“Of course he isn’t!” barked Jill. “Steam?” she said to Lars. “Like a locomotive?”
“Yeah, just like a locomotive, except it’s a car. Isn’t that great? It’s got the original boiler in it!”
“From
“The boiler on a Stanley never blows. Ever. And there are lots of them still out there on the road. There’s a whole organization of people who drive them. And there’s all kinds of places that make parts for it, tires and windshields and all. The owner is an old guy, a doctor, who can’t work on it himself anymore, he’s got heart problems.” He shifted his ardent gaze to Betsy, whose expression was much more receptive than his girlfriend’s. “I found this old book by a guy who got a hold of a Stanley and got it running. He tells some stories in that book that about had me rolling on the floor.” Thinking about the stories in the book made his blue eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth turn up. Lars was a good-looking man, and when amused and enthusiastic, he was irresistible.
Betsy said, “Will you take me for a ride in your Stanley Steamer, Lars?”
Jill turned away and walked back to the table, where she put a great deal of meaning into the way she sat down.
Lars didn’t notice. He continued eagerly to Betsy, “Nobody knows how fast the Stanley Steamer can go, ’cause as long as you hold the throttle open, it just keeps on accelerating. In 1906 it set the world land speed record of a hundred and twenty-seven miles an hour. There’s a picture of it in this guy’s book of the special chassis they put on it, like a canoe. In 1907 they tried again-it was on Daytona Beach in Florida -and this time, at over a hundred and fifty, it hit a bump and the air got under it, and it actually took off, like an airplane!” Lars’s hand described a shallow arc. “Of course, it crashed after a few dozen yards, but just think, over hundred and fifty, and that
“In 1907? That’s amazing!”
Lars continued, “Most cars back then could manage about twenty-five miles an hour going downhill with a tail wind, so it isn’t amazing, it’s
“But then it crashed,” murmured Jill, bowing her head. “Lord, help us not to forget that little part, amen.”
Several other members of the Monday Bunch snickered softly.
Lars, aware at last that he had lost Jill, went to her to show her the color photo again. He said in a wheedling voice, “Just look at it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Look at the shape, so beautiful and old and classy. It’s got brass trim and wooden wheels, and look at those big old lamps for headlights. Plus, it doesn’t have a horn like other cars, but a whistle!” Lars shrilled a creditable imitation of a steam train whistle.
Phil and the women laughed.
Jill, her voice sounding strained from her attempt to be reasonable, said, “Listen to me, Lars. This car has got to be dangerous. It’s more than ninety years old, and it’s been in a wreck. And it’s a steam-powered automobile. That’s something they tried and gave up on, or why isn’t every car on the road today powered by steam? And look at this thing, it hasn’t even got a roof! What are you going to do when winter comes?”
“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
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.
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.”
2
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
