Don't Forget to Write

A Christmas Resurrection

On Christmas Eve I rode the rails into Jersey and got picked up at the station by my cousin Holly (still ecstatic to drive any chance she got). The whole family was at my family's house, all dressed in black. There were no loud discussions about work or arguments over trivial things. Everybody quietly drank wine or my mom's homemade sangria while Claymation Christmas movies played in the background. My dad always loved those cheesy movies, a strange affection for a man so concerned with machismo.

I went down to the garage to get away from people. The hood of that black 1969 Chevelle SS was open. Tools were laid out on the workbench where my father had left them, as if he'd be coming back any minute now to tinker with the car. In contrast to the rusted and dusty body, the engine bay was gleaming and new. It was a testament to the years he spent recuperating this machine, this artifact of a time that is long gone.

On closer inspection, I realized that the engine was complete except for one piece, the carburetor, which was sitting on the workbench. I always argued that electronic fuel injection was the only logical fuel delivery system for the car, but he wanted to keep it as close to factory original as possible. And there it was, that archaic arbiter of fuel-to-air ratio, sitting on the workbench. I turned the carburetor over in my hands. It was completely repaired, cleaned, and ready to be used. Why hadn't he bolted it onto the engine and let it run?

I dug through his toolbox for the necessary wrenches, ratchets, and screwdrivers and got to tinkering. Within an hour the carburetor was on, the nuts, bolts, and screws around the engine were tightened, and all of the vacuums, hoses, and wires were connected and sealed. I poured oil into the motor, poured gasoline from a gas can into the tank, loaded it with antifreeze, and brake fluid. The only left to do was start the car.

I pulled the key from a nail in the wall and sat down in the driver's seat. It smelled of old leather. I slid the key into the ignition, put my foot down on the clutch and turned the key. The starter clicked, but the motor didn't turn. I twisted the key again. This time the starter clicked, then the alternator whinnied, but it died out. I tried a couple more times, but it wouldn't turn all the way over, always dying out right before the engine could catch its rhythm and start purring. The smell of gasoline flooded the garage.

I cursed and slammed my hand on the steering wheel. Looking around the interior, I found a tiny red journal in the glovebox. On the inside cover it said, "Postiga, 1943" in cursive. It belonged to my great grandfather. There were journal entries, shopping lists, and business transactions written in Portuguese on every page. He crossed his T's in an upward slanted fashion, and had tight loops on his G's, P's, and Q's, but big loops on the F's and L's, just like my handwriting. I'd never met my great-grandfather, but my family says I'm a lot like him. I gently closed the artifact and put it back in the glovebox.

Before leaving the car, I figured I'd try one last time. I pushed down the clutch and twisted the key again. The engine roared to life. I pushed on the gas pedal. The loud rumble of the 350cc engine shook the whole house. My mother and sister walked into the garage with jaws open and eyebrows high. My mom opened the garage door to let the fumes out. By then the rest of the family had filtered into the garage. For the first time in weeks, maybe even years, everybody had a smile on their face. We all silently admired the once dead machine that had been brought back to life. "Amazing! He didn't tell me he finished!" my mom yelled in Portuguese over the rumble of the engine.

"He didn't," I responded Portuguese, the language of my father, the language of our family. "But he only had a couple things left to do. I don't see why he didn't just finish it."

"Maybe he was waiting," my mom said with a shrug.

"For what?"

"For you. He always said you two would share this car."

"Dad said that?"

"All the time."

"He never mentioned anything like that to me," I said quietly.

"It would have been better as a surprise, I guess."

After a brief silence, my cousin said, in English, "Aren't you gonna drive it?"

My sister jumped in the passenger seat and we rolled out of the garage and down the driveway. My mom and the rest of the family watched and waved. I did a burnout, just like dad had taught me, and peeled off down the street. The brand-new shifter was stiff as I changed the gears. The new tires gripped the road tight as they touched asphalt for the first time. A black set of rosary beads that was once my father's rattled around on the rearview mirror. The engine was young and roaring with power. The back end of the car swung out each time I turned and the tires squealed as I popped the transmission into low gear and took off out of each turn. It was metal box of power, fear, fun, and control. A feat of engineering that personified Daoism - the perfect combination of Chaos and Order.

We sped down a long one-lane road where there were never cops or traffic and I opened the throttle up. The car nearly jumped off the road. It was desperate to go fast, like a horse that's been in the stable too long. We were going 60, 75, 90, 100. At 109mph I eased off the gas and slowed down to the 45mph speed limit. When we got to a wide part of the road I pulled the E-brake and cut the wheel hard simultaneously, then punching the gas as the car completed its 180-degree drift to head back home.

"Where'd you learn to drive like that?" My sister yelled over the howling wind.

"From Dad."

We had dinner that night, my uncle said a prayer for my grandmother, my dad, my uncle, and everybody else we had lost in the past decade. This family had seen too much death, and not enough joy. The food was better than it was at thanksgiving - my aunts were perfecting my grandmothers' recipes. We ate and drank through the night, sharing stories. Sharing laughter. At midnight, we gave out all of our gifts, and my mom said she wanted me to have my dad's Chevelle.