Badly.
He wrote that he had nearly damaged the engine.
Grandpa had been furious.
Then came the sentence that changed everything.
Maybe someday someone will figure out how to make these old machines work better. Maybe it’ll be Goldie, my smart girl. She’ll be better than I was.
I sat in the attic holding that journal and cried.
My father had believed in me.
Not generally.
Not in the vague way parents say their children can become anything.
He had written my name beside an unfinished problem.
Suddenly the idea in my head became a plan.
A terrible plan.
But a plan.
For six weeks, I studied.
After chores, I rode my bicycle into town and went to the library.
Internal combustion.
Carburetor design.
Airflow.
Exhaust back pressure.
Fuel mixture.
Heat.
Compression.
I filled notebooks with diagrams.
Forty-seven different versions of a modified carburetor arrangement.
I knew enough to understand that Jasper’s original idea had not necessarily been wrong.
His execution had been.
I also knew I needed to test my own work somewhere safer.
That was where Dorothea Finch came in.
Everybody called her Dotty.
Mrs. Finch was fifty-eight, widowed, and the best welder within fifty miles.
The men in Oak Ridge made jokes about a woman doing “men’s work.”
Then they brought her their broken machinery.
I had been helping her since I was thirteen.
Cleaning.
Cooking.
Shop work.
In exchange, she taught me welding.
Not only how to strike an arc.
How metal moved under heat.
Why a bad joint looked strong before it failed.
How to listen.
“Welding isn’t about melting two pieces together,” she told me. “It’s understanding what the metal needs.”
She let me experiment on an old truck engine.
My first attempt rattled apart because I failed to torque a bolt correctly.
My second bracket cracked because I welded it at the wrong angle.
The third held.
The modified carburetor pulled more air.
Fuel atomization improved.
The engine ran smoother.
Mrs. Finch found me staring at it with a ridiculous grin.
“What are you planning, Goldie?”
“Learning.”
She stared at me.
She knew I was lying.
She did not press.
Not yet.
My opportunity arrived near the end of August.
Grandpa’s cousin in Kansas City broke her leg.
He needed to leave for four days.
Iris went with him to help.
Grandma had to drive to Springfield to buy insulin and speak with another bank about extending the loan.
For forty-eight hours, the farm would be mine.
The night before they left, I barely slept.
Everything I had been taught argued against what I was about to do.
Mrs. Finch:
Never practice on something you cannot afford to lose.
Grandma:
Being smart means knowing when not to do something.
Grandpa:
Leave the John Deere alone.
Then I remembered Grandma crying.
The debt.
The medicine.
My father’s sentence.
Maybe it’ll be Goldie.
At dawn, the trucks disappeared from the driveway.
I walked into the barn.
The Model B waited.
For ten minutes, I only stared.
Then I took twenty-three photographs with Iris’s Polaroid camera.
Every hose.
Wire.
Bolt.
Connection.
I sketched everything.
Measured everything.
If I failed, I wanted a path backward.
Then I removed the carburetor.
My hands shook.
But they knew the movements.
The replacement unit I had ordered had a larger venturi and improved metering.
It should have allowed the old engine to breathe more efficiently.
The first real problem was a mounting bolt rusted solid.
Two hours of work did nothing.
So I got on my bicycle and rode to Mrs. Finch.
“I need the heavy penetrating wrench.”
She lowered her welding shield.
“What are you working on?”
I said nothing.
Her face changed.
“The John Deere?”
Silence answered for me.
“Goldie, that is the stupidest thing you have ever done.”
“I know.”
“That tractor is all your family has.”
“I know.”
“You break it, you may lose the farm.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still doing it?”
“Yes.”
She studied me.
“Why?”
I almost said the farm.
Instead I told the truth.
“I have to prove I can.”
“To whom?”
I thought of West.
Grandpa.
My father.
Myself.
“All of them.”
Dotty shook her head.
Then she picked up her gloves.
“If you’re determined to be insane, you are not going to be insane unsupervised.”
She followed me home.
That decision probably saved both the tractor and me.
We worked through Tuesday.
Then Wednesday.
The rusted bolt came free.
The carburetor fit.
Mrs. Finch caught two mistakes in my connections.
The new exhaust manifold was harder.
My first weld cracked.
“Wrong heat.”
Second attempt burned too hot.
“Control your torch.”
The third took four hours.
It held.
By Wednesday evening, the intake and exhaust systems were complete.
Mrs. Finch told me:
“Sleep.”
I did not.
I checked every connection again.
Around ten that night, Iris called.
Grandma was returning a day early.
I looked at the clock.
Less than eighteen hours.
The tractor had not been tested.
Dotty stayed.
We drank coffee strong enough to dissolve nails.
At five Thursday morning, we were ready.
I climbed onto the seat.
Turned the ignition.
Pressed the starter.
The engine rotated.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
I felt physically sick.
I had killed it.
Mrs. Finch leaned in.
“Loose wire.”
She tightened one connection.
“Try.”
The engine turned three times.
Then fired.
The sound rolled through the barn.
Deeper than before.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
I advanced the throttle.
The response came immediately.
Mrs. Finch did not smile.
“Running in a barn means nothing. Test it.”
I drove into the morning.
Up the slight grade.
Through soft soil.
Around the property.
The tractor pulled beautifully.
By noon, I was convinced.
It worked.
Then Iris came home unexpectedly.
She saw the old carburetor in pieces.
The tools.
The oil.
Her face turned white.
“What did you do?”
“I improved it.”
“You took apart Grandpa’s tractor?”