car can fly when you want it to.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never driven a car that fast.”

  “Neither had I. Guess I was just in an aggressive mood. Wanted to blow off a little steam.” He paused.”Not as good as a weight bag but better than a massage.”

  They sat not speaking for a moment. Hendricks stared vacantly at one of the lithos while Stonetree tried to make sense out of the snippets of information about the car and about Hendricks but couldn’t discern a pattern. The vocalist on the stereo was now singing a song about someone named Davey.

  “Did you put this on for my benefit?”

  “What?” Hendricks replied, broken from his reverie.”Put what on?”

  “This album. The song…about Davey.”

  “Oh.” He smiled.”No, I hadn’t thought about it. What do you do for a living?”

  “Right now I’m an accountant.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s all right. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “And you’re a…”

  “I write. Paint. Invent things. Hang out.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Stonetree said with a hint of apology in his voice, “but I would like to see the car now if you don’t mind.”

  “So you think you know your cars?”

  “I am a subscriber to Mustang Monthly.”

  His host smiled and nodded.”North American, European or Australian editions?”

  “I…uh…Australian edition?”

  Hendricks stood and motioned for his guest to follow. In the dining room, he pointed to a tall bookcase containing neatly stacked piles of magazines on all five shelves.”The one in the middle.”

  Stonetree stepped a
cross to take a look. Yup, he thought. There was an Australian edition. But as they were about to return to the family room, the art decorating the walls caught his eye. The seven paintings were clearly a newcomer’s attempt at channeling Van Gogh. Three contained stapelia plants, others chairs and tables and seashells. The best was an obvious reference to the master’s Bedroom in Arles.”Who’s the artist?”

  “Beats me. Bought ’em years ago at an estate sale. Kind’a thought they’d all look nice in a…dining room?”

  “They do.”

  “Speaking of looking nice…grab your beer and wait on the driveway,” Hendricks said as he pointed to the front door.”I’ll bring it right out.”

  Stonetree stepped outside and leaned against a small tree. One of the doors of the three port garage opened and he heard a sound like cloth being pulled. Probably a tarp he guessed, and a good omen. At least the guy cared about appearances. In a moment he heard a door slam followed by an engine turning over.

  Hendricks backed the machine slowly onto the driveway, pausing a moment more before shutting the engine off and gingerly sliding out of the front seat. Stonetree couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The car sparkling before him could easily have been plucked from a showroom in Detroit in 1967, then magically transported to the spot on which it now stood. The body and paint were immaculate, not a dent or scratch to be seen. He slowly circled it trying to find an imperfection but couldn’t see one. The finish gleamed in the midday sun and there wasn’t a hint of corrosion or even dirt. The bumpers were perfect. The tires seemed to have most of their tread. The hubcaps twinkled. It was too good to be true. Hendricks unlocked the trunk so he eagerly moved to join him, wanting to see what treasures the compartment contained. It was spotless, holding only a spare tire, a jack assembly, a cardboard box and a black briefcase which the owner removed. Hendricks motioned for Stonetree to follow him back into the house, which he did, transfixed. He gazed at the car for as long as he could, tripping over the front stoop in the process.

  “I’d like a fresh one,” Hendricks said, picking up his beer can and shaking it.”Could I interest you?”

  “Please.”

  When he returned, Stonetree complimented him on the art collection and asked which piece was his favorite. The man rubbed his chin a few times then pointed to the one behind him, the smallest of all. It was one of the Max’s, showing a woman in profile wearing a black gown with a huge purple bouffant, smiling as she played with a flock of butterflies.”Galaxy Lady.” He gestured to the others.”How about you?”

  “I like that one,” he replied, then focused on a much larger serigraph, also a woman in profile but only a face offset by a kaleidoscopic tower of hair.”But the one over the fireplace would be my choice.”

  “Ah. Blushing Beauty, from his Ladies of the Eighties series.”

  “The eighties? Had it appraised lately? I’d bet that with all the hoopla about all things of the eighties it’s probably risen in value.”

  “I’d never sell it, or Galaxy for that matter.” He paused.”I didn’t buy ’em to sell ’em. Do you know what it’s worth, Rick?” he continued, looking to his pet.”Surely you must know. You’re an intelligent animal.”

  The dog didn’t respond. Hendricks turned to Stonetree and shrugged.”He really is an intelligent creature.”

  Stonetree took a sip of his beer.”I take it the briefcase has something to do with the car?” he asked, eyeing it.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It was in the trunk.”

  “Do you have a briefcase?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ever put it in the trunk of a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hendricks shrugged again and reached for his drink. Stonetree motioned with his hand for him to elaborate but the man only grinned and shrugged a third time.

  Stonetree took another sip of his beer and asked if he could bum a cigarette. After lighting it and inhaling deeply he asked his host how long he’d lived in the house.

  “About four years now. It needs a good cleaning but aside from that, not a bad crib.”

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Right now I do. Used to be married…actually I guess I still am. My wife took her kids back to Michigan a year ago; said she needed to think. I haven’t heard from her so I guess she’s still thinking.” He stood and stretched.”Have you ever been married, Dave?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “It’s got its good points. It’s got its bad points. If the good outweigh the bad, you’ve got no problems.”

  “Did your wife own the Mustang?” he asked.

  Hendricks laughed, then lifted the case.

  “My uncle was in college in the early 60’ and for some reason got tossed out. Busy playing baseball or something. Anyway, he came back home and got a job in a bank. A few months later he received a draft notice and seeing he’d taken some ROTC he enlisted in the army, hoping he might be able to get into Officers’ Candidate School.”

  “That was when Vietnam was happening.”

  “Sure was. So he was accepted into OCS and after he graduated they shipped him over to Southeast Asia to command a company or platoon, whatever it is the second lieutenants were given. He was about three months away from the end of his hitch when he and his boys got sent out to a fire camp. I’m not sure what that is either but it was in the middle of nowhere. So each morning they had to walk around this camp to see if any bombs or booby traps had been set the night before. Let me know if this gets too boring for you.”

  Stonetree shook his head.

  “So they’re walking through the brush about five yards apart from each other talking about what they were going to do when they get home. One guy wanted to go to Florida, one guy wanted to go back to school, one guy wanted to open a store. The guy walking next to my brother, his radio operator, said all he wanted to do was buy a new car. A red 1967 Mustang. So they get about fifty feet away from the camp and somebody trips a wire rigged to a detonator. These land mines go off and his radio guy, his medic, and seven other of his men are killed. A couple more lose an arm or a leg. Uncle Jim gets blown back about 30 feet and gets up, not a scratch on him.”

  Stonetree took another, larger sip of beer. Hendricks picked up his can but then set it back on the table.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “when Jim got back from Vietnam, one of the first things he did was to go out and buy this car, right off the lot, with almost every option available. Air-conditioning, AM-FM radio, custom leather interior, big engine. Everything. But he didn’t buy it to drive it. He bought it to remember life can be fragile, that you should stop once in a while and be thankful for things you might otherwise take for granted.”

  “I don’t get that last part,” Stonetree said.”I mean, what’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that the car became a symbol of sorts, I don’t know, his own way of thanking whoever or whatever controls all of this.”

  Stonetree stared back as blankly as Rick.

  “The day he bought the Mustang he bought another car. A Buick or something. The Mustang got put away in storage under a tarp up on blocks. He’d drive it only two days a year, on his birthday and on Thanksgiving. That was it. He never saw combat again and stayed in the Army for 20 years. Got out a full bird, a colonel, and started a security consulting business. He had that damn thing shipped all over the world and had it put up on blocks every winter. It went anywhere he went. Cost him a fortune. But he kept taking it out only twice a year, one day each in August and November. It was in Illinois, Germany twice, Colorado twice, Japan, Hawaii. You name it.”

  Stonetree was stunned. He had to have it. He’d never wanted anything more in his life.

  “Pretty good story, huh?” Hendricks asked.

  “I’m speechless. Only two days a year?”

  “Well, maybe two days a year is a bit of hyperbole. Uncle Jim didn’t count maintenance runs as he called them. Driving it to a dock, taking it home, putting
it in storage. You can judge yourself from the log.”

  “The log?”

  “Yeah,” Hendricks replied, opening the briefcase.”He kept a kind of journal if you will, about where the car went, how many miles, where he drove it. This case has got some great stuff in it. What the weather was like, who was with him, what he was thinking about.”

  Stonetree got up to look as Hendricks set it down on the coffee table and sorted through the contents.

  “Let’s see. He’s got the owner’s manual. Here’s the original price sticker from the window. Three thousand four hundred dollars and change. Can you believe that? Here’s the warranty…that’s not worth too much anymore. He’s got all of the shipping documents, all of the maintenance bills, all the receipts for gas.”

  Stonetree wanted to touch the papers but instead sat down on the edge of the couch.

  “I’ve got the original plates from the car. There’s a 1967 Maywood, Illinois vehicle sticker that was on the windshield. It’s all here. Even the stuff I’ve added.” He stopped and thought for a second.”And I’ve driven it only twice a year. On Thanksgiving and on his birthday.”

  Stonetree leaned back into the cushions. He felt exhausted as if he’d just spent an entire night watching vigil at a shrine. This wasn’t a car, it wasn’t an antique. It was a relic.

  “All of the equipment’s original. The brakes, the tires, the shocks, the transmission, the engine. Even the lights. The battery was replaced five years ago, and of course all of the filters have been changed a number of times. The oil’s been drained every winter, along with the gas tank. It’s been waxed and tuned every spring. I forgot to look when I pulled it out, but I think the mileage is eight thousand three hundred and forty-three.”

  Stonetree took a deep breath.”Eight thousand three hundred and forty-three miles? That’s it?”

  “That is it. The only addition is a new stereo system under the dash and a couple of triaxials I installed. Those go with it. You could have them removed and no one would ever know they’d been there. I’ve still got the original radio, if you want to switch. It’s in the box in the trunk with the factory speakers.”