Editor's note: This piece of fiction was written a dozen years ago, and like all fiction, closely resembles reality. It represents life as I would have it. It's based on the people I have known and hated and loved, and on the things I've done and the places I have seen. The line between reality and fiction is pencil thin, and I stray over it when I can, taking the people around me to places they would never go, and through lives they would never live. I give them the happiness they won't find and the sadness they deserve. Somehow, through it all, I also learn about myself.

July 7, 1984: It was the first car my parents ever bought new, and it was the last. A two-door Mercury fast-back coupe. Long and low and wide, with seats big enough to sleep in and a trunk that could pass for a living room. 1964. It was a good year. I was 3.

Dad drove that car everywhere, right up to the day he left. Now it sits faded and dying, uncared-for and undriven, neglected ever since my parents got divorced, ever since Dad left his home and his car behind. He was here and then he was gone, and then there was only the Merk - a reminder of four-hour treks to the beach, of Christmas trees stuffed in the trunk, of the day my father backed over my tricycle in the driveway and whipped me for leaving it there.

I always figured I'd end up with Dad's car. I was right. Mom just called from Mississippi. She ran into Dad at the K Mart yesterday, and asked him about the Mercury. "Keep it," he told her. "Give it to Joey. It doesn't matter." So now it is mine, a 20-year-old baby-blue Mercury parked in a driveway 1,400 miles away. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to drive it three, maybe four times a year, when I fly home to Meridian. That is, if it even runs.
Funny thing. Since I moved here, in January, I've noticed that Mom's been calling a lot. With Dad gone, the house seems empty, so she turns to the phone and me for consolation. A lot of times she ends up telling me that I have stretched her "apron strings all the way to Providence." She's right; they are taut.
I asked her to take the Mercury out. "Just drive it around the block, warm up the oil, get the gas flowing," I said. But she's worried that it'll quit suddenly, leave her stranded. Like my father.
I could ask my brother, but I won't. He wasn't even born when Dad bought the Mercury; now he's 16 and a rebel, a kid who only wants to grow up and get away from his past. He doesn't care about driving an old car, doesn't understand why I love that heavy-metaled memory on wheels. Dad doesn't understand either, but if he were home, he would drive it around for me.
Some day, some way, I'll get that blue beauty up here, where I can take care of it myself. It's only a car, but it is my past.
And that is everything.

August 8, 1984: Mom is again on the phone, explaining about the tag she found in a box at a yard sale. A yellow-and-black Mississippi license plate from 1964. She has paid $5 for a useless tag for the Mercury and she is excited.
"I knew you'd want it. I was going to give it to you for Christmas but I couldn't wait. When are you coming home? I can't wait to see you."
I picture Mom at work, a sandy-haired woman in a partitioned office, surrounded by technical drawings and pictures of me and my brother. She has taped copies of my magazine stories to the wall.
"I'm worried about you driving that Mercury all the way to Providence, Joe. I drove it over to your grandmother's the other day, and like never got it started when I was ready to go. Are you sure it's all right?" Her voice has an up-and-down cadence, soft and melodic, and her accent is as thick as blackstrap molasses. She calls it a Mercry.
"Mom, the only problem is that it's been sitting up in the driveway. Cars were meant to be driven."
"Mikey wanted to know if he could drive the Mercury to school. His car has got a flat tire."
I tell her no. My brother is careless. "Mama, I just don't like his driving. If he had an accident - "
"OK, OK." She changes the subject.
"There must be someone in the office with you," she says. "Your voice sounds different."
"Yeah, there is. How did you know?"
"Because you don't sound Southern when you're talking to me and your friends are around. Now don't you lose your accent, son. That's part of your heritage. That's part of your past."
"Mama, I won't.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Mama."

Two days before Christmas, 1984: Mom picks me up at the airport, and as we pull into the driveway her car headlights bounce off the rusty back bumper of the Mercury. I've forgotten how bad it looks.
I walk up to the side door and I drop my suitcase long enough to brush a blanket of pine needles off the hood. The front seat is ripped and the dash is cracked. Brown stains, the color of dried blood, ooze from under the chrome. One of the tires is flat. Like a modern-age Dorian Gray, it seems to be falling apart while I watch. Neglected and ignored by three people too busy with other things.
"I asked Mike to wash it, but ever since he dropped out of school he's been working," Mom explains. "He said you'd enjoy doing it yourself."
She wanders inside while I climb into the front seat and try to start my car. The engine clicks. Dead battery. I glance down at the odometer, which still reads 111,000. One day it just rolled over and stopped counting. If car time is measured in miles, the clock has stopped ticking inside that Mercury. For the rest of us out here, it has moved on.
I head into the kitchen and call Dad on the phone. To tell him I'm here. To tell him about the flat tire. He promises to help me fix it.
That night I have a dream. Mom and Dad and I are sitting in the kitchen talking about cheap gas prices. I can just see the bullet-shaped nose of the Mercury through the side-door window. Dad is sitting on a stool beside the counter. Mom is leaning up against the sink, her arms crossed. It is a peaceful scene, even though I can't make out the conversation. I am floating somewhere above them, thinking, 'He never left. He's home. Dad never left.' The dream fades out.
The phone rings me out of my sleep. Dad tells me he'll stop by tomorrow - Christmas morning. I spend the rest of the day under the hood of the car, cleaning the engine, connecting a new battery. The Merk starts on the first try, with a throaty roar, and runs like an eight-day clock.
"Thank goodness," Mom says, bringing out a cup of coffee. "I'll be glad when you get this thing up North, so you can spend some time with me when you're here. I don't feel like I ever see you."
The next day, I raise the hood, a huge slab of metal that must weigh 50 pounds, and crank the car for Dad. He says nothing, but there is a grin on his face. Before he leaves, I give him an awkward hug. It's the first time I've done that in years and years. He just stands there, kind of stiff, looking like he feels foolish, looking very tired.
April 9, 1985: I am sitting in the driver's seat. The faded-orange needle is pegged at 65. I am speeding, breaking the law on a hot afternoon along an empty stretch of road. The windows are down and the air whistles through the vent windows. I remember staring at the speedometer from the back seat when I was a kid, elbows hunched up on the back of the front seat. Dad always drove, Mom always sat to his right. Today Dad is sitting beside me, uncomfortable. He is not used to being a passenger in this car. He is not used to being a passenger at all. He leans forward, flicks on the map light.
"I remember when I bought this car, I thought this map light was the neatest thing."
He flicks it on and off, on and off, and settles back into the seat. His paunch overhangs the seat belt, hides it; his eyes dance over the dash, along all the chrome and gauges and knobs. It is Art Nouveau, impractical, beautiful. The car slides to a stop, shudders and falls back into first gear with a clunk.
"Might need a new transmission," Dad says. "Cost a lot of money." I am at once irritated and hopeful. I no longer believe everything my father says.
"It's OK. Just old." The light changes, I hit the gas. The needle jumps to 55. Dad shifts in his seat. I turn on the radio and Creedence Clearwater Revival drifts from the speaker. We head toward Dad's new home, next to a cornfield north of the city, so I can drop him off. We do not talk. There is little to say. Or maybe too much. When he has waved goodbye and turned to walk inside his house, I floor the gas pedal. The tires squeal and behind me I leave a smoking ghost. Exhaust or burned rubber, it does not matter.

August 23, 1985: On the phone to Dad. I ask him to help me fix my car. He has lived in town 30 years - he knows people; he can make deals. I tell him I want a good deal, but I want it done right.
"You're talking a lot of money, son. What do you want with that car, anyway? It's worn out."
"Dad, it's my dream car. Other people want Porsches or Hondas or BMWs. All I want is a '64 Mercury, you know? That's all. It reminds me of a . . . a lot of things. Remember when we'd go to Grandmama's? Every Thanksgiving? Me and you and Mom. I remember sitting in the back watching you drive. Happy. That's what I want."
"Simply fixing that old car isn't going to bring your mother and me back together."
"I know, Dad. But I can pretend."
There is silence on the phone. Only the hiss of 1,400 miles of long distance.
"I know you think I'm crazy, but I've got the money to do it, Dad." He never takes me seriously unless I talk dollars. Not that he worships money in any unnatural way. It's just that with his kids, he doesn't act without the cash. Thinks we're too much like Mom, spenders. I remember once calling him cheap for not spending 50 cents on a T-shirt I wanted. We were in the car, at the beach. I was in the back seat. He tried to drive and slap me at the same time. I hid on the floorboard while he and Mom argued. By the time we got to the cottage, he was calm. Months later, at Christmas, he presented me with the shirt.
"Well, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. I'll call around and see how much it'll cost to paint it and do the seat work."