Sunday, March 3, 1918

The next morning, Sarah stood over the chaos in the garage. She had removed every salvageable part from a 1910 Auburn Coupe. In organized piles, springs, gears, rods, shafts and other parts lay across the floor like the carefully dissected organs of a frog. The bright morning sun filtered in through the layer of dust on the windows, dancing on the various collections on the floor.

Sarah stood and arched her back, trying to rid her body of the nagging aches from long hours of hunching over engines and cramped under car bellies. Clasping her hands behind her back, she popped her right shoulder, and that felt so good. As she did that, Sarah looked outside at the lot – a junk yard full of half-fixed vehicles that Uncle Albert had purchased over the years.

Along the back wall of the garage stood a waist-high wood counter. Sarah set the car mirror, brass cowl lights, and horn on the counter top. She dipped a hand into her pants pocket, removed a handful of nuts and bolts, and dropped them into an open drawer. Then she slid four pistons into one of the numerous shelf slots above the counter space.

Sarah stepped outside and started strolling around the lot. She knew every dilapidated car by heart.

A white 1914 Stanley Model 810 Mountain Wagon, ugh.

One red 1916 Apperson Touring Car, not bad.

An apple-green 1912 Lenox with a rumble seat, oh my.

Not to mention two dozen other rust buckets in various near-death stages.

Albert had bought these old cars with the idea of restoring and selling them. There was more money in selling one car than in repairing twenty. Three years ago in '15, he restored and hawked twenty-four cars, clearing over $5,000 that year. In '16, that number dropped to sixteen. Last year, he restored just eight cars and only sold six.

On top of that, Sarah noticed an unsettling change in her uncle's demeanor as if something inside him had been snuffed out. She wondered if he had lost his mind the way her grandpa had in his eighties, always forgetting things and not really caring about anything ... or anyone.

This past January over dinner, Sarah asked Albert about his health. He huffed and said he was fine. And when she tried to coax out of him how many cars he might restore this year, he snapped back. "None of your business!" he said and stormed out of the room.

When March loomed, Sarah offered to restore cars for Albert but he said, "Over my rotting corpse." That led to a heated argument about a woman's place in the world. Sarah contended there were women working in factories. Building bombs for the war. Some even going to the battlefront as nurses. Doing some pretty amazing things. To that, Albert's responses included "What war?" and "Women building bombs, hah!" and "I'll believe that when I see it."

In the end, Sarah managed to convince Albert to let her salvage and sell whatever car parts she could. At least that would bring in a little bit of money. She knew her uncle had a nest egg but she had no idea when that money would run out.

As it was, even looking at these cars brought a churning anxiety in Sarah's gut. It was like one long corroded to-do list. Sarah grimaced as she fixed her gaze at one of the clunkers – a cigar-brown 1911 Paige Detroit Challenger.

"What's the matter?" her uncle called from across the yard. "Something wrong with that car?"

Sarah groaned on the inside. Albert must have noticed her frown of death. In his mind, every car in the lot was in fine shape. But since he wasn't going to restore any of them, she really didn't want to fuel that argument again.

Sarah pasted a smile on her face. "Nothing. I'm just planning my work day. That's all."

"That's a bunch of lip," Albert said.

Sarah let out a small gasp. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Albert's mouth contorted as he approached his niece. "Means you ain't telling me something."

Sarah's smile slid off her face. It went beyond explanation. On practical matters, he was lost. But on personal matters, he could still read her like a book.

Albert pressed. "You got something on your mind, you say it. No reason to hold back. We might not see eye to eye all the time, but you and I are still blood ... family."

"Alright," Sarah said. "I was just thinking about ..."

"Wait, you thinking about those two no good baseball boys, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You think I was wrong to send them off. Am I right?"

Sarah released a faint breath. "I just don't understand why you were so rude to them. They were more than courteous. And besides, Henry was hurt!"

"Trust me," Albert said. "Those boys are nothing but trouble."

Sarah shook her head. "But Uncle Albert," she said, rolling her eyes, "you used to be a baseball player!"

"Exactly!" Albert said. "I been around ball players. I seen how they treat ladies. Seen how they treat each other. It's not a life I want you to be a part of. I'm serious, I don't want them boys coming around here no more."

Sarah blew out a breath in frustration. "You say that about every guy who even looks in my direction. I know you're only trying to look out for me, but I'm twenty years old – a grown woman now. It's time I start looking out for myself. I know you love me, Uncle Albert, but you have to let me live my own life."

Albert paused, wiping his hands on the sides of his overalls. "When your mother asked me to be your godfather, she made me swear, if anything happened to her and your father that I would take care of you. You know, I loved my sister, and I couldn't bear it if anything happened to her only child."

Sarah blinked back tears threatening to overflow. What happened to her parents was horrifying. She pushed back the memories. Shoved them back into the gray box in her mind and slammed the lid shut.

She straightened her body and met Albert's olive-brown eyes. "I appreciate what you've done for me. And I know mother and father would be grateful." Sarah paused, turning her gaze away. "I like fixing cars, but I don't want to be a mechanic forever."

"What do you want to do then?" Albert asked, his voice suddenly weary.

"I don't know," Sarah said, lowering her eyes. "I just know I want something more."

Albert's eyes narrowed in anger. "Is that so? What's wrong with being a mechanic? With having a useful skill you're damned good at? You'd be a fool to give it up."

Sarah bit her inside bottom lip as guilt washed over her expression.

Albert continued. "Besides, being a mechanic will make you an independent woman. But only if you let me teach you the right way to do things."

Sarah's mouth opened slightly. Uncle Albert wanted her to be a mechanic like him. To become independent like him. And that's why he still treated her like a child ... why he kept trying to run her life. He didn't think she was ready.

Sarah felt a year-old anger bubbling in her throat.

"Lord knows, I've tried my best to take care of you," Albert said. "I even built that nice apartment in the back of the lot ... just for you."

"That nice apartment!" Sarah said, almost shouting. "That's nothing but a three-room shack that reeks of motor oil!"

"Oh yeah?!?" Albert shouted. "Then maybe I should use it to store more motor oil, and you can go and rest your head at the bus stop!"

Sarah grunted and started to stomp away.

"Where you think you're going?" Albert hollered.

"I'm going back to my nice apartment!" Sarah yelled. "My lovely piece of luxury ... in the back of the lot!"

Author's Note:

Sometimes a chapter will give me trouble and this was one of them. The "Before" version was a bit all over the place.

What's happened for me, and fellow writers can appreciate this, if you keep working on a particular story long enough, something very interesting and kinda weird starts to happen.

The characters in the story actually start telling their story. Okay, I get it, it's really my thoughts of what the characters are thinking, but you get what I mean. The characters and the story seem to take on a life of their own. It's a good thing.

So with their "imaginary" help and with your "real" help with votes and feedback, that fires me up to keep on writing each and every week!

Behind The Scenes and Dedication:

Albert has the early stages of Alzheimer's. This is NOT a spoiler. I think it's pretty obvious from the description in this chapter. And it's not really a plot point in the story.

Truth is, my mother lived many years with Alzheimer's - a disease that affects not only the individual but the entire family. My brother has Downs Syndrome. Neither of them could live on their own, but together, they took care of each other. I visited them at least two or three times a week, helping with mail and bills and groceries. It took a huge toll on all of us.

But that's WHY I'm writing this story ... as a message of hope that despite great challenges, there is always ... always ... hope.

So this chapter is dedicated to my mom, Gloria, 1933 - 2012.

I'll see you next week.

Best Regards,

Tom