by Bill Clegg
* * *
She’d driven the car before. Her father kept a set of keys on the hook next to the phone in case it needed to be moved or taken to the shop in Millerton for repair. She’d watched his driving closely for years, studied when he pressed the clutch and the accelerator and when he pulled and pushed the gear-shift. The prospect of having control over such a complicated, powerful machine fascinated her. She’d been waiting to practice in the yellow convertible since the day Dana’s parents gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday. It galled Lupita that her father would spend time teaching Dana to drive but refused to give her even one lesson. Never mind, she’d decided when she could hear Dana grinding the gears the first few times she’d driven. She’d find a way. There were six times she was left alone at Edgeweather since Dana’s birthday in March and each time, within a minute of her father’s leaving, she’d snatched the extra set of keys, pulled open the garage door, and started the car. She never drove more than five miles an hour, mostly in loops, and always stayed in the parking area and driveway. She didn’t dare go off the property because Jackie might see and if she did would surely call Dana in the city to rat her out. By July, Lupita had mastered shifting from neutral to first gear and backing out of the garage. Even though she drove at such slow speeds, nothing in her life until then had given her as much joy as being able to sit alone in that car and move it where and when she wanted. Still, she’d been getting restless to drive on the open road. When Floyd told her where to meet him the next day, she decided this was her chance, that she’d had enough practice. She knew there would be grave consequences when she returned. She knew, too, that Jackie had her sights set on Floyd, a fact that should have discouraged her from having any further contact with him, but instead was very likely part of why she needed to go.
Jackie had ignored Lupita since the third grade, treated her as the help the way Dana had. When Lupita went to the Catholic high school in Amenia, Jackie warmed to her slightly—said hello if she saw her at Hatch Pond or the movie house in Millerton—but never more than that. It was clear to Lupita that Jackie had no use for her and she understood by then that having something you wanted from someone was the basis for most human interaction. Now that Lupita had a few friends, not wildly close ones, but girls who were happy to have her around, Jackie became less important.
And then came Floyd. Wide-eyed and stuttering in the Trotta’s parking lot, smitten and risky behind the shed at the beach, Jackie waiting for him just a short walk away, on a picnic blanket with their friends. Boys and men had made passes at Lupita since she was thirteen, but none of them fell apart so completely as Floyd did in her presence. His desire was contagious. Where his ended and her own began she couldn’t quite locate. Possibly it was in his awed gaze, or in an old and unresolved resentment she had toward Jackie, or more simply it was in her visceral response to his handsome face, strong body, and unruly brown hair. She did not know, and like the consequences that surely awaited her, she did not care. She would drive to Floyd’s farm that morning and meet him behind the barn.
It was before six in the morning when she crept down the stairs that led to the driveway from the apartment above the garage. Since the eighth grade, Lupita had never seen Dana outside her house before 10 a.m. so she wasn’t worried about her. Nor was she worried about her mother who slept as late as 9:30 on weekends. It was her father, usually awake before dawn to begin his morning routine, who was the reason she held her breath and moved as silently as she possibly could. Normally he’d already be up, lighting his pipe in the driveway, walking the property, inspecting the big house and regulating the heat or air conditioning depending on the time of year. But on Saturday nights and holidays he allowed himself more than a few beers and always slept late the next day.
Lupita was a scholar of her father’s sleeping and eating and drinking patterns, all of which determined his moods: sentimental and tender, like the night before at Hatch Pond when he puffed on his pipe and spoke about his first year in Florida living six guys to a room and working fourteen-hour shifts at the fern farm in Ocala, how much he missed his family then; or quick-tempered and violent, as he was less than a week ago when her mother discovered she’d left her wallet at the grocery store. Without a word he grabbed a jar of olives and threw it across the kitchen at her where it cracked against her hip and she screamed and fell to the floor. Minutes later Lupita pulled the wallet from one of the grocery bags where her mother had forgotten she’d placed it. She held it up to her father brazenly, waved it with purpose and tossed it on the counter, to which he responded by storming across the kitchen to the hallway that led to his bedroom and slamming the door shut. By then Lupita’s mother was standing again, continuing to unpack the groceries. Lupita no longer got mad at her for not reacting, for staying with a man who ran so hot and cold, who hurt her. By then she understood why her mother had tolerated, even thrived, living apart from him five days out of seven for most of the year. But what she could never understand, or forgive, was how, knowing what her husband was capable of, she could step aside and let her daughter be the one to bear the brunt of his anger. Lupita had insisted her mother show her the bruise, and when she pushed her slacks down along her thigh, it was already purple and yellow and the size of a dessert plate. She imagined most daughters would weep to see their mother this way, scream at their father, or even call the police. But Lupita softly traced the edges of the bruise with her forefinger before packing a towel with ice and handing it to her mother. You should keep your wallet in your purse, she said with her back turned as she left the kitchen and retreated to her bedroom.
* * *
The car purred from first to second on Undermountain Road and whined as it hit thirty-five miles per hour—the fastest she could imagine driving—on Route 7, after which she shifted to fourth gear and the sound flattened again. Accelerating was simpler than slowing down, easier to assemble speed than control it, which was why Lupita missed the turn onto Crow’s Path the first time, barreling down Ticknor Road. The enormous green barn at Floyd’s farm flashed outside the driver’s side window and soon it was behind her. Her watch read 6:50 a.m. by the time she’d managed the car off Ticknor and up the narrow dirt road. High grass scraped and dragged along the undercarriage of the low slung Mercedes. That the morning might leave the car damaged had not occurred to her until now, just as she missed first gear and pushed the black knob forward to the loud sound of grinding metal. Finally, the car shuddered to a halt behind the barn and as soon as it did, Floyd appeared by the driver’s side door, laughing gently but clearly nervous. He had a thermos in his hand and even before saying hello he held it up and said, I made you some tea. He proceeded to unscrew the silver metal top. Floyd’s sweet bumbling put Lupita at ease and she remembered the power balance. Oh, no thanks. I don’t drink tea. Floyd seemed not to know how to react. He just stood there with the thermos in one hand and the top sloshing with hot liquid in the other. It was as if someone had insisted to Floyd that tea was the one thing Lupita would be pleased to be greeted with so early in the morning, and the cogs of his logic seized when confronted with her rejection.
Lupita was surprised by how dressed up he was. He’d told her last night that he’d be finished milking the cows before seven, and the bright blue button-down shirt that looked as if it had been ironed, or new, did not seem like a garment someone working in a barn milking cows would wear. As with the tea, the shirt made him appear like a little boy desperate to please. In response, Lupita felt both drawn to and cruel toward him. Are you going to help me out of this car?, she asked a bit impatiently, but again dizzy with anticipation about what would happen next. Floyd opened the driver’s side door and Lupita slid out and stood before him in the dusty road. Hi, she said, holding his gaze. Hi, he repeated back, stepping toward her and looking down into her face. As it had happened the night before, behind the shed at Hatch Pond, Floyd’s body asserted a confidence his words could not. He placed both hands on the tops of Lupita’s narrow shoulders, st
ooped down slightly, and kissed her. Less desperately than last night’s rushed moment, and for much longer. At first Lupita remained passive as his lips moved against her own, but as his body inched closer to hers, his chest tilted above her and his large hands stroked her shoulders and upper arms, she felt her breathing meet his, her body sway and bend to the particular rhythm of his hands and lips and tongue. A sudden humidity enveloped them and her cotton blouse began to stick to her back and chest. All at once, everything she registered was new—hard, eager kisses; calloused hands grazing her thighs and chest; the dense, sturdy flesh of his back and arms under her fingers. What she experienced in the tumult of sensations was nothing she’d felt before: desired, excited, and at the same time safe. When she decided to go through with what would surely be the most transgressive morning of her life, feeling safe was not on her list of expectations. But this was how she felt. Before Floyd unhooked her bra and took off his shirt, she understood this was a place she would live in forever if she could. She would think back on this hour with him all the rest of her life and remember it as the happiest, most exquisitely perfect, and the most misleading.
They were tangled over the reclined front passenger seat when Lupita noticed the time on her watch reading just after eight o’clock. She’d planned to be back no later than eight-fifteen, which was the latest she could imagine her father sleeping. She buckled with panic, her hands flying to find her shirt and bra. I have to go. I have to go right now. Floyd scrambled with his shirt and buttoned his jeans, which were still very much on, and Lupita did the same. Floyd jumped from the car and Lupita maneuvered over the gearshift to the driver’s seat as she buttoned her blouse. They did not say goodbye, but as Floyd walked backwards, up the grassy incline and across the short expanse between Crow’s Path and the back of the green barn, he held her gaze the entire way. When he stopped and watched her, everything in the air and on the ground around and between them progressed in an adjusted speed, slower than normal, faster than stopped. A fly or a bee—Lupita could not tell which—buzzed around Floyd’s head but it did not break his stare or puncture the trance that held him.
And then something did. He did not wave goodbye or gesture that he had to go, his body simply shook for a moment, a spasm of panic that was barely perceptible from where Lupita sat. Had he remembered something? Did someone call his name? He’d gazed at her as if nothing else in the world existed until the moment he looked away, turned his back to her, and walked beyond the green barn and around front to the driveway. Shaken by the sudden change, Lupita struggled to put the car in reverse and eventually managed to back up onto Ticknor Road. After grinding the gears a few times, she tore down the road as fast as she could handle in the little yellow car she’d stolen less than two hours earlier.
Dana was standing with Lupita’s parents in front of the garage when she returned. Before anyone else could speak, and before Lupita could even get out of the car, Dana blurted, Oh my God forgive me Lupita, I just remembered I’d asked you to test the brakes on the car. Here, let’s go for a spin and show me what you discovered. Everyone, please forgive my silly brain. I must have had too much wine last night at the Independence Day celebration. What a dodo bird you must think I am. She looked like a creature from another planet standing at least six inches above the Lopezes in heeled black leather boots, wearing a sleek red-and-orange striped long-sleeved jersey and tight, very white, pants. We won’t be long!, she half-chuckled, her contrition wearing off, as she yanked open the passenger door and jumped in the car, which was still running. Lupita already had the gear stick positioned in reverse and her feet were poised on the clutch and the gas. The car was moving before Dana shut the door.
Jackie
She has left Dana on the third floor of the house, crossed the driveway and started back to her car when she thinks she sees a light on in the horse stable. It’s late, and the wind coming off the river is damp and cold. Her lower legs are covered by rain boots, but her nightgown and coat do not protect her from the biting air. Instead of turning left on Undermountain Road and returning to her car, she crosses right toward the long, low stone building where the horses had been kept.
There had always been at least four or five stallions traded or bred, but never ridden by anyone but the stable hands. Still, she and Dana both loved spending time in the barns and had dedicated many hours to brushing manes and assigning all manner of motive and personality to the animals. Jackie can’t remember many of the specific horses, but there was a blue-black Arabian she adored that Dana claimed as hers. This was in the eighth grade, and she remembers Dana pulling rank after a brief scuffle when the horse arrived and they both swooned over its luminous coat and astonishing eyelashes. His name was Brandenberg or Bamburger or something odd and stuffy and Dana right away named him Calliope, after the Queen of the Knees. It was an old joke between them, Dana insisting on the wrong gender for a horse, but Jackie didn’t think it was funny this time and insisted on changing it to a boy’s name. Dana dug in and got angry and eventually told Jackie to shut up, and reminded her that she didn’t go around her house trying to name her animals. I don’t have any animals, Jackie responded flatly and walked home, furious and hurt. Dana never apologized but the next day announced that the horse would be called Cassian. Happy now?, she’d asked, not looking for an answer. Jackie would come to the stables during the week and pet Cassian’s snout and marvel as he exhaled plumes of steam when the air was cold. Occasionally she would bring books to read for homework and as with anyone who worked at Edgeweather, the couple who ran the stable always greeted Jackie warmly and let her do as she pleased. She was Dana’s best friend, a status that afforded her access to the grounds when the Goss family wasn’t around, which was most of the time.
The dirt road that leads to the stables is lit by a three-quarter moon. As Jackie fiddles with the gate that blocks the road between two stone walls, it shocks her how familiar the metal feels in her hands, how intuitive and unthinking her movements—pulling the bolt free, sliding back the latch, lifting the gate up before she pulls. She steps in off the road and leaves the gate open. Shadows from the gnarled locust trees that line the road ink the field and Jackie looks up to the moon that makes them. It has a wild, cold look to it—silver and white and streaked with high, thin clouds. She looks to the stables, but at this angle can see no light on. Why she is drawn there, now, she does not know. It’s as if on this property, she is a child again—following Dana to the third floor of the big house, crossing the road to the stables. She hasn’t forgotten that there has been no contact between them for more than four decades, nor the reasons why. She also hasn’t forgotten that minutes ago Dana shouted crazy and hateful things about Floyd. But she is here, after a long time away, and the place was—she could feel it—pulling at her with its old magic.
She remembers hollering at Amy earlier in the day, how good it felt, how long overdue. And yet when given a chance she did not raise her voice to Dana. She was unfriendly and curt but she did not unleash what she’d stored up for so long. Instead she cowered on the stairs while Dana bad-mouthed Floyd and flaunted but did not disclose her secrets. Jackie knew better than anyone Floyd’s strengths and his weaknesses. Dana had no right to speak to her about him—it was just another desperate attempt to claim him by boasting about knowing more and better. And yet she stood mute when Dana told her that she knew nothing—her only response was to walk away. Jackie’s fists clench at the missed opportunity, but the anger is so old and elemental in her, she senses that if she hadn’t left the house she might have lost control.
The reason she had never confronted Dana was simple: she knew she could never trust her again. After the initial shock of her betrayal, Jackie began to understand that there was nothing that obligated her to Dana. She was bound to Floyd—by a child, by property, by law, by the church—but with Dana what between them was binding? Nothing. For all of its celebrated virtues and value, its showy posturing and promises of endurance, she saw friendship as little mor
e than a willed thing, a made mist that looked like matter between two people, intention not just its bond but its substance. And intention, she knew, was the flimsiest stuff of the world, with no weight, no properties, no shape, and yet the only thing all friendships require at their beginning. No lawyer or judge, mediator or priest needed. Not to make it, nor to unmake it, which requires even less. To end a friendship, it just takes someone willing to throw it away.
When Jackie looks back on her childhood, her friendship with Dana appears almost like a building—as solid as Edgeweather, or the hospital where she was born; as important as Christmas, or high school. She’d never once considered how perishable it was. Most of the time it felt as dependable as her parents, something she took for granted during the week when Dana was in the city, or in Palm Beach at Christmas, and even when her own attention shifted to Floyd. She was falling in love and getting pregnant and married, but Jackie never feared Dana would vanish, that she wouldn’t always be around in one way or another. She was someone she allowed herself to treat as less important because she was so important, because she was presumed. It was a mistake she never again made—not with Dana, not with Floyd, not with anyone.
* * *
At the gate, Jackie is shivering, unsure where to go. She looks down toward the stable and remembers the first time she’d gone in, the summer between her second and third grades the day after Mr. Goss walked up their driveway. Jackie’s mother was unloading groceries from the station wagon and her father was at work. It was a broiling hot day and Jackie was standing in the shadows of the garage to keep cool. There was something slightly tense about the exchange and all that Jackie can remember is her mother suddenly calling out her name, and saying Jackie, my daughter Jackie is here. Jackie! We have company! And the man who described himself as their neighbor inviting her to visit the stables and see the horses. He even suggested nine o’clock the next morning to which he made a point to Jackie’s mother that she could bring her husband. They could all come.
