Authors: Monica Ferris
“Oh, it’s not going to be my main car. I’m just going to drive it for fun!”
Phil, never one to spoil a good argument, said, “I could help you get it going, Lars. I started out in steam-driven locomotives.”
“See?” Lars said to Jill.
Phil continued, “And there’s an antique car meet every year right here in Minnesota. They drive from New London to New Brighton.”
“New Brighton?” echoed Betsy. “You mean
our
New Brighton? The Minneapolis suburb?”
Phil nodded. “They finish up in a park in New Brighton, and the mayor comes to shake every driver’s hand. I’ve gone a couple of times to watch them come in. I remember there’s usually a 1901 Oldsmobile, and a 1908 Cadillac, and a spread of Maxwells and Fords. Beautiful old cars—and one year they had those bicycles that have a big wheel up front and a little bitty wheel behind. There’s a big club that runs the thing. People come from all over to drive in it.”
“Are they the Minnesota Transportation Museum people?” asked Martha. “We’ve got some of them right here in town.”
“No, those folks run the street cars and steamboat and a couple of steam locomotives,” said Phil. “This is a different bunch, they only run horseless carriages.”
“An annual meet, huh?” said Lars thoughtfully. “Naw, they probably wouldn’t let me in it with my Stanley. I’d be passing them old explosion-engine people right and left.” He began to circle the table again.
“Chuff, chuff, chuff, wheee-owwww!”
he crowed, working his elbows back and forth. “Get a horse!” He huffed back to Jill and got onto one knee so he could look up appealingly at her. “Ride with me?”
Jill frowned and looked away—only to encounter Betsy’s equally ardent face. “I’ll help. In fact, I’ll be Lars’s sponsor. I’ll pay fees and buy coal or wood, or whatever you burn to make steam. Mention the name of the shop and I’ll split the cost of restoration. Let me ride along, and it won’t cost him a dime. Say yes, Jill, please?”
Jill sighed and looked again at the photo, shaking her head. Betsy looked too, holding her breath, wishing hard. The car was standing on a tarred road against the backdrop of desert scrub and cactus. It gleamed a rich forest green. The wooden wheel spokes were painted yellow, and there appeared to be yellow pinstriping on the body. And Jill was wrong, it did have a top, if that folded hunk of black canvas hanging out over the back seat was any guide.
Something that looked like an old-fashioned vacuum cleaner, complete with hose, was curled up against the passenger’s—no, the steering wheel was on the right,
so against the driver’s side, under the door.
“Strange the photographer didn’t notice when he took the picture that there was a vacuum cleaner still on the running board,” Betsy remarked. The car was gleaming on the outside, so she assumed the inside had also been cleaned and polished.
“It’s not a vacuum cleaner, it’s for when you stop to take on water,” said Lars, rising to point at the device with a big forefinger. “It just sucks it up out of a well or a pond or even a ditch. But you can pull into someone’s yard and use their hose, too.”
“Wow!” said Betsy, thinking how thrilling it would be to have a Stanley Steamer chuff up in front of the shop to ask for a bucket of water. How even more marvelous to be riding in a Stanley. What a thrill!
But Jill didn’t smile, and Lars, realizing at last how deep in the doghouse he was, knelt again. “I know I should have talked to you before I decided to buy it,” he said. “And if you say no, I’ll call back and tell him I’ve changed my mind.”
Betsy closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.
She heard Martha say, “I’ve always wanted to ride in an antique car.”
Then Alice said, “We could make costumes. Waists and long skirts, and great big hats with veils.”
Godwin said, “We could find boaters and celluloid collars, and make spats and close-fitting trousers! Oh you kid!”
Betsy hadn’t thought about costumes. Oh, Jill just couldn’t say no!
Phil added, “I could renew my boiler license easy, if it would make you feel better about this.”
“Please?” said Betsy.
Jill let out a long breath. “Oh, what the heck. I’m not living dangerously enough already, arresting drunk drivers and the occasional murderer Betsy scares up. So sure, Lars honey, go tell the doctor with the bad heart you’ll take his crumpled car off his hands.”
A
few weeks later, Betsy was preparing to close Crewel World for the night. It was a little after five. The last customer had just left. She ran the cash register, made sure there were no sales slips loose on the desk, took forty dollars out of the register to keep as opening-up money for tomorrow, signed the deposit slip Godwin had made out and sent him off with it and the day’s profits.
Then she hurried upstairs to give Sophie her evening meal, put the money into a locked drawer, and change into wool slacks and a heavy sweater. She grabbed her raincoat and a knit hat, dashed back down the stairs and out the back way to her car.
Lars had called in the afternoon to say that he was back with the Stanley, and did she want a ride? She’d
been so excited she nearly forgot to ask him for directions to his new place.
It was less than five minutes away, out St. Alban’s Bay Road a mile and a half, to Weekend Street, a narrow lane about three houses long. Lars, having concluded the sale of his hobby farm, had rented a very modest cottage at the bottom of the lane. It was surrounded by middle-size trees and a lot of brush, but it had a big yard. A driveway led behind the house to a small red barn.
Beside the barn was a long, low, white trailer, like a multihorse trailer, except this one had no windows. It was hitched to Lars’s dirty blue pickup truck, which apparently hadn’t gone to the buyer of his farm.
Betsy steered her car onto the weedy lawn, got out, and went through the open double doors of the barn. Close up, the barn was relatively new, sided vertically with aluminum “boards” and floored with cement. The oil stains on the floor and the big electric winch that ran on an overhead rail announced that this shed was no stranger to people who worked on engines. A workbench along one wall had a vise on it and a pegboard above it with the outline of numerous tools, though the tools presently on it didn’t always match the outlines.
Lars and Jill were both there. Jill, in jeans and windbreaker, had her hands in her back pockets and a worried look in her eye. Lars was just grinning.
The backside of the old car was higher than their heads, a rich, gleaming green. There was no rear bumper, and the single taillight, near the left fender, was a brass oil lamp with a round red eye.
The tires seemed tall, perhaps because they were
narrow. Betsy asked, “What if you get a flat? Do you have a spare?”
Lars said, “No, the spare’s on it. I’m going to have to order a new tire. But I hope it never gets a flat. They have inner tubes and they’re harder than hell to change. But these are fine, and they last a long time,” he added hastily, not wanting to discourage his patron.
He went to wheel a long, narrow, many-drawered steel chest out of the way so Betsy could walk around the car. “He sold me the tool chest, too.”
Jill muttered, “
Takes
lots of tools, I see.”
“No, it doesn’t,” retorted Lars. “No more than most old cars, anyhow. It’s just that some of them are . . . different.”
“How did he wreck it?” asked Betsy, coming to the damaged fender and noting that the big brass headlight was smashed as well. She thought the bulb had been torn out until she saw the other headlight didn’t have a bulb, either. They must not make the kind of bulbs it took anymore.
“Last time he had it out, he was run off the road by a gawker. You got to watch for those gawkers, he told me. Anyhow, the wreck triggered a heart attack, so he figured he’d better sell.”
“Can you get new headlights, too? I see there aren’t any bulbs in these.”
“They don’t come with bulbs, they’re acetylene. But they aren’t very bright, so we don’t run at night.”
“Can you start it?” asked Betsy, coming the rest of the way around it. “I mean, right now? Or is there something wrong with the motor, too?”
“It runs fine,” Lars said firmly, glancing at Jill. “Dr. Fine taught me how to start it and had me do it alone
a couple of times. It’s not hard, but you can’t do it fast. His personal record for getting it powered up was seventeen and a half minutes.”
Lars got out the owner’s manual and consulted it, then checked to make sure there was water and the two kinds of fuel in adequate amounts. The car had several gauges, but not, apparently, a fuel gauge. Lars used a wooden ruler dipped into the tanks to determine fuel levels. “It holds twenty-five gallons of water, seventeen gallons of unleaded gas, and two gallons of Coleman gas, plus a gallon of steam oil, which is a blend of four-hundred-weight oil and tallow.”
“Four hund—” began Jill, but was interrupted by Betsy’s exclamation:
“Tallow?”
“Uh-huh.” Lars, having produced a handheld propane torch from the tool box, was twisting the knob. The torch began to hiss and he lit it with a cigarette lighter. “Y’see, this isn’t an internal combustion engine, it’s a steam engine, so the rules are different. She runs real hot, so you need a lubricant that can take it. He says you get used to the new rules, and they’re good ones, and real safe, only different. Dr. Fine says there’s people in Wisconsin who own Stanleys, and they can help me. Plus there’s a big club I’m gonna join, it’s international, so there’s a good support group.”
Jill remarked to the ceiling, “Unlike AA, these people help you stay with the sickness, not get clean.”
“What?” said Lars. Adjusting the flame of his torch, he hadn’t been paying attention.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Betsy, waving a shushing hand at Jill. “Go on, Lars.”
“Anyhow, this club can tell me where I can get the stuff I need to keep her running.” He put a big,
caressing hand on the intact front fender, then went to the back of the car and turned a flat steel knob on a copper tank. Then he went to the front—Betsy and Jill following—and began playing the torch through a pair of silver-dollar-size holes at the base of the hood, which, Betsy suddenly noticed, was shaped like a fat oval, not flat on the sides like ordinary cars.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting the pilot light started.”
Betsy laughed uncertainly, but Lars said, “I have to get it hot before I can turn on the gasoline.”
After a few minutes, satisfied that the pilot light was operating properly, Lars got into the car. He opened another valve, then began to pump a long handle back and forth. “Getting the gasoline started,” he explained.
He got out again and showed Betsy the two small, recurved nozzles that came from under the car and ran into the holes he’d been playing the torch into. “Feel,” he said, running a finger across one of the nozzles.
Betsy complied, but yanked her hand away from the strong, fine spray. “What’s that, water?”
“No, gasoline.”
Betsy sniffed her fingertip and was shocked to realize Lars was right. “You mean it just sprays out in the open like that?”
“Sure. It has to mix with the air as it goes into those two holes.”
“That can’t be safe!” exclaimed Jill. “Spraying gasoline like that, you’ll get a vapor that will explode.”
“No, you get a vapor that will burn,” said Lars.
“Why doesn’t it mix in the cylinder—” Betsy stopped.
“Because then it would be an internal combustion engine,” Lars confirmed with a grin.
Suddenly a low, eerie
whooooooooooo
began to sound from the car. Jill grabbed Betsy by the arm and ran her out of the barn. When they looked around and Lars wasn’t behind them, Jill shouted, “Get out! Get out! It’s going to blow!”
“No, it isn’t!” called Lars, his voice filled with laughter. “It’s called singing! She sings when she’s building a head of steam!”
“Cool!” said Betsy, shrugging her elbow loose from Jill’s grip. She would have gone back, but Jill took her by the arm again.
Lars came out to the doorway. “Soon as we get to four hundred and fifty pounds of pressure, we can head on down the road.”
“Four hundred and fifty pounds!”
Jill exclaimed, then murmured in Betsy’s ear, “Don’t go, don’t go.”
But Betsy again shrugged free and this time did go back inside to watch as Lars continued the process of starting up, tapping a gauge on the dashboard, pumping up the gasoline, nodding as he checked his owner’s manual; and was reassured by the big man’s happy confidence. After all, he’d gone through all this just a couple of days ago, and surely he’d notice if things were going differently. Right?
It took about twenty minutes. The “song” of the boiler slowly rose in tone, then stopped. Lars opened the passenger side door, clambered over into the driver’s seat, and said, “All aboard!”
Jill warned, “You are crazy, Betsy, if you get into that contraption with him.”
But Betsy stepped up onto the running board, feeling
the springiness of the suspension, then up again into the passenger seat of tufted black leather. “This is so high!” she said. She automatically began feeling around for a seat belt, then laughed at herself. “Let’s go, Lars!”
“You sure you’re not coming?” Lars asked Jill, who in reply backed onto the grass and waved them off.
The car had not made a sound since it left off “singing,” and there was not the faintest vibration to show that a motor was running. As Betsy watched, Lars depressed two small pedals crowded together on the floor, and then slowly moved a silver lever up a slice-of-pie metal holder on the steering column.
With a quiet
chuff, chuff
the car moved smoothly backward. Lars steered it to the left, moved the lever downward, and pushed on the third pedal on the floor. The car stopped.
“Yay!” he cheered softly, and Betsy realized he was a little nervous after all. He grinned and waved at Jill then moved the lever up the pie slice, and the car, this time in absolute silence, went down the driveway to Weekend Lane and up to St. Alban’s Bay Road. Lars braked nearly to a stop at the road, then turned left. As they moved out, he became bolder and moved the throttle lever up a little more. The car, still making no noise at all, began to gain speed.
“Wow!” cheered Betsy.
“Wow!”
There was no vibration, no chuff-chuffing, just smooth acceleration.
Lars, his grin broadening, winked at her and pulled a lever under the steering wheel. A very loud whistley racket let loose. Steam roiled up all around them. Betsy would have jumped out of the car, but Lars grabbed her by the shoulder. “Ha, ha!” he cheered, and blew the whistle again.
This time Betsy yelled in delight. It was safe, this was great! Coming to a stop sign, Lars braked, but the car didn’t slow. He slammed the throttle down, and tramped hard on the brake, but they were only slowing as they entered the intersection. He pulled the wheel hard right and they leaned very dangerously going around the corner. Despite the narrow tires, the car didn’t slide or skid and Betsy grabbed the gasoline pump lever to keep from being thrown out. Once onto the even narrower road, the car righted itself.
“Wow!” exclaimed Betsy yet again, and Lars laughed and reopened the throttle.
There were trees crowding close on either side, the last bits of sun twinkling through the branches. The upright windshield blocked the wind, rapidly cooling as the sun went down, so she felt quite comfortable.
“Yah-hooo!” Lars cheered and blew the whistle as he pushed the lever up a little more. In a smooth, continuing silence the car answered the call, speeding up effortlessly. It was weird, it was surprising, it was wonderful.
Betsy began to laugh; she couldn’t help it. It was like the first time she’d gone sailing.
Lars began to experiment with the car, slowing to a crawl, accelerating to about forty—there was no speedometer—slowing again. As he came nearly to a stop, he stomped suddenly on the pair of pedals, and the car jumped instantly backward with a little squeal of rubber. He lifted his foot and the car jumped right into forward again. “Look, Ma!” he said. “No transmission!”
“What—you didn’t break something, did you?” asked Betsy.
“No, no, no. The Stanley brothers invented a steam
car with a transmission, but sold the rights, so when they wanted to try steam again, they had to figure a way around the patents. They couldn’t get around the transmission patent, so they invented a car without a transmission. The motor turns the axle directly, no gears. The engine turns over once, the wheels go around once.”
“Uh-huh,” said Betsy, not sure if this was brilliant or troublesome.
A hill, not high but fairly steep, was ahead, but the car forged up it with no hesitation. “See? Torque to burn!” cheered Lars.
And Betsy, who happened to know a little about engineering because her father had been an engineer, realized that the lack of gearing was the reason for the torque. Brilliant, she decided.
Around another corner, they were on Excelsior Boulevard, which ran parallel to Highway 7. The highway was crowded with commuters on their way home from work, but several dared to slow down when they saw the Stanley, and two or three honked.
Betsy waved happily at them, and Lars showed off a little bit by blowing the whistle, causing an unaware driver to swerve dangerously. The road was flat and clear along this stretch. They came to Christmas Lake Road, which crossed Highway 7 and joined Excelsior Boulevard. Commuters who lived in Excelsior were backed up on the highway, waiting to make the turn. They crowded onto Excelsior when the light changed. There was only a stop sign for Lars, and he seemed in no hurry to bully his way into the stream of traffic. Waiting for the traffic to clear, he checked his gauges.