There were kittens in the barn next-door, black and white and tiger-striped. Amber watched from the kitchen of Horace’s and Imogen’s house as their neighbor, Mr. Veazie, emerged from the barn with a lumpy burlap sack, the mother cat following close behind. He tossed the sack into the stream, adjusted his tie, straightened his hat, and kept walking towards Main Street.

Amber sprinted to the water’s edge, ignoring Imogen slipper-shuffling towards her with a tray of oatmeal cookies. She splashed through the brown water, retrieved the sack, and dumped the kittens out. One lay completely still on the soggy bank, but the other three were mewling hoarsely.

The mother-cat sniffed the motionless tiger kitten, before picking it up by the scruff and trotting back to the barn. Amber gathered the remaining kittens in her skirt and hurried after the mother.

The barn was warm and dry. Amber shoved a bale of hay in front of the cats. She stroked the still kitten, but he did not move.

She grabbed a shovel, slung it over her shoulder like a soldier would his gun, and trucked around to the flowerbed, the kitten cradled in the crook of her arm. Horace startled her when he grabbed the shovel from behind. She squeezed her fingers in a tight clamp, refusing to let go.

“Give me the shovel, Peanut,” he said.

They worked in silence. Horace dug a shallow grave in the daisies. Amber stroked the kitten, waiting for its breathing to cease, instead, its eyes opened and fixed on her. Its mouth opened and shut in a silent meow.

“Looks like that little one is going to make it,” Horace said.

Amber placed the animal in the warm grass. “That’s a good kitty. Kitten’s like flowers. They don’t like water,” she murmured. “I don’t know why that mean old man threw them in the creek. Why couldn’t he just let them be?”

“I don’t know why Veazie does half the things he does. You did a good thing though, pulling them out.” Horace rubbed the top of his bald head, his bushy white eyebrows bunching up as he frowned. “Does this little guy have a name?”

“No. I don’t name them. They die if I do. I tried to hide the others in the barn, but I knew he’d find them.”

“Let’s bring them here. We’ll put them in the Dodge.”

The ‘Dodge’, was a 1953 Power Wagon, dull black, pock-marked, and rusted. It sat in the field behind Horace’s and Imogen’s cottage. Amber had played in it since she was a little girl, pretending it was everything from a racecar to a beauty parlor to her fort. She’d tucked a picture of her mother in the visor. Horace swore that it still ran, but Amber had never been in it when it was actually rolling down the street. Even though when she was pretending to drive it, it went really fast.

Coconspirators, they snuck over to the barn, keeping a sharp eye out for Mr. Veazie. She noticed Horace favoring his left hip. She wondered how old he was, but didn’t dare ask. He was both ancient and wise, playful and spry. Her father had known Horace and Imogen since he was a boy, having grown up next door to them. They were like grandparents to him and great grandparents to Amber.

“Dad doesn’t care about anything since mom died, Horace. Except for that creepy lady in the yellow house at the end of Stony Creek Road.”

“You know about her, eh?”

“Yeah, I followed him one day. That’s where he is right now, at her house. She has pale skin, wears bright red lipstick, and has long fingernails,” she paused, “and her hair is too black. She looks like a vampire. A Succubus. She doesn’t look anything like mom.”

“A Succubus?”  Horace mused. “People do strange things when they’re sad, honey.”

“He won’t even teach me how to drive. He’s too busy drinking and screwing.”

“Peanut! If Imogen heard such talk, she’d skin you alive!” he said sternly. “I’ll talk to your father, okay?”

“I still need to learn how to drive. At this rate, I’m never going to get my driver’s license,” she whined. “Can you teach me, Horace?”

“My eyes aren’t so good anymore, darlin’. I can’t see the road.” He paused. “Come to think of it, maybe that’s a good thing when you’re trying to teach a teenager how to drive.”

Amber punched his arm playfully. “Very funny. I’ll have you know that I plan on being a great driver.”

“I don’t doubt that, Peanut.”

They gathered up the litter, the mom cat following faithfully, and placed the kittens on a blanket that Horace had spread on the floorboards of the Power Wagon. The mother settled in around them.

“They look comfy.”

Imogen called from the back door, still holding the tray of cookies. She made Amber take off her Espadrilles at the back stoop, fussing over the sorry state of her Sunday best.

“What have you guys been up too?”

“We rescued some kittens from Veazie,” Horace said matter-of-factly, “and Amber wants to learn how to drive. Hank hasn’t had time to teach her.”

“That’s because he’s been too busy getting drunk and carrying on with that trollop at the end of the street,” Imogen said primly, arms akimbo. Amber laughed and looked at Horace as if to say: “I told you so”.

“I’ll teach you how to drive, Amber. It’s time you learned. We’ll go after you have a cookie.”

“Today? We don’t need to do it today, Imogen—” Amber started.

“There’s no time like the present. We’ll take the Taurus.”

“No! Take the Power Wagon!” Horace sounded excited. “The girl should learn how to drive in a classic.”

“Horace, that old beast hasn’t fired up in a year. And it’s hard to shift—”

“Nonsense! Once you get the hang of double-clutching, she’s a dream to drive. Remember we used to take her on the back roads and picnic. And she was the pride of the Labor Day parade! Power Wagons were built for work! The old girl really misses those back roads.”

“Which ‘old girl’ are you talking about?” Imogen swatted Horace on the backside with a towel.

Amber enjoyed a cookie while the old couple bantered. She missed her mother. She was sickened by her father’s absence since her mother’s death, almost eight months ago. She needed him. The click of the back door shutting interrupted her thoughts, and she saw the retreating form of Horace heading toward the back field. Imogen smoothed a lock of hair back from Amber’s face.

“You were a million miles away, dear,” she said tenderly. “Let’s go. Horace just went out to start the truck.”

“Oh! I don’t need to go right now, Imogen. I can learn to drive later on…”  Amber was suddenly terrified. Imogen squeezed her arm.

“Everything is going to be okay, Amber. I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?”

“But, there are kittens in the truck…” she said feebly.

“I love kittens! They can come with us. There’s plenty of room for everyone. It’s a big truck.”

“I got her running!” Horace said proudly, coming inside again. “It might be a bit tricky getting her out of the field. I scooted the cats over on the floorboards, so there’s room for your pretty little feet, Genie.”

“I’ll get it out of the field,” Imogen said. “We’ll start the lesson in the church parking lot; things are quiet over there now that the service is over.” She offered her hand to Amber. “Shall we, dear?” Amber hesitated, part of her wanting to run, the other part wanting a driving lesson.

She took Imogen’s hand.

“Have fun ladies. Take good care of my old girl, Peanut.”

“Your truck will be fine, Horace,” Imogen clucked.

“I wasn’t talk about the truck, Genie.”

***

Amber was exhausted after an afternoon spent navigating parking lots, cow pastures, and the town’s cemetery. Her first lesson was a success. Tomorrow, Imogen promised to take her out on the road!

Elated, she walked into her house. Then she saw her father.

Sprawled in the recliner, he had one leg up on the footrest, the other dangling over the armrest. He stared at the television with mossy eyes, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Hi. What have you been up too?” He drawled.

“Imogen’s been teaching me how to drive”.

“I was going to teach you how to drive.”

“I know Dad, but you’ve been distracted lately, and she offered. I’m almost eighteen and the only one in my class that doesn’t drive yet. It’s embarrassing. I need to get my license.”

“Maybe it’d better if you don’t drive…” he slurred. Amber glared at him, and he backtracked. “I know…I haven’t been there for you…I know. Did you take the Taurus?”

“No, the Power Wagon.”

“Ah! Horace loves that old thing.”

“It was really fun to drive! Imogen said I did great.”

“I bet you did.” He frowned. “I’m so sorry, Amber.”

“I know, Daddy,” she said. “Just get better, okay? We all want you to get better.”

“I’m going to get better, honey. No more drinking after tonight. I promise.” Amber had heard this before. She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

“Okay, Daddy. I’m going to go to bed. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetie,” he mumbled, and lit another cigarette.

***

Amber woke hours later to the sound of shouting and the smell of smoke. She crawled out her bedroom window. A fireman led her to the front of the house. Her father stood on the front lawn wearing only his boxers, watching the house with puffy eyes. The windows of the living room glowed orange.

“I’m so sorry, Amber. I fell asleep in the recliner…” he moved to put an arm around her, but she ran.

***

Amber could just make out the photograph of her mother in the moonlight. She traced her father’s handwriting on the white border of the photograph, Katie, January 15, 1985. The photograph had been taken just one month before her mother died. The tiger kitten snuggled under Amber’s chin and purred.

It was hot in the cab. She climbed into the bed of the Wagon, falling asleep with the kitten curled up on her chest. The moon was high when Horace woke her. She followed him inside without a word.

***

She woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of Horace yelling. Amber had never heard him yell before.

“He could have killed Amber! And where does he go when he burns his house down? To that whore’s house. He was too drunk to check on his daughter? Plus, he hasn’t worked in weeks and his business looks like a junkyard instead of a repair shop. What kind of man is he? His wife dies and he just gives up on life. I’m so mad, I could spit!”  She heard the soothing murmur of Imogen’s voice, but could not make out her words.

“Horace!” Imogen suddenly cried. “Horace! Dear God!”

Amber flew off the couch. In the kitchen, Horace sat on the floor, propped against the refrigerator, eyes closed, right hand clamped over his left shoulder. Imogen knelt over him.

“Amber! Call 911!”

***

Amber sat on the molded plastic chair in the hospital corridor. Every time the elevator dinged, she looked towards the doors, hoping to see her father. He was probably at the vampire’s house.

Imogen came out of Horace’s room.

“Horace is sleeping. The doctors say he has an excellent chance, but he needs lots of rest.” She looked exhausted. “It’s probably not a good idea to go into your house right now, it may not be safe because of the fire, so I want you to go to our house, take a bath, and crawl into our bed. You’ll find some of Alex’s old clothes in the closet of my sewing room. We’ll get the cot set up in there for you. You’ll be staying with us, at least until that father of yours gets his act together.”

“I want to stay here Imogen—” Amber started.

“I don’t have the energy to argue with you, Amber. Please do as I say. Horace won’t be awake for hours. If he…when he wakes up, I will call you.” Imogen handed her a set of car keys. “I know you haven’t driven the Taurus yet, but it’s an automatic. It’s very easy. You just slide the shifter to ‘D’ and press the gas pedal. You don’t have to shift, like you did in the Power Wagon.” Amber started to speak, and Imogen grabbed her chin gently. “Listen, Amber. I want you to drive it straight home, no detours. Okay? Straight home.”

“Okay,” Amber mumbled. Her hands shook as she took the keys from Imogen.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything is going to be okay,” Imogen said for the second time in as many days. This time Amber didn’t believe her.

***

It was a five-mile straight shot to their house. Amber drove Route 9 with a death-grip on the steering wheel, buzzing along at 25 miles per hour. A car passed her, horn blaring. She raised her fist to the glass and almost extended her middle finger.

“I’ve had a crappier day than you, jackass!” she yelled.

The Taurus felt low and smooth compared to the Power Wagon. She stamped her left foot down, seeking the clutch pedal, and remembered it was an automatic. When she pulled into their gravel driveway and slid the shifter into park, she was trembling.

She cleaned up, showered, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old Grateful Dead tee shirt. She stretched out on the couch, but was so wired from the events of the past twenty-four hours that sleep wouldn’t come. After twenty minutes, she draped the afghan over her shoulders, and went out the back door. The thought of curling up in the Power Wagon appealed to her. Being in the truck would make her feel close to Horace, plus her mother’s picture was there, which made her feel safe.

She pushed open the back door, careful not to look towards her own charred house. She froze. The spot in the field where she had parked the Power Wagon the day before was empty—a square of dead grass surrounded by wildflowers.

She raced towards the front of the house, hoping that Imogen had moved it out to the street for her next lesson, but it was not there either. The Power Wagon was gone. The kittens were gone. The photograph of her mother was gone.

Amber sprinted across the field, vaulted over the brook, and tumbled into her own yard. From the east side, her house looked tidy, but when she rounded the corner, she saw the jagged window that had been busted by the fireman. The front door was a gaping black hole.

“Dad?” She whimpered. “Daddy?”

Of course, there was no answer. She hadn’t really expected one. Furious, she stalked towards the yellow house at the end of Stony Creek Road.

The vampire opened the door. She looked at Amber with bleary gray eyes, a cigarette jutted from the corner of her scarlet mouth. She smelled of booze and cheap perfume. Amber scowled at her.

“Where’s my dad?”

“He’s not here, kid,” she said in a raspy voice. “He left his crappy Nova here a couple of nights ago when he was too drunk to drive it home. Haven’t seen him since. Heard he burned his house down though. Idiot.”

“The house is fine, the living room just caught fire,” Amber said. She now understood the purpose of this woman in her father’s life. She was a punishment.

“Whatever. I don’t know where your old man is.”

“That’s okay. I think I know where he is,” Amber muttered.

“Yeah? Well, when you see him, tell him to get his damn car out of my yard! Better yet, why don’t you get it out of here? The keys are in it.”

***

Amber pulled the Nova into the lot of her father’s shop. The Closed sign hung on the door, as it had for weeks. A dull light filtered through the filthy garage door windows. There was a crash in the garage, followed by a curse.

“Dad?” She peeked into the garage and saw him, his face black from either grease or soot, or both. His hair fell in greasy tangles; his clothes were wrinkled and dirty.

He leaned over the skeleton of an old vehicle. Parts were scattered everywhere. She stared at one of the scarred black doors leaning against the wall and realized that the remains belonged to a Power Wagon. Her Power Wagon!

“What the hell are you doing, Dad?” Amber was livid. “You burned the house down. Then you steal the Power Wagon and take it apart? Horace is in the hospital. He might be dead!” She yelled. “And that will be your fault, just like mom!” It came out before she could stop it.

Her father slumped over the engine. His chest heaved, and for a moment, Amber thought he too was having a heart attack. Then she realized he was crying.

She had never seen her father cry. Not even at her mother’s funeral.

“I didn’t mean that, Dad,” she cried. “What happened to Mom wasn’t your fault. The road was slippery—”

“Yeah, but if I’d put on those new snow tires, like I promised…” he said in a voice that was stone sober.

“There was ice…on the curve…the tires wouldn’t have helped…it wasn’t your fault,” Amber stammered.

“No, I was supposed to take care of you guys. I couldn’t keep her safe, and now you’re all grown up. When did that happen?”

When you were drunk, Amber thought.

“Why did you take the Power Wagon, Dad? It’s the only place I feel safe lately. Now it’s in a million pieces.”

“I’ve been meaning to fix it up for a long time. We both need a complete overhaul. I thought it would make everyone happy. I never meant to upset you, Amber,” he said. An uncomfortable silence followed.

Amber’s father cleared his throat. “Ah…your cats have been helping me fix up the Power Wagon,” he said, nodding towards the tiger kitten playing with his shoelaces. The other kittens wandered about the shop curiously, while their mother slept in an old office chair in the corner.

“You’re fixing it up? It looks like you’re trying to destroy it.”

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes you have to tear things apart before they can be rebuilt into something strong. You know what I mean, Peanut?”

She didn’t answer.

“I want it to look nice and sharp when Horace gets out of the hospital,” he paused. “I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t pull through.”

“He’s going to be okay, Dad,” Amber said firmly. “He’s a tough old guy. Plus, you’ve got me. And Imogen. We’ve always been here.”

“We should go check on him.” He sounded terrified. “I hate hospitals so much…”

“Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay,” she said in Imogen’s voice. Over his shoulder, she saw the photograph of her mother tacked to the pegboard wall.

***

Stopped at the light on Main Street, Amber revved the engine and the Power Wagon shuddered. She’d had her driver’s license for two weeks, but she felt nervous behind the wheel today. It was a big day.

The light turned green and Amber turned left. She drove past the bank on Main Street and saw the reflection of the Power Wagon in the broad window. She smiled. Her father had done good work. He had popped out the dents, smoothed the pockmarks, and restored the body to a shiny black. The nicks in the windshield were repaired, and it wore new shoes. The truck looked sharp.

Amber pulled up to the white stucco building that was the town hospital. The front glass doors slid open and Imogen emerged, followed by her father, who pushed a pale old man in a wheelchair. Horace. Open-heart-surgery had saved him. When he saw Amber and the Power Wagon, his face lit up, and the pale old man was gone.

“My ride is here, and doesn’t she look beautiful?” he smiled at Amber. He looked at Amber’s father, “You did a good job fixing her up, Hank. It’s good to have you back; I hope you stick around for a while.” Amber’s father put a hand on Horace’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. He looked at Amber and smiled.

Horace turned back to Amber. “You ready to take me for a ride in the Power Wagon, now that we’ve both been fixed up?”

“You bet!” Amber said. And for the first time in a long while, she believed that everything was truly going to be all right.