A Labor for Love

She ain't much, Daniel admitted to my grandmother, but she's all mine.

Nana wiped her hands on her apron and walked a slow, careful circle around the old Chevy. It was rusted in several places, the upholstery was torn and ragged, none of the tires matched and the paint was flaking. There was a strong smell of exhaust around it, one headlight and both brake lights were shattered and the antenna hung by a thin thread of wire. Nana poked and prodded, cautiously opened one of the doors and peered in, ran her hands over the dash and steering wheel, adjusted the side mirrors. She'll do fine, she told Daniel with a smile, she'll do just fine. Daniel gave a loud victory whoop and without warning grabbed my grandmother around the waist and hugged her tightly. Go on with you, she said as she struggled out of his grip and playfully slapped at his hands, Best put her in the garage. Daniel nodded and managed to push the old wreck inside where it sat side by side her grand old Lincoln, a study in contrasts if ever there was one.

He worked on the car every day the remainder of the summer, coming in the early evening and staying well past dark. He sanded, primed and painted, replaced every worn out part, washed, waxed, rebuilt the engine, drained and replaced every fluid. He did it all by hand and lantern light, patiently and meticulously. Nana sometimes brought him sandwiches and cold bottles of Orange Crush as he worked and after a few weeks had passed, she took him an old battery powered radio along with a bucket of soap and water and an armful of clean towels. He thanked her regularly and kept working. What in the name of God is all this about? my mother demanded but Nana would say nothing save that Daniel had needed a place to work on the car and she had volunteered the garage space. If anyone else in the small village knew anything, much to my mother's frustration, they weren't talking either. Until one mid-August night when Daniel arrived at the back door in an ill fitting suit, shabby but clean shirt and tie, freshly shaved and smelling of Old Spice and ginger hair tonic. He produced a bouquet of flowers and wild asparagus for my grandmother and then shyly led us all out to the garage.

The old Chevy had been transformed and it shone in the late evening light. When Daniel turned the key, it sprung to life instantly, smoke free and vibration free, purring like the proverbial kitten and gliding smoothly out onto the backyard. The paint was fire engine red with matching velvet upholstery and every inch of chrome glistened and gleamed. Even the radio worked - we could hear Curt Gowdy's raspy voice doing the play by play of a baseball game all the way from Fenway Park. Daniel was beside himself as he showed my grandmother the rear vanity plate that read simply "4ALICE".

A Sunday or two later, Daniel's daddy, Davidson, and his mother, Alice, who had as the saying goes, lived for over 30 years without benefit of marriage, were wed in the small village church. Amid tears and and a hailstorm of rice, they drove off in a fire engine red '57 Chevy.