Uncle Sandor had gone into a nursing home last month, at the age of eighty-four, and had given his car to his only living sister, Grandma Mazur. Grandma Mazur had never learned to drive. My parents and the rest of the free world weren’t anxious for her to start now.

While I hated to look a gift horse in the mouth, I really didn’t want Uncle Sandor’s car. It was a 1953 powder blue Buick with shiny white top, whitewall tires big enough to fit a backhoe, and gleaming chrome portholes. It was the same size and shape as a beluga whale and probably got six miles to the gallon on a good day.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said to my mother. “Nice of you to offer, but that’s Grandma Mazur’s car.”

“Grandma Mazur wants you to have it. Your father’s on his way over. Drive it in health.”

Damn. I declined her offer of dinner and disconnected. I peeked in at Rex to make sure he wasn’t suffering any delayed reactions to last night’s ordeal. He seemed in good spirits, so I gave him a broccoli floret and a walnut, grabbed my jacket and pocketbook, and locked the apartment behind me. I slogged down the stairs and stood outside, waiting for my father to appear.

The far-off sound of a mammoth engine arrogantly sucking gas carried to the parking lot, and I shrank back against the building, hoping for a reprieve, praying this wasn’t the Buick approaching.

A bulbous-nosed behemoth of a car turned the corner, and I felt my heart beat in time to the pounding of pistons. It was the Buick, all right, in all its glory, not a speck of rust anywhere. Uncle Sandor had bought the car new in 1953 and had kept it in showroom condition.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said to my father. “What if I scratch it?”

“It won’t get scratched,” my father said, putting the car in park, sliding over on the big bench seat. “It’s a Buick.”

“But I like little cars,” I explained.

“That’s what’s wrong with this country,” my father said, “little cars. Soon as they started bringing those little cars over from Japan everything went to pot.” He thumped on the dash. “Now, this is a car. This baby is made to last. This is the kind of car a man can be proud to drive. This is a car with cojones.”

I got in next to my father and peered over the wheel, staring openmouthed at the amount of hood. Okay, so it was big and ugly, but hell, it had cojones.

I took a firm grip on the wheel and thumped my left foot to the floor before my brain registered “no clutch.”

“Automatic,” my father said. “That’s what America is all about.”

I dropped my father at the house and forced a smile. “Thanks.”

My mother was at the front stoop. “Be careful,” she yelled. “Keep your doors locked.”