The Clutch She Finished on the Gravel

Then I went back under, because the hard part was still in front of me.

Taking a transmission out is gravity. Putting it back is not.

You have to raise it on the jack until the input shaft lines up with the hole in the middle of the clutch disc, then the splines on the shaft have to find the splines in the disc, then the nose of the shaft has to go into the pilot bearing, then the bellhousing has to come flush to the block. All at once, all straight.

I raised it up slow. I got it close. I rocked it. I rolled the jack an inch forward. It stopped against the disc and would not go.

I lowered it, checked the angle of the tail, and tried again. It stopped.

I lay there and looked up at it and I thought about Dean. Not in a sad way. I thought about how he used to tell me, “It wants to go home. You just have to let it.”

I slid out, went to the front of the truck, and put a breaker bar on the crankshaft bolt.

I turned the engine over a hair, so the disc turned with the flywheel and the splines moved. Then I went back under, brought the jack up again, and pushed.

It slid in an inch. I turned it another hair. It slid in another inch. Then the bellhousing came up against the block with a sound I will never forget, a soft solid thunk, iron finding iron.

It had taken me forty minutes, by my watch. I lay there with both hands flat against the transmission case and said, “Thank you,” and I am not sure who I said it to. Both of them, I suppose.

After that it was all the work I knew. Bellhousing bolts in and tight. Crossmember back in. Rear mount bolted down. Jack out. Starter back on. Wires plugged in and tied off. Driveshaft back in on its paint marks.

I reconnected the hydraulic line until it clicked. Then I filled the reservoir under the hood, bled the clutch the way that system wants to be bled, and pumped the pedal until it came up firm and quick.

I filled the transmission with fresh fluid until it ran out the fill hole, put the plug back in, and bolted the shifter back on top. I put the boot down over it and screwed it in.

At 2:40 by the clock on the dash, I slid out from under the truck into the afternoon sun.

I had grease to my elbows on both arms, my coveralls were gray with dust, and my back felt like somebody had stood on it.

I lowered the truck off the stands one corner at a time with the floor jack and pulled the plywood out. I climbed in the cab and started it. The old six caught right away, smooth as ever.

I held the brake down hard, put it in fourth gear, and let the clutch out slow. A good clutch will kill the engine when you do that. It stalled clean and fast, the way it should.

I started it again and drove it down the gravel and back, shifting up through second and third, then backed it up to the bay door and parked it. The clutch caught about the middle of the pedal and held.

I went inside and called Nadine.

“It’s done,” I said. “You can come get it.”

There was a silence on the line. “Rhea, it’s Tuesday.”

“I know it.”