Little Red

NTT Short Story

This short story is from one of fellow blogger Kevin’s previous No Theme Thursday images.

Living in Duluth has its pros and cons, but that afternoon at the shop, I couldn’t think of too many pros. The  December light was thin and the sky, like most days, a slate gray.

Out in the yard, through the grimy shop windows, was my inventory: three acres of junked cars. They were covered with snow and here and there were oily puddles. 

The walkie talkie at the end of the counter squawked and I picked it up. “Yeah, Mal,” I said. “Whatcha got?”

My tow truck driver spoke. “An old Ford pickup, late 40s or early 50s. It was in a barn. Somebody bought the place and they want it gone. You want it?”

I thought for a second. Most of my pick-and-pull cars were less than ten years old. I wasn’t sure who’d want parts from a car that old, but it might be interesting. “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

“10-4,” said Mal. “Be there in a few.”

The flashing orange lights on the top of Mal’s wrecker announced his arrival. I put on my heavy winter coat and went out to meet him. He drove around the yard, behind the junkers, and pulled up in front of the office. He got out and lit a smoke.

He started to say something, but I was no longer listening.  The orange lights flashed in my face, but I barely noticed. The years fell away as I looked at what he had brought me.

Little Red. 

It had started earlier that year, in spring. It began with simple things: Misplaced keys, a forgotten appointment. Nobody got too excited; when you’re 73, it comes with the territory.

But when I started forgetting names, blanking out, having trouble with my hands, my daughter Deanna insisted on taking me to the doctor. 

They poked and prodded, showed me cards with words and pictures, asked me to repeat things they’d told me. I noticed a few glances.

They sent me to Northside hospital and as I laid on my back inside the MRI machine with the clunking and banging, I wondered how it had come to this.

It was the summer of ‘69 and a different kind of day in Duluth, a warm June afternoon. The wind was from the east and I could smell the clean smell from Lake Superior. Dandelions moved in the wind, but I was focused on something else. 

I looked doubtfully at the pickup. It was dented and rusted, and the engine ran roughly. When I tugged on the throttle cable, the engine revved and I heard some pinging noises.

Mr. Turner stood by as I lifted covers and ran my fingers under things. I may have only been 17, but I’d worked on cars enough to know my way around. He lit his pipe with a silver lighter.

“So?” he finally asked. His cheeks went in and out as he got his pipe going. “It’s always done me right. A little body compound, some paint, and it’ll be good as new.”

I finished and wiped my hands on a rag. “I dunno,” I said. “Seems to be leaking fluid from the head somewhere and the valves sound funny. I’m thinking it needs a lot of work.” 

He looked at me, then the engine, and blew out a cloud of blue smoke. “OK, tell ya what. You’re a good kid, I know your folks. A hundred bucks and it’s yours.” He pointed the pipe at me. “You’ll not do any better.”

We shook and I handed him five twenties. Little Red was mine.

I sat with Deanna in Doctor Gottdeiner’s office. He looked uncomfortable. Uh oh.

He swiveled his computer monitor so we could see. He pointed. “See this area here? And here?” He looked at us. “Classic atrophy of the hippocampus. No questions. I’m afraid, Mr. Starnes, that you have middle-stage Alzheimer’s.” 

Deanna gripped my knee tightly.

When you’re working on cars, it certainly helps if your dad owns a junkyard. My twenty-year old pickup had a lot of relatives on our lot and I swapped out so many parts that I practically created a new engine and drive train.

That whole summer, I worked on Little Red in between making runs in the tow truck for Dad. Most of our inventory were involved in accidents; others stopped running and fixing them wasn’t worth it. Some were simply abandoned. 

But regardless of how we ended up with them, I had this weird ability to sit in a car and get an instant read on things. Flashes of images, sounds, smells… they told me much. Some were happy vibes; families on trips, young people on a date. Others were more neutral, trips back and forth to work, shopping.

But others were darker. I felt fear, anger. I never knew what had happened, but these gave me the creeps.

But with Little Red, it was different. The first time I sat in her at Mr. Turner’s, I got absolutely nothing. I waited, but it was just a comfortable silence. It was like the past had been erased, a blackboard wiped with a damp cloth. Little Red and me were starting from scratch and I loved her for that.

By early August, Mr. Turner’s prediction had come true. I buffed the last bit of turtle wax from the fender and stood back; the change was nothing less than remarkable. In the late afternoon, the soft lighting made her look like a glossy ad in a showroom brochure. 

I heard Dad come up behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder and we had a moment. He sat in it and noted all my personalizations; the hang ten accelerator and parking brake. The Hurst shifting knob. The AM/FM radio and the Kenwood speakers.

He got out and patted me on the shoulder before heading inside for dinner. “Proud of you, Dylan,” he said.

By the time I saw Little Red on that gray December afternoon after all those years, I was really beginning to struggle with things.  Faces, names. I’d forgotten how to play the piano. People would tell me something and if I didn’t write it down, I’d immediately forget.

I was becoming frustrated, irritable; little things were setting me off. I didn’t know how much longer I was going to be able to run my salvage business.

But as I looked at Little Red in the flashing orange light, peace filled me. I remembered summer days in the salvage yard on my back, pulling pieces off of other Ford pickups. My tinny little transistor radio picked up KQDS, and they played my favorite songs.

As Mal watched, I opened the driver’s side door; pine needles and papers fell out. The bench seat was mildewed and torn and there were empty booze bottles on the floor. I slid behind the wheel and grasped it at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions.

I was not prepared for what happened next.

The summer of 1969 was a honeymoon for me and Little Red. We drove all the way around Lake Superior, 1300 miles, and not one hiccup. I camped under the stars in Little Red’s bed.

Things got even better that year. When school started, I asked out Kristy Sorensen. She was way out of my league, but she accepted my invitation to go see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Somehow, Little Red calmed me down on our first date and I guess I made enough of an impression on Kristy that we had a second, then a third date. We walked by the lake, holding hands, and talked until late in the night about many things, deep things. We started going steady and realized we had something special. The first time for both of us happened that October. 

We were parked by a seawall overlooking Lake Superior; there was a beautiful sunset. We talked until the autumn stars came out. Our song came on and our kisses became more hungry, urgent; I reached behind the seat for a big checkered quilt I kept back there. She laughed as I wrapped us in its musty embrace.

Far overhead, we heard the faint honking of migrating geese as they called to each other.

I looked down at Kristy, faint in the light of the radio. “They mate for life, you know,” I said. 

She smiled at me that smile I loved for the next 39 years. There was never any doubt. “Honk, honk,” she said and kissed the end of my nose.

When I put my hands on Little Red’s steering wheel, I marveled that nothing had changed; that tiny crack behind the wheel at 10 o’clock was still there, instantly recognizable. I shifted in my seat.

I felt it at first, more than seeing or hearing it; a low thrumming sound from somewhere deep inside, a flywheel slowly turning over. The pitch increased and I felt a warmth in my chest. For a moment, I was scared; was I having a heart attack?

The warmth spread up to my head and my eyes watered. I saw colors, vivid colors; the flashing orange lights from Mal’s tow truck were almost unbearable. My ears crackled like they do on a descending airplane followed by a whine. Panic began to rise.

But then it all quieted and I heard a voice, a familiar, beloved voice that I had not heard for almost twenty years.

Dylan. You’re OK. It’s me.

Kristy. 

Doctor Gottdeiner swiveled his computer screen back toward his side of the desk. He looked concerned and sorrowful.

“We’ll start him on Aricept right away,” he said. “That might slow the progression of the disease. But nothing will stop it, I’m afraid.” The way they spoke like I wasn’t even there was troubling; I might just as well already be in a nursing home.

Deanna dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “What… what can we expect?” she asked. “I mean, how long—“

Doctor Gottdeiner interrupted her. “Every case is different. Memory, cognitive abilities, motor skills. There’s just no way to predict.” 

He looked at me. “Dylan,” he said. “If there are any bucket list items you want to do, do them.”

Deanna cried and blew her nose.

Kristy and I got married on a bright June afternoon in 1970 as soon as we graduated. 

My folks helped us buy a little two-bedroom house not far out of town and we broke it in properly; no room was overlooked, although some were more comfortable than others. 

Little Red was well-known around Duluth and everywhere we went, Kristy’s St. Bernard Wowser went with us. He liked to lean out of the bed on the driver’s side; I could see him in the side mirror, his cheeks flapping comically and his drool plastering the tailgate.

The years flew by. Dad made me a partner at the junkyard and business was good. In 1975, Deanna came along, followed by Meg in 1978 and Steve in 1980. 

We bought a bigger house and things were going great… until they weren’t. We were hit hard by both the market crash of 1987 and the savings and loan crisis. Business dropped off and we were behind in our mortgage. We had only one option.

I placed an ad in Autotrader magazine and calls soon started coming in left and right. It was a sad day as a guy from St. Cloud drove off in Little Red. Kristy looked up at me and I wordlessly handed her the check. 

I felt like part of me had died.

Kristy’s voice in my mind spoke again.

I’m here. I’ve never left you. I just didn’t have a way to reach you.

My head swam. “I gotta get outta here,” I said to no one. “I think I need to see Doctor Gottdeiner.” I reached for the handle.

Mated for life…wasn’t that the deal?

I stopped. “What—?”

Oh baby, I’m sorry I went away. I hated to leave you and the kids.

I wasn’t sure if I was now getting delusions, or if Little Red was stirring up memories. But I was pretty sure I wasn’t really hearing my wife who’d passed away in 2008.

I shook my head and looked at myself in the rear view mirror. No blood anywhere, nothing noticeable. I laughed nervously. “Well, I’m just gonna—“

Remember our first house? Our wedding night and how we broke the kitchen table?

I was startled. “But wait a second,” I said. “I’ve got that memory, too. How do I know you’re not imaginary, part of my disease?” I felt ridiculous but I couldn’t stop.

Think about it. Did you really remember? Or had you forgotten?

I thought. She was right. I had forgotten.

That night I had dreams. Wild, vivid dreams that spanned my entire life; faces, scenes, places. But there were gaps, like a film that had been over-edited with redacted subtitles. I struggled to think of names to put with the faces, or when or why I was at one place or another.

I woke up in a sweat with the weak December sun shining through the window. As I reached for my glass of water, I noticed next to it the framed photograph of Kristy and me in Little Red. I picked it up and looked at; we were very young, probably still newlyweds. Behind us in the bed of the truck was a St. Bernard.

For a moment, I smiled. There he was… good old— . My stomach sank. Good old—

Damn, I know him! That’s —

His name remained tantalizingly out of reach. Oh for shit’s sake, I’d cleaned his drool off the tailgate a hundred times. His name was—

Panic gripped me. I threw off the covers and jumped barefoot onto the cold floor. “Kristy!” I shouted, circling the room. “Kristy! Help me!” Everything became blurry, like the tilt-a-whirl at the state fair, as I tried and tried to think of that damn dog’s name. 

I finally gave up; I had to find out. I ran outside in my bathrobe and slippers; the shin-deep snow crunched underfoot as I ran to my car.

In under five minutes, I was alone in the junkyard standing next to Little Red. I reached for the door handle but stopped; I realized this was gonna be something I couldn’t unsee, unhear. But I had to know.

I slid into the mildewed interior and put my hands on the wheel. 

Wowser.

I didn’t dare mention any of this to Deanna; it would have certainly meant more tests, more consultations, perhaps being stuck in a nursing home.

But as memories and names continued to drift away, and my confusion increased in the real world, they became more crisp, clear, sitting in Little Red. I don’t know how; but it was like comparing a black-and-white TV with rabbit ears to a 50” high-def TV with cable. 

Plus there was Kristy.

We talked for hours about nothing, everything. I didn’t realize how much I had missed her the past 18 years. Getting into Little Red was like crawling into a warm bed on a bitterly cold winter night.

We recalled our young years, just starting out, crazy in love. The birth of our kids, each little step forward in life, just like the board game. The eventual loss of our parents, our kids growing up and two of them moving away. 

We talked about her diagnosis, the treatments, the hopes that were raised and dashed with each new set of tests. The kids standing around her bedside, her weak, pain-wracked body threatening to fly apart with each paroxysm of coughing. Her closing her eyes for the last time at 55.

I told her all the things I always meant to say but never did. 

And she did the same as Little Red’s dashboard became blurry.

I was now living in Little Red. I brought food and a thermos of coffee, pillows and blankets and slept in her. Mal was the only one who knew what I was doing and he brought me supplies three days a week.

By March, I could sense something coming. I had gotten to the point where I dared not even drive my car. On St. Patrick’s Day, I drove to my house, less than a mile away. On the way back, I got lost and it took me a panicky hour to find the junkyard. I scrambled into Little Red, breathless and scared out of my mind.

Migrating geese heralded the coming of another spring and living in Little Red became much more comfortable. I had Mal put in a new battery so at least the radio and the dome light worked.

In early April, the radio announced the impending arrival of a late-season blizzard; people were encouraged to stock up on things. Mal brought me double rations. He looked at me in concern.

“Dylan,” he said. “I’ve never asked what crazy shit is going on here, but I’m worried, man. They’re saying two, maybe three feet. I may not be able to get out here for a week or more. Are you sure you don’t want me to run you home?”

I looked at him; I’d known him most of my life. He was a good guy, kind and honest. The gray stubble on his face and creases around his eyes reflected a life of hard work. 

“Naw, I’m OK Mal,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. But thanks, appreciate it.”

He looked me for several seconds, then double tapped the door frame with his hand. His ring made a clink sound on the metal. 

“OK, my friend,” he said. “I’ll get back here to check on you as soon as I can.” 

On April 3rd, the blue Minnesota skies gave way to an ominous squall line coming over the lake. By sunset, the front had moved in, dropping the temperatures to well below zero. Snow began falling softly, silently. It was exhilarating in a way: I was snug in Little Red; I had my fresh supplies; and I had Kristy and the folks at KQDS for company.

Around midnight, the wind picked up. It howled the rest of the night and the snow flew. When daybreak came, it was still snowing. Around 4 o’clock that afternoon, the radio, dome light and windshield wipers stopped working; my battery was dead. I sat in silence as the sun sank into a crimson horizon. Red sky at night.

I lit a candle to generate some heat, but it went out sometime in the wee hours. As the temperature dropped, I got more and more sleepy. The last thing I remember was hunkering down under my quilts, with the smell that reminded me about that first time with Kristy.

I awoke to a brilliant, frigid morning with deep indigo skies. It was strange; I expected to be freezing, my nose and fingers stinging, my breath coming out in the cab in white clouds. But nothing.

I stepped outside and looked around in awe. The weather people were not wrong; there was at least three feet of snow blanketing everything and an absolute hushed silence. It was like being alone in an cathedral.

I squinted and looked at the sun; it had dazzling double rings around it. I couldn’t remember what caused it. I wasn’t even sure where I was; I was standing next to a pickup truck that I vaguely remembered. All around me were junked cars with three feet of snow on them. I felt panic rising.

A voice called: “Dylan.”

I looked and standing about twenty feet away was a woman with her back to the sun. She was achingly beautiful and I knew her from somewhere, I just couldn’t remember where or when. She held out her hand: come.

I hesitated, suddenly suspicious: Who was this? What did she want from me? But something urged me on. I made my way to her with surprising ease; there wasn’t even any crunching sound of snow.

When I got to her, I looked at her face; it was shining. Her eyes were blazing and she seemed to be enveloped in light. She wiggled her hand: come.

In wonder, I reached out and grasped her outstretched hand and at that instant everything came flooding back. “Kristy…” I said. Since Little Red’s return, I’d never seen her in the flesh; I’d only heard her voice in my head. “How—“

“Shhh,” she said gently. “Come with me.”

We turned and walked through the snow toward the sun with its twin halos of light. Kristy turned to me and smiled. “It’s OK, sweetheart,” she said. “It’s all OK now.”

And as I felt my feet lifting free of the snow, I took a final look back at Little Red.

Funny, no footprints anywhere.

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