Earhart’s Car
By Lori Van Pelt
Lillie Porter rode to Denver with Carla Mills. Carla, a recently-divorced history professor, invited her to attend the weekend gathering of historians and academics presenting papers on the history of regional highways.
Optional activities included a Saturday afternoon excursion to the Forney Museum of Transportation. Lillie jumped at the chance to go. She loved old cars and the stories that went with them.
The museum’s collection included several early-day Model T’s, a number of Reos from the 1930s, and even a 1970s Cadillac that once belonged to Elvis Presley, according to a museum volunteer named Roger. Roger said, “Elvis gave that car to a local radio disc jockey. He said that the engine quit and the car stopped smack in the middle of I-25 on the day Elvis died. And I believe it, don’t you?”
Lillie and Carla nodded in somber agreement. Lillie turned toward another car. Roger smiled. “Anything else I can help you ladies with?” Lillie started to say she’d just browse, thanks, but Carla spun on her heel, making her black calf-length skirt swirl around her legs and showing off her spike-heeled leather boots. “Yes, please,” she said, tilting her head toward Roger. Her long blonde hair bounced against her shoulders. She tugged at her chartreuse jacket. Only a woman like Carla could look attractive in that color. “I’d never heard of Reos before,” Carla said. “Did any of these cars actually travel on the Lincoln Highway?”
Lillie watched as her petite size-eight friend beckoned to the six-foot-tall volunteer, who followed willingly, like most men Carla flirted with. Men noticed Carla, and she used that to her advantage.
“Are you joining us?” Roger turned back to Lillie.
“I will in a minute,” she replied. “May I look at some of these cars first?” She motioned to a group of vehicles lining the wall. The vintage automobiles were displayed with a variety of mannequins dressed in period costumes.
“Sure. Those are mostly from the 1930s, too. We’ll come back around that way.”
Lillie wasn’t going to hold her breath on that one. Once Carla worked her charms on most men, they stuck to her like the double-stick tape Lillie saw holding a faux-chauffeur’s cap to his head. Likely as not, Lillie would view the rest of the museum’s collection on her own. She reached over, tugged gently on the mannequin’s cap, pulled the material down low enough to hide the tape, and patted the hat back into place. She stepped back, almost believing the chauffeur was a real person who could open the door of the blue car, a 1924 blue hardtop Kissel with a running board and carriage back and an oval window in the rear. Kissels, according to the placard providing these important tidbits, were rare.
The car Lillie liked best belonged to Amelia Earhart. The canary-colored Kissel, dubbed “The Yellow Peril” by Earhart, according to the museum’s sign, sparked Lillie’s imagination. Lillie was not a pilot. But years ago, she read the famous aviatrix’s book, Last Flight. Lillie knew that Earhart was lost in the Pacific in 1937 while trying to fly around the world. She later discovered that Earhart loved to drive and had learned that skill when grounded by a sinus infection. In the 1920s, she took her mother along in this very car to tour all the national parks. Just thinking about that trip whetted Lillie’s appetite for adventure. Maybe she could drive cross-country herself one day. All the better if she could tour the nation in an antique automobile like this one.
As a teenager, Lillie longed to be a pilot. A good friend of hers, a girl who was good in science and math, took ground school at night. Lillie thought she could do that, too, but her father, who served as an airplane mechanic during World War II, told her pilots must have 20/20 vision, uncorrected. Lillie wore contact lenses. She never questioned his statement. She gave up her dreams of flight, concentrating instead on music and literature. She didn’t find out until many years later that pilots could indeed have corrective lenses. By that time, her father was already dead. She was angry at first, but then she remembered something else he told her, and she knew the truth of why he didn’t want her to become a pilot. He didn’t want to chance losing her in an airplane he could not have worked on and ridden in himself first. They had to do that during the war, he explained once. The mechanics worked on the airplanes, and they were required to fly in them first to ensure the crafts were air-worthy. In this way, they guaranteed that their work was excellent. They bet their own lives on it. “A lot of things would work a lot better now if that was still the case,” her father said then. He loved her so much that he was overprotective of her, but she was a late-in-life baby, after all.
When she was younger, he took her to the observation deck at Stapleton Airport, when people could still do such things, and together, they stood, watching the sleek jets race down the runway, lift into the air, and climb toward the clouds. A little later, Lillie and her parents boarded one and flew to Pennsylvania to see her father’s friend, Bob, and his family. Lillie’s father met Bob during the war when they worked on planes.
The Pennsylvania trip was the first time she flew. Her father told her the ride would feel “just like sitting in our living room,” and he explained all the frightening noises—bumpy sounds of suitcases being loaded into the cargo hold as the plane sat on the tarmac, loud thumps of the landing gear locking into the underbelly of the jet after takeoff, the squeal of the ailerons being lowered from the wings as they descended through the clouds. He taught Lillie how to swallow with her mouth open to release the pressure in her ears and make them pop. He gave her a peppermint, advising her to let the candy dissolve slowly on her tongue, and then he teased her mother, telling her that the ailerons scraped the snow on the Allegheny Mountains as they passed through the clouds. They all laughed together.
Once, when she was given a writing assignment to interview her parents about their lives, she asked her father what the war had been like. He was reluctant to speak about his experiences, so instead, she wrote about him and the closeness he felt to Bob and his family, people who were “Easterners,” and city-dwellers, different in many ways from the Porters and their western Nebraska wheat-farming heritage.
Lillie wrote that her father’s eyes filled with tears when he talked of how Bob’s brother was killed when his plane was shot down in North Africa while the United States troops were fighting against the notorious German Rommel.
“I was supposed to go there,” he said. “My orders were changed at the last minute and I was sent to Missouri instead.” He got a faraway look in his eyes then. But Lillie knew the rest anyway. He reported for duty at Rosecrans Field in St. Joseph, and Lillie’s mother, his high school sweetheart, rode the train from Nebraska with his parents and married him in St. Joe. Bob was stationed there, too.
Lillie wrote of how, when her grandfather died, the first person her father called was Bob. It was the only time she ever heard her father’s voice break. He sat, holding the black receiver to his ear, tears streaming down his face until he could croak out the words. “We lost Dad,” he said. “Oh, God, Bob. We lost Dad.”
Her own throat went dry whenever she remembered that call. She dug in her purse, found a peppermint, untwisted the wrapper and popped it in her mouth. Lillie had never known a friendship like that.
Now, standing next to Amelia Earhart’s car, Lillie thought that if her father had been Earhart’s mechanic, not only would her Lockheed Electra have been air-worthy, but he would have insisted that the aviatrix learn the intricacies of the plane’s radio. As it was, Earhart, hurrying to meet other pressing flight-preparation commitments, apparently skipped some of those radio details. When she was flying across the Pacific, trying desperately to find tiny Howland Island, her distress calls to the coast guard ship, Itasca, alerted everyone to her presence, but she could not hear their responses. When Earhart’s plane disappeared in the Pacific Ocean in 1937, Lillie’s parents were juniors in high school.
But now, both of her parents were dead, Lillie long ago grew into an adult, and flying was no fun at all. Not to mention all the extra hassles and worries caused these days by the threats of terrorists or just plain goofy people. Lillie knew she could still try to learn to fly airplanes herself, but she no longer wanted to. She could drive wherever she needed to go and that suited her.
When Carla invited her to come to the Lincoln Highway conference, Lillie jumped at the chance to get away from Laramie while her literature students enjoyed the last few days of spring break. She joined Carla and Roger beside a glimmering golden vehicle with a long front end and a small enclosed seat for two in the rear.
“Look, Lil,” Carla said. “This belonged to D.W. Griffith. The starlets must have loved this car. It’d be like riding in your own private carriage.”
Roger stood between and just a step behind the two women. “This car appeared in the 1933 movie, ‘My Lips Betray,’” he said.
Lillie stepped back to survey the drawn-out snout of the vehicle, which she discovered was a 1923 Hispano Suiza Victoria Town Car. “Such sweet lines,” she said. Her shoulder came level with, but didn’t touch Roger’s upper arm.
Carla cupped hands around her face and peered into the back seat. Lillie moved toward Carla so she could look too, but before she could do so, Carla said, “With the chauffeur all the way up front, this is definitely a car made for love.”
At that comment, images of the lengthy carriage ride of the lovers in Flaubert’s Madame Bovary flashed into Lillie’s mind. Lillie backed away just as Roger stepped forward. Lillie’s shoulder bumped against his chest. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. At the same time, he said, “Pardon me.”
Lillie’s face burned. Roger stared at Carla’s back. She evidently hadn’t noticed the collision because she continued concentrating on the interior of the car.
Lillie cleared her throat and said, “I was picturing how they looked stepping out of this car and onto the red carpet on Oscar night. Can’t you just imagine the women wearing those gorgeous sequined gowns, like the one over there?” She gestured to a mannequin standing next to a 1934 Pierce-Arrow Limousine.
Roger seized the opportunity to change the subject. “That’s a great car, but see the one next to it? It’s a Kissel. I saw you looking at Earhart’s car earlier. This one was made by the same company. I’ve driven it.”
“Really? They let you drive these cars?”
“Not all of them, of course. Not Earhart’s, I’m afraid. We’re a little extra-protective of hers. Be fun to drive hers, wouldn’t it, though? But there are a few, like this Kissel, that we take to parades sometimes.”
Lillie asked about the Snowy Range Rally. “If that’s even what it’s called,” she said. “I only know that I see lots of antique cars traveling the Snowy Range Road between Laramie and Saratoga in the summer.”
Roger nodded. “I know that road. Beautiful scenery. Far as I know, we haven’t participated in that rally. Seems like it’s usually about the same time as the Fourth of July parade here. “
“How do you keep the cars road-worthy?”
Roger smoothed his thick mustache. “I’m a mechanic,” he said. “My hobby is restoring vintage cars.”
“Ah,” Lillie said. “That must be fun, but I’ll bet it’s a lot of work. Time- consuming?”
“Can be.”
Carla returned to them. “What’s time-consuming?”
“Roger restores antique cars so he can drive them in parades.”
“Oh,” Carla said. “Do you ever take passengers?”
“We do sometimes take passengers. We often take dignitaries in our cars during parades and special events. The Grand Marshals of the St. Patrick’s Day parade rode with us just last week.”
“I don’t suppose you ever let visitors like us ride along, though.” Carla crossed her arms over her chest.
“Not usually,” he said. “But you can sit in that Model T right over there and pretend you’re driving it. Did you ladies bring cameras? I’ll be glad to take your picture.”
Before they left, Roger said, “I’ll check into the Snowy Range Rally. That would really be fun.”
“Maybe we could ride along for that,” Carla suggested. “I’ll bet I could get the history department to sponsor a car. There’s plenty of time to talk Jay into that.” Jay was Carla’s sometime boyfriend and next in line to be the department’s chairman.
“I’d like to drive one sometime,” Lillie said before she could stop herself.
Roger said, “Lots of folks tell me that same thing, but that’s up to the owner. He lets me work on them once in awhile because I insist on driving before anyone else does. That way I know they’re safe to go.”
Lillie swallowed the undissolved chunk of peppermint candy whole. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cough, but her eyes watered. She blinked several times to prevent any tears from spilling down her cheeks.
Apparently unaware of Lillie’s distress, Carla said, “Most people aren’t that careful.”
Roger shrugged.
Recovering, Lillie said, “Most people should be that careful.”
“A lot of things would be a heck of a lot better if they were,” Roger said.
Lillie said, “My dad used to say that.”
“Smart man.”
“I always thought so.”
Carla made a show of looking at her watch. This was not unusual for her if Lillie or any other woman appeared to be making inroads with a man Carla flirted with first. “I hate to, but we really must go. Don’t want to miss the video about traveling the Lincoln Highway through Nebraska.” She thanked Roger for his time and led the way out of the museum.
Roger hurried to hold the door for them. When she and Carla reached Carla’s Honda, Lillie walked around the car to the passenger side. As she waited for Carla to unlock the car, she looked back at the museum building. Roger still stood at the glass double-doors, watching them. He smiled at Lillie and raised his hand in farewell. She returned the gesture and climbed into the compact.
“Carla,” she said, “are you and Jay a steady item now?”
“You might say so.” She backed the vehicle from the parking spot.
“Do you think he’ll really spring for sponsoring a car in the rally?”
“Good chance,” Carla replied. She pulled around the line of parked cars and followed the exit signs so that they drove past the front of the museum again, slowing for the several speed bumps along the way. “Men usually do whatever I ask them to do,” she said. “It’s all in how you ask. Wait and see, Lillie. I’ll bet you’ll learn a lot from this experience.”
They slowed for a speed bump in front of the big double-doors. With a great deal of relief, Lillie noticed that Roger had already gone inside.
Carla’s plans to ride along in a car with Roger for the Snowy Range Rally fell flat. Her suggestion to Jay that the history department sponsor a car for the rally was a big hit, though. Carla hadn’t known that Jay’s father was a huge antique car buff, and he lent them his restored Model A. Jay insisted that Carla ride with him, but they made arrangements for Lillie to ride in the car entered by the Forney Transportation Museum.
“They told us it wouldn’t be Earhart’s car,” Carla said. “That guide—what was his name? Ricky?”
“Roger,” Lillie supplied, smiling. She was not surprised that Carla already forgot his name. She was such a love-‘em-and-leave-‘em-behind type that Jay would likely be on his own in the not-too-distant future as well.
“Oh, right. Well, he remembered that you’d been interested in that one. I didn’t even give that a thought. Even with so many extra people going through the museum that weekend, he remembered you were looking at her car. Isn’t that amazing?”
She waved as she and Jay headed down the street, following several others driving a variety of vintage vehicles. While some rallies featured timed races wherein entrants began their journeys at staggered intervals, drivers in this event simply traveled the mountain road at their leisure, stopping at pre-arranged checkpoints along the way.
When the museum’s car arrived in the registration line, Roger was not at the wheel. Instead, one of the museum’s board members and his wife, dressed to the nines in 1930s outfits, complete with shoes and hats to match, sat in the front.
“Are you Lillie Porter?” the man asked. When she nodded, he said, “Roger is coming along in another car soon. He said you enjoyed seeing Earhart’s Kissel when you visited the museum.” He tapped the steering wheel. “We don’t often drive the Kissels. This is a Pierce-Arrow. It’s fun, too.” He extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet someone who’s as fascinated by these old cars as we are.”
“Thank you,” Lillie said as they shook. She tapped her forehead. “I love your hats.”
In response, he touched the brim of his plaid cap. His wife, who wore a close-fitting cloche reminiscent of those Earhart favored, said, “He never goes anywhere without his hat.”
“Well, I don’t feel completely dressed without one,” he said.
Lillie laughed. “My father always said that very same thing. He wore a Stetson, though.”
A Reo pulled up behind them. The driver honked the horn. To their delight, the sound was ah-ooo-gah, ah-ooo-gah. Just the way Lillie heard those classic car horns in the movies she’d seen.
“We’d better be on our way,” the museum board member said. “Roger’s not far behind. Have fun today.”
Not long after that, Roger arrived. He stepped from the car.
After they exchanged pleasantries, Lillie said, “I don’t remember seeing this car in the museum.”
“It’s my grandfather’s Hupmobile,” he said, placing his hand on the hood. ‘They quit making these during World War II.”
The rally began with a leg from Laramie to the tiny town of Centennial. After they negotiated the town traffic and were traveling on the two-lane highway, Roger came to a turn-off and stopped.
“Thought you might like to drive a little while,” he said. “This is a flat stretch, isn’t it?”
“Oh, but it’s your grandfather’s. I couldn’t.”
“He’d be pleased that someone who loves old cars so much would take a turn at the wheel. I know it’s not like Earhart’s car, but it’s the best I could do.”
“I’m flattered that you remembered me,” Lillie said. “You must see dozens of people who like her car.”
“I remembered the way you looked at all of the cars,” he said. “Respectful. Sincerely interested. You’d be surprised at how many people come to the museum to just pass the time.”
When she was settled in the driver’s seat, he said, “Earhart drove seven-thousand miles with her mother when they visited the national parks one summer. I studied up on it.”
“You did?”
“Well, you inspired me,” he said. “Oh, here, I almost forgot.” He handed her a black driving cap. He adjusted his own beige plaid cap. “I really don’t like to be without a hat of some kind.”
Lillie took the cap. She fingered the brim. “I usually don’t wear one, but I’m getting to like them pretty well myself,” she said.
“They let me borrow this one from the museum. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, but Earhart’s car was displayed with the top down, and maybe you can pretend this vehicle is like that.”
She put her hat on, then removed it quickly.
“Something the matter?”
She ran her finger around the inside of the cap. “Something’s sticky.” She held the cap so he could see. “It’s tape,” she said.
He blushed. “Sorry. We put double-stick tape on the caps so they don’t blow off along the parade routes.”
“No, no,” she said. She put the cap on, adjusting it and then tapping her forehead to secure the tape. “I didn’t know real people used this,” she said. “I thought the tape was just for the display models.”
They switched places in Centennial, at the base of the Snowy Range Mountains. Roger said, “It’s warm enough that I could open the windows during this short leg. That’d be sort of like driving with the top down.”
They made the straight steep climb and then followed the gentle curve beside Corner Mountain on the way to the ranger station that served as the first checkpoint for the mountain road. Some of the cars were already a few miles ahead of them, and several followed. The climb made Lillie think of the steep angled ascent of an airplane and the feeling of being pushed back into her seat as the jet took off. The curling road seemed like the banking of an airplane as it turned toward the route planned for its final destination. Unlike the aircraft, there were no startling loud bumps and thumps, just the constant purring of the car’s engine and the rush of the wind in her ears. When they stopped at the ranger station, both of them got out of the car to go inside and sign the checkpoint sheet. The wind was stronger, shaking the long limbs of the pines and the heart-shaped leaves of the aspens. Another rally participant was coming out of the building. He smiled and waved. A sudden gust swept the brown cap he wore from his head. He hurried to chase after the hat before it blew across the parking lot and caught it just before it would have rolled onto the highway.
Lillie exchanged a glance with Roger. He put his hand out, gesturing for her to go first toward the building. As she did, she realized that the gust was really a strong steady breeze. When Roger hurried to open the door for her, she smiled and thanked him. His cap was still on. So was hers.
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Lori Van Pelt is an award-winning poet, fiction and nonfiction author. Her short fiction won the Western Writers of America Spur Award in 2006 and has been published in several national anthologies.
