The Stars Are Fire

by Anita Shreve

  “You’re going to buy a car?”

  “I hope to.”

  “With what, may I ask?”

  “I’ll put this week’s salary toward the purchase as a down payment. I’ve heard you can pay as little as ten dollars a month.”

  “But money is so tight.”

  “I have to have a car,” Grace argues, drying the dishes. “It will be much easier for us to shop, and I can skim an hour off my commute. I’ll leave here at eight-thirty and be home by five-thirty. I’ll see the kids more.” Grace knows it’s this last point that will win her mother over. “So I thought I might go into Biddeford today. I saw a used-car lot there.”

  “When were you in Biddeford?” her mother asks, startling Grace.

  Thinking quickly, she answers, “When Matt took me there to buy material to make the kids clothes.”

  “You ought to write to them,” Marjorie says as she brings the kettle to the sink.

  “I should.”

  “All used-car salesmen are crooks.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Everyone does,” her mother says. “Oh, by the way, there’s a letter for you on the telephone table.”

  —

  Grace picks the letter up and studies the return address. The Statler Hotel, Boston. She walks into the sitting room, slits the letter open, and reads.

  Dear Grace,

  I’ve wanted to write to you ever since I got on the train to travel south. I left without saying goodbye because I couldn’t. Simply could not. I hope you’ll understand.

  I was hired by the Boston orchestra for several solo performances and have already been asked to travel to New York and to Chicago.

  It is not my place ever to hope we will meet again.

  I enjoyed every minute I was in your presence, and the memory of our last night will be with me forever.

  I can’t say more than that, just as you cannot.

  With deep affection and love,

  Aidan Berne

  (Italian accent)

  —

  In her room, Grace reads the letter half a dozen times. During the second and third readings, she dots the paper with tears. On the fourth reading, she laughs at the words Italian accent. During the fifth reading, the word love causes her to feel like a balloon leaving the earth. After the sixth reading, she folds the letter and puts it into the hatbox.

  —

  Grace stands by the outer wire fence of the used-car lot pretending to be searching for something in her purse.

  “This one’s a beauty,” the salesman says to a young couple, the buyer in a long taupe coat and hat, his wife in a green wool coat and shivering. The salesman, in only a suit (a show of strength?), points to an old Ford. It’s been washed and polished, but nothing can hide the considerable rust on the front bumper, or the dent above it. He has had the car pushed so close to the wire fence that the buyers, unless they ask him to pull the car out for them, are unlikely to see the damage. Grace wants to call to them to check out the front, but she probably shouldn’t alienate the salesman. She’s here to buy a car, too.

  “A young woman bought this,” the man says, “used it to go back and forth to her mother’s in Kennebunkport, and inside of six months, turned it in when her daddy, competing for her attention, bought her a Lincoln. Hardly used at all.”

  But what about the owners before the young woman, if she even exists? Grace wonders. The car has to be over a decade old. No mention of them. Grace needs someone who knows cars.

  —

  She knocks, then remembers the layout. She knocks again, harder. The doctor’s car is still in the lot, indicating that he hasn’t gone skiing yet. She knocks a third time, giving it everything she’s got.

  He’s dressed but hasn’t combed his hair. “Grace, are you all right?”

  “I am, I’m fine,” she says quickly, “and I’m sorry to intrude on your day off. But I need advice, and I can’t think of anyone else who could help me.”

  “Come in, come in. Let’s go back and get some coffee.”

  “I had half an idea that you’d already be off on your skiing trip,” Grace says as they walk the corridor to the kitchen.

  “I begged off. I need sleep, and I have to catch up on my reading.”

  In the kitchen, he puts the water and grounds on the stove to bring to a boil. Grace removes her gloves but not her coat. “I need to buy a car. I went to the used-car lot in the middle of Biddeford and just happened to overhear a conversation between a young couple and a salesman, and I could see that he was cheating them. I wanted to warn them but I was on the other side of the fence. And I suddenly realized that a woman alone in that car lot would be viewed as an instant sale. I know enough to have them take the car from its parking place and to walk around it. To get in and look around. Even to take a test-drive. But I ought to be able to have them lift the hood and look at the works and see if it’s in decent shape. That I can’t do. I’ve never seen under the hood of any car.”

  “I could teach you everything you need to know out in the parking lot. But I’m intrigued. I’d like to get a look at this sleazy salesman. I think I’ll just turn off the coffee, and we’ll go.”

  “I’ll buy you coffee afterward.”

  “Deal.”

  “I should tell you this before we go. I found a bracelet belonging to my mother-in-law and sold it last week. I needed the money to buy the car. I told myself a story in which Merle gave the bracelet to Gene to give to me so that rightfully it was mine.”

  “That’s probably pretty close to the truth.”

  “No, it isn’t. Merle hated me. She would never ever have given me a piece of her jewelry. I could make the argument Gene probably inherited the contents of the house, and he would want me to have a car in order to support his children, but even that isn’t true, technically. I have seven hundred dollars in my purse.”

  “Cash?” he asks, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you had a bank account.”

  “What was the point of putting the money in the bank if I knew I was just going to take it out again?”

  “If someone stole your purse, you’d be out a car. By the way, you’re going to be my sister, and you should call me John.”

  “John?” she asks. “That sounds so strange to me.”

  “I wasn’t born Dr. Lighthart.”

  —

  The gleam in the salesman’s eye is brighter, having seen the Packard drive in. “What can I do for you two?” he asks as soon as Grace and John are out of the car. “Ralph Eastman,” he says, putting out his hand.

  “My sister needs a car. I’m thinking of a used Buick.”

  “Buick,” the salesman muses, as if trying to remember his inventory. “I’ve got a sensational mustard yellow with a black convertible top, gorgeous car. Nineteen forty. Last convertible made by Buick prewar.” He waits. No response. “And I’ve got a green Super coupe that’s a stunner.”

  “How many seats in the Super coupe?” John asks the salesman.

  “Two, but the trunk is good-sized.”

  Grace shakes her head.

  “A sedan?” the doctor asks.

  “Yes, one. A navy ’forty-one. The chrome is a little pitted, but that can’t be helped around here. The sea salt.”

  “Why don’t you pull her out and we’ll take a look?”

  “Yes, sir.” His bluster leaking like air from a balloon, Ralph all but runs into the showroom to get the keys. When he parks the Buick in front of John and Grace, the man seems even smaller in the driver’s seat.

  Grace lets John do the walk-around, the inspection under the hood, the kicking of the tires. “What’s the story on this one?” he asks the salesman.

  “Bought by a twenty-two-year-old guy, who used it only seven months before he enlisted. It was kept at his mother’s house in Biddeford Pool for the duration of the war. She didn’t have a garage. When the war ended, he drove it for a while, but he didn’t like the pitting. Brought it int
o our lot. Very little mileage. You can see for yourself.”

  “I did,” says John. “I think it’s time for a test-drive, what do you think?”

  “Yes, sir. You drive, I’ll get in, and your sister here can wait inside where it’s warm.”

  “No, my sister will sit in the passenger seat,” says John, “and you’ll get in back if you don’t mind.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Ralph says, disgruntled. He probably had part two of his pitch all set to go.

  “I’m going to take Route Nine, let it open up,” John says. He seems to be listening to the innards of the car as he drives out of the city. “Radio work?” he asks.

  “It certainly does,” says the salesman, inching forward in his seat so that his face is just behind his customer’s ear.

  “The heater?”

  “You can turn it on with that button there. Honey, why don’t you just press that green button and then turn the dial?”

  The doctor chooses that moment to press down hard on the gas pedal, slamming Ralph back. Grace wants to smile, but knows that wouldn’t help the negotiations. Once out of the city, John steadily increases the speed until they are going fifty-five miles per hour along Route 9. The dial reads sixty. He takes it to sixty-five.

  “I must remind you about the speed limit!” Ralph squawks from the back.

  “Yes, of course,” says John, bringing it down to thirty. The car feels as though it’s barely moving. Even so, according to signs, they are still five miles over the limit. Wisely, the salesman keeps his warnings to himself.

  When they pull into the lot and exit the car, the doctor asks the price.

  “I can’t let this beauty go for less than eleven hundred.”

  Inside, he and Ralph retreat into an inner office, while Grace, tempted by the coffee but remembering that she has promised to buy Dr. Lighthart one after the sale is complete, sits and waits.

  It isn’t long before he emerges from the office. He sits next to Grace and speaks in a low tone. “I got him down to nine. He’ll take the seven today, and you can pay the balance in installments of twenty dollars a month for ten months. He agreed to waive the interest.”

  “How on earth did you manage that?”

  “He’s got his eye on my Packard. Worth his while to keep me happy. The Buick begins to shimmy at sixty-five, so I wouldn’t take it over sixty.”

  Grace laughs. “I’ll be amazed if I ever go over thirty-five.”

  “After I made the deal, I got him to agree to fill the oil and the radiator and gas her up. As soon as we do the paperwork, we can go get that cup of coffee.”

  “I’m buying you lunch,” she says.

  —

  They both order meals that will take them twenty minutes to eat. “I told him we’d be back in half an hour.”

  Grace nods. Now, alone with the doctor in the luncheonette, an awkwardness settles over her. Her mouth is dry. She isn’t at all certain she can call him John. He sits back in the booth and lights a cigarette and asks her if she wants one. She says yes, mainly to quell her nerves. If they were in the office right now, there wouldn’t be any nerves. It’s the change of venue and possibly the excitement of buying her own car that’s causing her anxiety.

  —

  “You’re smiling,” he says.

  “I was thinking about Rosie. I told you about her. She almost always makes me smile.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She’s a little zany, and she wants to have fun. If she were still living next door, and I drove up with the new Buick, she’d shriek with happiness. She’d want to put all our kids in the backseat and go for a ride and let our hair blow in the wind and smoke cigarettes.”

  “You must miss her.”

  “I do.”

  He puts money on the table.

  “No, it’s my treat,” she says.

  “Okay,” he says, withdrawing the cash.

  Grace fetches seventy-five cents from her purse.

  He stands. “Let’s go take your new car for a spin. I’ll leave mine here. You’re driving.”

  —

  Having adjusted the seat so that it suits her, she maneuvers out of the city. The doctor leans back.

  “Where shall I go?” she asks.

  “Get us out of the city, and then take Route Nine again,” he says. “We’ll head toward Kennebunkport.”

  She follows his directions.

  “Now bring it up to thirty-five,” he instructs.

  “I don’t want to get a ticket my first time out.”

  “You won’t.”

  Grace brings it up to speed and lets the Buick go. She’s too nervous to turn on the radio or the heater. Her hands feel as though they’re cemented onto the steering wheel.

  “Take it to forty.”

  “Speeding tickets are expensive.”

  “I know. Trust me. How does it feel?”

  “Good.”

  He laughs. “You’re supposed to be thrilled.”

  “I’m too nervous to be thrilled.”

  “I can see that. Here.” He holds out a lit cigarette. Grace reluctantly lets go of the wheel to take it, and then again when she wants a puff. “Now hit fifty-five,” he says, “and roll down your window.”

  She holds the steering wheel with her right hand, which has a cigarette in it, and rolls her window down. The cold air blasts into the car and lifts her hair.

  “Relax,” he says. “Smoke your cigarette, let your hair blow around, and think of Rosie.”

  —

  When they reach the town limits of Kennebunkport, Grace reverses direction and heads back to Biddeford.

  “Wait a sec,” John says, reaching into his coat pocket. “I wrote down two addresses from this morning’s paper for apartments that sounded promising. How about you come with me? I could use your opinion.”

  Grace imagines telling her mother that it takes a very long time to buy a car.

  —

  The first place was clearly once a boardinghouse with its bare door and at least six vehicles parked in the driveway. The building is painted sky blue, the shutters pink, and there are rusted farm implements and children’s toys in the front yard.

  “What do you think?” Grace asks. “Worth a try?”

  John raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think I could stand coming home to a pink and blue house, and to judge from all the stuff in the yard, I’m guessing the interior isn’t up to much either.”

  “If it were me,” Grace says, “I wouldn’t go inside.”

  “That’s it then,” he says and gives her directions to the second place.

  —

  Grace pulls to a stop at the head of a driveway. It’s hard to tell if it’s a working farm or not. The buildings are well kept.

  They are presented with three doors to choose from.

  “Pretty barn,” Grace murmurs.

  John heads for the main house. “This must be the kitchen door. With farm folk, that usually means the front door because the real front door is never opened.”

  “How do you know so much about farms?”

  “When I was in medical school, a doctor let me go with him on house calls.” John knocks, and a middle-aged woman, with her hair in a bun, and her face red (heat from the oven, Grace decides), opens the door.

  “Hello, we’re here to see about the apartment to rent,” John explains.

  “Yep,” the woman says, stepping aside.

  Grace would like to rent the kitchen. The scent of sweet spices floods the room. She breathes deeply.

  “It’s this way,” the farm woman says, opening another door. Grace has a sense that they’re now in the ell attached to the kitchen. “This used to be a sheep farm. Last October, when the sheep were out to the far pasture, fire come roaring down the hill like a dragon and burnt nearly all of them. They couldn’t get away. You could smell cooked meat for weeks. That’s why we’re renting out rooms, to make ends meet.”

  “The fire didn’t touch the house,” Grace says.


  “Nope.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “Don’t feel that way.” She stops and makes a short gesture with her hand. “This is it.”

  Grace scans the room, large enough for a small sofa, an armchair, a table and two chairs. The woman has made an effort to transform what was essentially a place for tools into a cozy living room. The focal point is the fireplace. When the farm wife notices Grace’s glance, she says, “Fireplace draws good. I only put a hot plate out here case you want to make your own coffee. You always have access to the kitchen, and I make three meals a day. They’re included in the rent. You can eat with one of us, or bring your meal to the table here. As we go along, you can give me some idea of what you’d like. You plannin’ on having children?”

  Grace and John look at each other.

  “We’re not married,” John says. “Grace is my sister, and I’m John Lighthart,” he says, offering his hand. “Pardon my manners. I should have introduced us right away. Only I will be renting the apartment.”

  “I mentioned it because I don’t rent to families. In the next room there, you’ll find the bed and the bathroom. Water pressure is good. It’s got electric heat, but you get too cold, just build up the fire with the wood.”

  The apartment comes with a porch that faces out to pasture. Grace wanders into the bedroom as John emerges. There’s a white iron bed, a white bureau, fresh yellow and white striped wallpaper, a desk, and two more windows. A closet has been made by a curtain pulled across an alcove. She checks the bathroom. Old but clean. Well kept. Plenty of linens.

  When she exits the bedroom, John blocks her way. “What do you think?” he asks in a low tone.

  “I like it. The shared meals, I don’t know.”

  “It’s perfect. I can’t cook, and I haven’t the time to do it.”

  “You’ve certainly got a lot of scenery, four big windows. If I were you, I’d take it. Make the lease flexible in case the husband is intolerable.” She turns around. “Yes, this suits you, and look, it has bookshelves. You’ll get the cooking smells, since it’s attached to the kitchen. Eventually, you’ll have to tell them that you’re a doctor and have long hours. But I’d take it,” she says.