I do not own Ratched.

I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

A Man (A Woman) and His Car


He's decided it's time.

He can't have her chauffeuring him around all the time.

It's not that he minds her driving; he really doesn't.

But it shouldn't be assumed.

And if they do decide one day to get marr-

Well, a man needs to have a dependable conveyance, be independent.

He's making more money now, more than he ever thought imagined making.

A hundred and forty dollars a month. Over double what I used to make. I can't believe it.

And though he doesn't want to spend it all, . . .

Maybe I could get a little place of my own. Invite Ma to come live with me.

If I can get her to retire from the library.

. . . it certainly is a good investment to consider.

Plus, if he's going to be called upon in the middle of the night much more . . .

". . . him. I swear he was in his bed-"

"Did you check the barn, Martha?"

"Oh. Right."

. . . he can't keep taking Mrs. Graham's car . . .

"They ought to put a bell on Injun Joe, Huck. So you can get some sleep at night."

"His name is Peter, Mrs. Graham. And he just feels safe with the horse, that's all."

. . . like he's been doing.


"Hey there, looking at the Fords? Made right here in Americ-. . . oh, uh . . ."

"Good morning. My name's Huck. Huck Finnigan."

". . . uh, . . . Fred. Fred Barker."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Barker. Thought maybe you could help me out. Mrs. George Graham over there on Chestnut Grove said you're a real fair salesman. Wouldn't give me a bum deal."

"Oh, uh, yeah, yeah, I knew her husband, uh, real shame him passin' on so quick . . . So, uh, you're in the market for a Ford, are ya?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Well, uh, alright, uh, let's see, uh, what we can do for you this afternoon."

"Thank you. I'd really appreciate it."


He rolls up in it the first day.

A deep blue 1946 Ford Deluxe Sedan, four door.

59A V-8 engine block.

Horizontal stainless steel bars. Chrome-plated Ford wings.

Gray leather bench seating.

Red on black speedometer, illuminated at night.

Big trunk, completely empty, save for a spare tire and carjack, lug wrench, jumper cables.

Full gas can.

Registration papers in the glove compartment.

Thirty-five dollars a month, he'll have it paid off in a year and a half.

It feels good, feels proud.

Feels . . .

"Hey, Huck, what you got there?"

"Ford."

"That's right, mister. Made in the good old U.S. of A., eh?"

"Looks like."

. . . strange.


"Would you like me to pick you up on Saturday for our date, Huck?"

And he's proud to answer . . .

"Thank you, Grace. But that won't be necessary. I've got a car now. Maybe, uh, maybe I can pick you up instead."

. . . whilst trying not to be too proud.

"If that's something you think might be nice."

And Grace, ever gracious as her name implies, raises a curious eye and an interested smile.

"Oh, you do now, do you? May I see it?"

So he . . .

"Sure."

. . . takes her.


It's not as new as some of the other cars parked out front.

"Oh, this is it. I saw it this morning."

But he likes it.

And Grace, walking carefully around it . . .

"I wondered whose it was."

. . . seems to as well.

She peeks in the windows, glides her fingertips lightly along the paint.

Looks over to him and smiles.

"It's very nice, Huck."

And all he wants in the world at a that moment is to take a ride with her.

Just the two of them, along the coast.

Or the flatland.

Or through the redwoods.

Anywhere the road may take them.

Radio on low.

Bing Crosby perhaps, maybe some Billie Holiday.

And the two of them.

Chatting. Laughing.

Even quiet, just enjoying the day.

Huck.

And Grace Miller . . .

"Yes, I like it."

. . . by his side.

She turns then, Grace does, perky hospital hat atop her strawberry blond head.

Seagreen, sea-sicking hospital dress, lighter shade apron over.

White stockings, white shoes.

Blood red lipstick and fingernails.

And he thinks . . .

"Maybe you could take me for a ride in it after work? Just up the road a bit?"

. . . she's the most beautiful thing . . .

"Sure. That'd be real nice."

. . . he's ever seen.


Absolute most sincere apologies for the whole 'Injun Joe' bit. As with the other racially offensive terms used in this story, it is only accurate for the time period.

Thanks to DinahRay for reading and reviewing the last chapter. You're gonna love the next one. ;)