November 19, 1985: I have sent Dad a check for $250. Enough to re-cover the blue-vinyl seats, put down new carpeting. He has a friend of his doing the work, and I'm worried that it'll look like a clunker when the work is done. Dad wouldn't dream of taking it to a professional shop, because "it would cost a fortune." I'd be willing to pay. He isn't.
We do it his way.
I've just reread the short letter he wrote last week. He's lined up someone to paint it. $350. It reminds me of the time I took a can of touch-up spray paint from the utility room and decided to paint it myself. I must have been 6 years old. Like any car that's been around shopping-mall parking lots, it had a lot of nicks and dings in the paint. By the time Dad found out what had happened, the Mercury had six dark-blue splotches on the right-hand door. Runny, messy blobs of paint that looked like huge bullet holes.
He was mad as fire. Even though Mom told him I was only trying to help, I thought for sure he would whip me.
He didn't. But the next time I checked, the can of spray paint had been hidden.

December 2, 1985: The car will be ready at the end of the month. It's already in the paint shop, the interior work done. Mom has sent a picture of it and told me the inside smells all leathery and fresh, like new. I mail off another check to Dad.
The latest picture of the Mercury is taped to the refrigerator, right next to the ones I've pulled out of old photo albums. Pictures, not of the car, but of me, or Mom, or Dad, or all of us. Pictures of a family doing family things: a backyard cookout, a camping trip in the mountains. Always, in the background, sits the big blue car.

March 7, 1986: How do you describe your dream car when it's no longer a dream? When it's sitting right here, two feet away, as fresh as the morning dew that has momentarily dulled the paint. It is the color of the sky on a crisp autumn morning, as blue as the sky ever gets. The car sparkles, it is a jewel, it is alive, it is 1964 and Dad has just pulled into the driveway with it for the first time. It is 1986 and I am leaving.
I run my hand along the edge of the fender, caressing with one finger the long crease that ends in a tail fin. I close my eyes, open them. The Mercury is still there, gleaming in the butter-colored sunlight of early morning. I clamber into the front seat and turn the ignition. The engine groans, fires, starts, and settles into an easy idle.
Mom steps out on the side porch wearing a ruby-red housecoat with a Tupperware bowl full of homemade buttermilk biscuits under her arm.
"Now, Joe, you call me as soon as you get to Providence. I'll be worried all day until I hear from you."
"I will, Mom."
"Are you going to go by your father's place on your way out of town? You probably should."
"Yeah, I thought I'd stop by."
"All right . . . I love you. Be careful. Wear your seat belt." She hugs me, hands me the biscuits, and pulls out a Kodak Instamatic. As I back down the driveway I see it flash, once, twice, and then she is inside and I am pulling away.
I drive through the neighborhood until I reach the highway. A left turn and I am heading north, toward my father's new home, toward Providence beyond. I turn down the radio so I can listen to the engine. If there are any strange knocks or rattles, I want to hear them now. I edge the Merk up to 55 and ease out of the city. Five minutes later, I stop in front of my father's house. He's out the door before I can kill the engine.
"You got time for a cup of coffee?" he asks. I don't. I want to get on the road. "Sure," I say. His house is smaller than our old one. He and his new wife have lived here less than a year and the rooms are sparsely furnished. On the wall is a print I made in a sixth-grade art class. It shows a hump-backed old car, something from the '30s. A sign next to it reads: "Joe's cars." Dad looks through the living-room window.
"Sure turned out better than I thought it would. How's it running?" "Smooth. Real quiet."
"Did you do something with that fan belt? I noticed it was loose and looked kind of frayed."
"Yeah, I put a new one in yesterday. I've checked it all out. I think it's ready to go."
"I bet your mother's worried about the trip, isn't she?" "You know Mom."
"30 years, yeah. Long time."
"I'll be all right."
"Oh, I know that."
I've noticed that Dad and I always talk around things, talk at each other, instead of to each other. We're like a couple on the ballroom floor trying to dance together to different songs, all arms and legs and awkwardness. He's never been able to express himself or his feelings very well, and I always avoid talking about me because I don't want to embarrass him. It's like Mom always says, "He loves you. He just doesn't know how to show it." I believe that.
"Listen, Dad, I appreciate your helping me with this. I'm not sure I'd ever have gotten it done up in Rhode Island. I'm not even sure I'd have gotten it up there."
"You haven't gotten it there yet, son." He pauses, finishes off his coffee and stands. "I don't think you'll have any trouble."
We walk back through the house, and Dad pulls out his old Nikon camera and a tripod. He sets it up in the front yard, aims it at the car, focuses the lens. "I thought it would be nice to have a picture of you and the car," he says.
"Sure, Dad." I lean up against the hood of the Merk and cross my feet and my arms, the picture of tension. I'm smiling as he snaps a couple of frames. "Hey, Dad, how about you and me both in the picture? Doesn't that thing have an automatic?"
"Uh, yeah. If I can remember . . . yeah, OK." He cocks the shutter again and the timer starts ticking. Then he walks over and stands beside me in front of the car. I throw my arm around his back and wait for the camera to click. "We done good, Dad."
"I think it's going to be all right."
It crosses my mind that maybe he's not just talking about the car when the Nikon clicks and we are forever preserved on Kodachrome. I turn to shake his meaty, heavy hand, but instead he reaches around and squeezes me in a bear hug.
"G'by, son. Don't push it too hard." "I won't, Dad."
I'm thinking he means us, me and him, but I'm not sure. He could be talking about the car. But the moment passes so quickly I never have a chance to be sure. After the hug, he simply steps away and stands there.
"Call if you have any trouble."
"I will. I should be in Providence by about midnight, knock on wood." I walk around the car and climb in, slamming the door with a thud that seals me inside. Dad starts to wave. I roll down the window, lean out of the car and yell.
"Love you, Dad."
Quickly, I slither back onto the seat, pop the car in drive and gas it down the street, waving. I think he's starting to say something to me, but the words are lost in the muffled roar of exhaust. Whatever it is would be hard for him to get out - and harder for me to hear.
I'm sitting here in the car at a rest stop in Alabama. In the rear-view mirror I can see the sign that says, "Welcome to Mississippi." I haven't planned on stopping now to scribble down today's entry in my diary, but right after I crossed the state line I thought of Dad back there, still standing in the front yard when I barreled around the corner out of sight.
And something got in my eyes so bad that I had to stop and wipe them. March 15, 1986: The pictures just came. The one of me and Dad is great. I was going to put it on the refrigerator with the other ones, but I can't, because then I wouldn't be able to see the back side. Where Dad has written, "I love you, too."