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When I was writing this one last month, Lucinda walked by the table and spilled fresh Folgers all over the keyboard. Somehow WordPress took that short circuit as an instruction to send it out to the masses immediately. So, if you’re a subscriber, you may have already seen this one. Enjoy it again, no extra charge.

And don’t say anything to Lucinda when you see her, she feels bad enough already. Trixie won’t shut up about it.

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SATURDAY NIGHT, FALL OF 1971:

Deke Dowd showered and headed to bed as soon as Mannix rolled the credits. He and DeeDee had sat in the matching plaid La-Z-Boys watching All in the Family, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and The Bob Newhart Show before Mannixused his superior detective skills—ignoring the computer’s solutions, disobeying his boss’s orders, and solving crimes with intuition, experience, and a sport coat that was roughly the same pattern as the Dowds’ living room furniture. It was the sort of jacket that suggested you didn’t need technology to solve a problem, just a hunch and the confidence to follow it.

As was standard operating procedure in the Dowd house, at the conclusion of the weekly crime-fighting caper, Deke and DeeDee would wash off the day and retire to their upstairs bedroom, assured that the kids were asleep. Door closed, the two would indulge in their weekly Rice Krispie Treat, set the alarm for church in the morning, and fall asleep sweaty, mostly satisfied, and grateful for God’s blessing of physical intimacy. It wasn’t romantic, exactly, but it was reliable, and reliability had its own quiet holiness.

“Routine is what separates us from the beasts,” Deke used to say, usually while doing something that felt suspiciously beast-adjacent.

DeeDee appreciated the concept, but would have gone along with something closer to what the beasts enjoyed for the sake of a little variety, or at least a change in tempo.

DeeDee had been icy during dinner at K-Bob’s. She had remained quiet throughout the Saturday evening ritual in front of the TV. She didn’t cackle and shake her head at some of Archie’s funniest, most racist moments—not even when he called his son-in-law “Meathead,” which normally tickled her silly. She didn’t crack a smile at Carol Burnett, and Carol always got a laugh out of DeeDee, even on nights when nothing else did. Bob Newhart? Not even a grin. And worst of all, she didn’t claim to have figured out the murder before Mannix did, which had never happened before. Deke had come to rely on that announcement as a kind of domestic weather report.

Deke held out hope for the Rice Krispie tradition. There were some things etched in stone. Honored traditions. Intentional blessings. The Saturday evening RKT was one of those, right up there with Sunday gravy and not calling your mother after eight.

But when Deke exited the bathroom, in an expected state of half-arousal, the light was turned off. The nightlight next to the bed indicated that DeeDee was wearing her flannel nightgown—the one with the large floral print and the collar. The one reserved for when she had the flu, or worse. She was turned with her back toward the bathroom door, pretending to be asleep, the way children pretended when they didn’t want to apologize.

Deke knew she was only pretending because her nose wasn’t whistling the way it did when she was really sleeping, a sound he’d grown oddly fond of over the years.

He went over to the dresser and got a pair of boxer shorts, pulled them up over his diminishing manhood and deflating ego, both of which seemed to be reacting to the situation in roughly the same way. He crawled into bed and pulled the covers all the way up to his chin, staring into the dark and counting nothing in particular.

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THREE DAYS EARLIER:

Deke made his way down to the breakfast table with a bit more spring in his step, a slight smirk on his face that indicated more than just the fact that Saturday night was just around the corner. It was the look of a man who believed he was about to improve his standing in the world without upsetting the balance of it.

“You seem chipper this morning,” DeeDee said as she swirled the spatula around the skillet, turning scrambled eggs into an art form. She took pride in small things that came out right.

“It’s time,” Deke said, almost like it was assumed she’d know what that meant.

She didn’t.

“It’s time to trade in the Falcon.” He was nearly beaming at this point. “I’m expecting a pretty good little bonus down at The Proving Grounds. Been saving up for a while now. The ad in the Telegram-Dispatch says Frontier Ford is dealing on new Fords like never before. Something about Bonus Cash Days, or something.” He waved his fork for emphasis, nearly spearing a piece of toast.

The ’66 Falcon wagon had cost them a few repair bills lately. It was going to need new tires. The A/C blew air that was less than cold, air that suggested the idea of coolness without fully committing. DeeDee didn’t mind the Falcon. She was more of the practical sort. Repair bills were expected with a car that was five years old and had taken them on a lot of trips, most of them uneventful, which she considered a success.

But she trusted such things to Deke. He handled the money. She handled everything else. It was an agreement that had never actually been discussed, much less agreed upon, but more an evolution of responsibility. She assumed that he’d done the math, weighed the pros and cons, and come to the right conclusion. Deke assumed she assumed that.

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TWO DAYS EARLIER:

Deke knocked off work a little early, telling his boss he was looking for a new car. Part of the Man Code at The Proving Grounds was that if an employee needed a little time off the clock to handle an automotive need, he could pretty much have it. Automobiles were considered essential infrastructure.

“Bring me back some brochures,” Mr. Dunlap said. “I haven’t seen the new models yet.” He said it the way some men asked for souvenirs.

Deke pulled the Falcon up and parked it under the big banner that said FRONTIER FORD, HOME OF THE STRAIGHT SHOOTIN’ DEAL on one side and BONUS CASH DAYS on the other. He’d run the Falcon through the Tiny Bubbles Car Wash on the way to the dealership, hoping for the best trade-in he could get. The Falcon looked its age, but it was clean, which felt like a reasonable defense.

Rodger, who he always dealt with, saw him from the showroom and strolled outside to shake his hand and determine if he was killing time or ready to buy. Rodger had perfected that walk—casual, friendly, but with purpose.

“Howdy, Deke. Long time no see. Ready to trade in that relic for something new?”

“Been thinkin’ about it. Whatcha got that’s a good deal?”

After the pleasantries, Rodger got down to brass tacks.

“Best deal I got on the floor today? Come take a look at it.”

Parked next to the showroom sat a 1971 Ford Ranchero Squire 429 Cobra Jet. Rodger patted the hood of the maroon Torino-based pickup as though he had a personal relationship with it, like it might respond if praised enough.

“This baby was special ordered. Concealed headlights, a left-side mirror, maroon woodgrain appliqués over white vinyl upholstery. The car rides on fourteen-inch steel wheels and is further equipped with a C6 three-speed automatic transmission, a Traction-Lok rear differential, front disc brakes, air conditioning, and a retro-style stereo.” Rodger looked like he was about to cry just describing it. “This beauty has it all.”

“Gorgeous car,” Deke said. “But I don’t need a truck. I was looking for a wagon. Maybe something with the same woodgrain down the sides.” He said it dutifully, like a man reciting vows he wasn’t entirely committed to.

He started to walk away, but Rodger put his arm around Deke’s shoulder and turned him back toward the Ranchero, the way a preacher redirected a wavering parishioner.

“The fourteen-inch wheels wear covers and trim rings and are mounted with 225/70 BFGoodrich Radial T/A tires. The car is equipped with power steering, and stopping power is provided by front disc and rear drum brakes. A spare wheel is housed in the bed.” He said bed slowly, reverently.

Deke looked back at the truck with the same look in his eye that he’d had at breakfast the day before. A look that suggested he already knew the ending but wanted to hear the middle.

“The bucket seats are trimmed in white vinyl, and appointments include air conditioning. The steering wheel frames a 120-mph speedometer and supplementary gauges for fuel level and coolant temperature. That’s a 429 cubic-inch Cobra Jet V8 under the hood.” Rodger saved that part for last, like dessert.

Other salesmen gathered at the showroom glass, watching a master ply his craft. A few nodded. One crossed himself, figuratively speaking.

“Don’t know that I’ve ever seen a finer-looking truck,” Deke said, bending down and looking inside the vinyl-trimmed cabin, inhaling the smell of newness and possibility.

“You’d be the envy of every man at The Proving Grounds,” Rodger said, beaming like the Ranchero was his only daughter and he was walking her down the aisle. “Prepare to spend your lunch hours popping the hood and showing off that Cobra Jet.”

Deke thought about the envy he’d felt last year when Skeeter Scoggins showed up for work in his new Dodge Charger. And the Charger didn’t have a full bed behind the front seat. That had seemed like a missed opportunity at the time.

Some cars are purchased. Some are sold.

Rodger sold that Ranchero to Deke Dowd in a pitch that was just the right balance of head-turning facts and ego-stroking oratory. By the time the two of them went into the showroom to sit at the beige metal desk and complete the paperwork, Deke was wondering why he hadn’t thought of the Ranchero before, as if the idea had simply been waiting for him to notice it.

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ONE DAY EARLIER:

It dawned on Deke somewhere between the dealership and the entrance to RoadRunner Estates that he had just signed the paperwork for a new car that had forty-eight payments and two bucket seats. He was never that good at algebra, but he couldn’t make those numbers mesh with the fact that he had a wife and three kids. The math wasn’t wrong, exactly—it was just incomplete.

As he pulled the Falcon wagon into the driveway, he considered that he had one day to ease DeeDee into the idea before the Ranchero was ready to pick up the next day. He wished Rodger was going into the house with him. Rodger was so much better at making things sound like ideas that made sense, especially ideas that didn’t.

DeeDee was waiting with dinner. She looked excited, the way she did when something new was about to happen that she believed she understood.

“Did you get it?”

“Yep. It’s a beauty.”

“Were we able to afford the one with the woodgrain down the sides? That always looks so luxurious!”

“Darn sure did. Looks like Texas pecan, but I think they have a different name for it.” He hoped that was close enough to true.

“What color?” DeeDee fired off questions as she served up meatloaf and mashed potatoes, one of Deke’s favorites, a meal that usually made everything feel right again.

“The prettiest maroon you’ve ever seen,” Deke answered. With each question and answer, he felt like he was being honest and telling a huge lie at the same time, a sensation he didn’t yet know how to describe.

“What about the interior?” DeeDee put what was left of the meatloaf back in the oven and sat down across from Deke. She had a sparkle in her eyes that Deke never saw on a Friday.

“White. With black carpets.”

“White? How are we ever going to keep that clean?” The sparkle left her eyes as quickly as it had appeared.

Deke took in what seemed to be an inordinately large piece of meatloaf and mumbled something brief and unintelligible, buying himself time he didn’t really have.

DeeDee quit asking questions. He washed down what was left of his meal with sweet tea and whispered, “Can’t wait for you to see it.” Then he went out to the garage and began work on a project he’d been putting off for weeks. Months, even. In fact, he couldn’t remember what the project was he’d put off for so long, so he had to improvise, busying his hands while his mind stayed elsewhere.

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SATURDAY AFTERNOON:

Deke cleaned out the Falcon of everything that was theirs. Technically, it was owned by Frontier Ford now, but old habits died hard. He and DeeDee got in it and drove down Dickinson Boulevard to the dealership without saying much. Deke had quit saying anything before lunch. DeeDee was waiting for the other shoe to fall, and she had a feeling it was going to hurt.

Deke traded keys with Rodger, folded the final paperwork three times, and shoved it into his back pocket. He and DeeDee walked to the Ranchero. When he opened the door for her, she was mystified. She thought it was a mistake. A joke. Some elaborate misunderstanding that would be cleared up any second now.

It was a truck. With bucket seats. They had a family. That fact seemed to hang in the air between them, unspoken and heavy.

The trip around the corner to K-Bob’s was one of chilly silence, the kind that made the radio feel intrusive.

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MONDAY MORNING:

Deke called into work sick.

He made his way to Frontier Ford. The banner had come untied in the wind and was flapping in the breeze like a white flag. He could relate more than he cared to admit.

Rodger came outside. He recognized the look immediately. The other salesmen crowded around the window inside the showroom. One tried to read lips, hoping for a little drama to break up the morning.

It looked like: Sorry, Deke. No can do. The deal’s already gone through the bank. Funds have been drawn. Wish I could…

Deke ended up keeping the Ranchero. He also bought back the Falcon wagon with all of the money from his bonus, and a little from the oldest boy’s college fund, a decision he justified by telling himself there was still plenty of time.  Rodger offered a discount on the Dealer Prep Fee.

The following Saturday, Harvey Korman made DeeDee snicker. Ted Knight made her actually laugh out loud. It was weeks before she made meatloaf and mashed potatoes again, even longer before the flannel floral nightgown with the collar came off.

And Deke never went to pick out a new car by himself again.

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