by Abbi Waxman
“Oh, you’re the new owner?” He looked her over and clearly wasn’t happy. “Do you drive a lot?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Do you know cars?”
“I know they have wheels.”
“Do you understand the inherent beauty of a well-machined engine, the throaty purr of a finely tuned timing?”
Nina frowned at him. “I understand that throaty purr is a cliché, but other than that, no. Look, Mr. . . .”
“Moltres.”
She looked at him. “Moltres?”
“Yes. Moltres. M-o-l-t-r-e-s.”
“Did you know your name is also the name of a legendary Pokémon?” As was so often the case, Nina immediately regretted saying this. Either he already knew, in which case, duh, or he would have no idea what she was talking about and would consider her possibly dangerous. There should be some kind of twelve-step program for people like her, she thought; Non Sequitur’s Anonymous. Then she wondered if maybe that was actually what NSA stood for; they didn’t care about national security at all. Then she realized it hadn’t, strictly speaking, been a non sequitur, it had just been a stupid question, and that her twelve-step program would more appropriately be named Stupid People Anonymous and that it would be a pretty big group and have the acronym SPA. Then she realized Moltres was still talking to her.
He spoke slowly. “Are you here to take the car?” This didn’t help, because now Nina couldn’t tell if he did know about the whole Pokémon thing or not, although he clearly realized she needed careful handling.
She shook her head. “No, if that’s OK. Do you need me to get it out of here quickly? Is the bill for the garaging . . . ?”
Moltres interrupted her quickly. “The bill is paid through the year, actually. Bill was like that, always paid up front. ‘In case I’m hit by a bus,’ he used to say.” Then he looked annoyed, which might have been his way of showing embarrassment. “Do you want to see it?”
Nina followed him out and through some twisty and utterly filthy corridors until they came to a surprisingly large space out back, where there were several garages with locked doors. He opened the middle one, and there she was: Nina’s car.
Nina turned to Moltres. “Did you know that David Hasselhoff holds a Guinness World Record as the most watched man on TV?”
He gazed at her. “No,” he said.
“Yes,” she continued. “He was already successful from being on a soap opera, but Knight Rider was really the beginning for him.”
“Is that so?” said Moltres. “How completely uninteresting.”
Moltres walked around and opened the driver’s side door. “Want to take it out?”
Nina shook her head. “Uh . . . I can’t drive stick.”
He was disappointed in her already, and that didn’t help. Nina realized it was like admitting you can’t swim or ride a bike; not really disastrous, just one of those life skills one is supposed to have acquired by nearly thirty. Oh well, she thought, for the record I can both swim and ride a bike, so two out of three isn’t bad. She could also knit and crochet, so after the apocalypse, he’d be able to drive a manual transmission but she’d have a scarf, so who’d be laughing come winter?
Moltres sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. It was loud, really very loud, and Nina could see how throaty purr had come into play. She guessed Moltres was willing to drive. She went around and got into the passenger side, and they slowly pulled out of the garage.
Moltres, unsurprisingly, turned out to be not exactly a Chatty Cathy. He did, however, have some questions.
“Your dad never taught you to drive stick?”
“I never met my dad.”
Moltres looked over at her, quickly. “Really? And yet he left you his favorite thing?”
“I thought his favorite thing was money.”
Moltres shook his head. “No.”
Nina shrugged. “Is it that rare not to know how to drive a stick? Aren’t the vast majority of cars in this country automatics?”
Moltres shrugged, weaving around a small fender bender in the middle of the intersection. Nina looked at it, as everyone does. She could tell an experienced LA driver by the speed with which she pulled out her license and proof of insurance, took photos of the mutual damage, if any, and got on her way. Soon, she thought, all you’ll have to do is wave your phones at each other, and a drone will appear to photograph everything before the lights have changed. You won’t even need to get out of your car, which, by that point, you probably won’t even be driving. Then she realized Moltres had asked her something.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “I asked why you didn’t know your father.”
She looked at him. “Really? You jumped straight from criticizing my driving knowledge to asking me personal questions about my family?”
His mouth twitched. “You’re a fascinating mix of spacey and sassy. You totally aren’t paying attention and then you whip around and let out a zinger.”
“Well, you’re very nosy.”
He sighed. “Look, I knew your dad for over twenty years. He never mentioned you once. No offense.”
“None taken. I never mentioned him, either. Mind you, he knew I existed, and I didn’t have that advantage so, you know, reasonable excuse.” Nina looked at Moltres. “What did he talk about?”
“Cars,” Moltres said. “Always cars.” He swung the car around a corner, which it hugged like a long-lost friend. “He was good company.” He shot a glance at Nina. “Sorry.”
Nina looked at him, then out of the window. “What for?” she said. “It’s not like my life would have been better if I’d had more car-related conversation.”
Moltres said, “But maybe he would have taught you to drive stick.”
“Or maybe he would have deserted me like he did his other kids. I’m the only one he didn’t leave, because he was never there in the first place.” She looked for a button to lower the window. “Honestly, I think I may have dodged a bullet.”
Moltres shook his head as they headed up Laurel Canyon toward the winding roads at the top of the Hollywood Hills. “He was a good guy, Bill was. I’ll miss him.”
“Story of his life,” Nina said, leaning out and letting the wind toss her hair.
Moltres was silent for a while, then abruptly turned left and pulled into a wide-open parking lot that was essentially empty. He stopped the car and turned to Nina.
“I’m going to teach you to drive stick.”
Moltres began the lesson by introducing Nina to her newest little friend, the clutch pedal.
“Do you understand how a car engine works?”
“Yes and no,” replied Nina, who was nervously sitting in the driver’s seat. “You press the pedals and the wheels go around.”
Moltres sighed. “The power of the engine is transferred to the wheels through the transmission. In order to change gear without tearing apart the transmission, the clutch momentarily disengages it. “
“Fascinating,” said Nina. Nervousness was making her mean.
Moltres ignored her. “Turn on the car.”
She did so.
“There are three pedals underneath your feet: clutch on the left, brake in the middle, accelerator on the right. In order to move in a nonautomatic, you increase the power to the transmission while slowly releasing the clutch to engage the wheels. Get it?”
Nina nodded, not getting it at all.
“As you slowly release the clutch while at the same time pressing on the gas pedal, there comes a point where the car moves, slightly. It’s called the biting point, and we’re going to practice it now.”
Nina looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Increase the gas too quickly and you flood the engine and stall the car. Let’s go.”
She did as he told her, and flooded the engine.
They waited in silence for a moment. Then Moltres said, “So, what do you do for work?”
; Nina had put her head down on the steering wheel. “I work in a bookstore.”
“Yeah?” said Moltres, interested. “I love reading. I’m a mystery buff.”
“You are?” Nina wasn’t sure why she sounded surprised. Mystery readers were everywhere, voracious, highly partisan, and passionate. They were among the store’s best customers, and unfailingly polite. In private they embraced a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance and the use of arcane poisons and sneaky sleuthing, but in public they were charming and generous. Romance readers tended to be fun and have strong opinions. Nonfiction readers asked a lot of questions and were easily amused. It was the serious novel folks and poetry fans you had to watch out for.
Moltres nodded. “Yeah, since I was a kid. They’re modern fairy tales, right? Good always triumphs over evil.”
“Mostly. There are exceptions.”
“Sure, but I’m old fashioned. I don’t love the newer, edgier, meaner ones, anyway. Your dad and I used to talk about books when we weren’t talking about cars.”
“Really?” Why was her voice so squeaky?
“Yeah. His favorite thing to do was drive up the coast and find some deserted beach where he could sit and read in peace.” He looked at her, patiently. “Now try the car again.”
Nina turned the key in the ignition. She went very slowly, and sure enough, there was a moment when she felt the car move under her. She kept working the pedals, and suddenly they moved forward, whereupon she immediately hit the brake without disengaging the clutch and stalled the car again.
“Dammit. This is hard.”
Moltres nodded. “You can see why the automatic gearbox took off.”
“Why would anyone choose to drive stick?”
“It’s more fun,” he answered. “You have to concentrate more, pay more attention. You have to work with the engine. Easier isn’t always better.”
Nina turned the key again, and this time when the car moved she controlled herself and managed to drive forward without incident. “Now, how do I change gears?”
Moltres’s voice was calm. “You do the same thing again. Put pressure on the gas until you hear the engine is ready to change up.”
“I don’t hear it.” Nina’s voice was less calm.
“Stop the car,” Moltres said. “Let’s try something else. Don’t forget to disengage the clutch when you brake.”
Nina managed to stop the car without stalling, and put it in park.
“Let’s swap places,” Moltres said. He went around the front, Nina went around the back, and then they were looking at each other from the other direction.
Moltres said, “I need you to focus. I’m going to talk you through what I’m doing, and you’re going to learn how it sounds.” Nina nodded. “Listen, I’m putting it in gear, the clutch is off, I’m adding gas”—the engine note changed—“and now it’s in gear and we’re moving. More gas, more speed, and can you hear that the engine is starting to work too hard?”
Nina could, kind of. “It sounds too loud. Is that what you mean?”
“If that’s all you’ve got, go with that. Anyway, here I go, disengaging the clutch, changing the gear, reengaging the clutch, second gear.”
The engine sounded happier. They sped up again, making swoops across the parking lot. “And now again, second to third. Clutch out, change gear, clutch in, third gear.”
Two hours later Nina cracked it.
Three hours later Moltres handed her the keys, declared himself satisfied, and let her drive away. “Keep it for a few days,” he said, “then bring it back and I’ll fix whatever you broke.”
Four hours, two stalls, and much circling later, she found a parking space and remembered why she didn’t own a car in Los Angeles.
Back-and-forthing in the space was nerve racking, and Nina kept having to slam the brakes to avoid hitting the car behind her. After one particularly hard brake, the glove box of the car flew open and a pile of envelopes and papers slid out onto the passenger seat and floor.
Nina turned off the car and reached over to pick it all up. She saw her name, then saw Becky, Katherine, Archie, Millie, Lydia, Peter . . . There were lots of yellow envelopes, the kind with little metal butterflies on the flap, each addressed to one of William’s kids or grandchildren.
Nina frowned; this couldn’t possibly be good. She found hers and opened it, still sitting in the car, the engine ticking as it cooled. There was a folded piece of paper, and a very ’80s-looking bankbook, with My First Savings Account written on it in gold, with an actual rainbow unicorn. Banking used to be so much cuter. She opened it up and goggled at the balance. Over two and a half million dollars. Doubtless there was some mistake. She turned to the letter.
Dear Nina,
I’m going to open this letter in the classic way: If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.
Nina made a face at the cliché, but kept reading.
My being dead probably doesn’t bother you much, seeing as you didn’t find out I was alive until I wasn’t. I’ve wanted to reach out to you many times, and I used to come and watch you get picked up from school, to make sure you were happy. Your mom was quite right to keep me out of your life; looking back, my biggest regret is how much I hurt my kids, and you were spared that. But I did love you, even if it was creepily, and from a distance.
Nina looked out of the window. It would be nice to know what her father’s voice sounded like, so she could imagine the letter in voice-over, but as she didn’t, she decided to pretend the car was talking to her in William Daniels’s voice. It had started raining, which seemed appropriately anomalous for this moment.
Anyway, I’m leaving you this car, and also the savings account. Your mom refused to take money from me, so I put it away for you. One hundred dollars every week you’ve been alive, plus interest, and it’s ended up being an excellent example of the miracle of compounding. Spend it on something amusing. If you want to sell the car, please offer it to Moltres first; he loves it. Don’t be fooled by his gruff exterior. He’s really a pussycat and a good man. I’m not suggesting you marry him or anything, but he’ll give you a fair price.
Here’s the thing, Nina. I have a feeling you and I are very alike. I know you love books even more than I do, and I know you enjoy being alone. (Yes, I stalked you a little bit online as you got older. There’s nothing you can do about it now that I’m dead. Sorry.) But I made mistakes in my life, and I want to give you some advice.
Oh God, just like Becky had said. Tablets of stone. Advice from beyond the grave.
I was an anxious child, with parents who didn’t like me. My father wanted a big, brave boy, and my mother wanted my father to be happy. I learned very early on how to cover up, and cover up well. I was terrified of the other kids at school, even more than the teachers. So I kept my head down, got all A’s, didn’t make eye contact, and ran home every night to do homework and read. I rode that horse all the way through college. I don’t have a single friend from those days, and when my parents died, I didn’t know enough about them to write a eulogy. I asked a neighbor to do it.
Eventually, I discovered drinking, and that helped, right up until it didn’t. It certainly helped me achieve my primary goal, which was to avoid feeling uncomfortable at all costs. Difficult feelings? Drink and get numb. Painful relationship? Drink and leave. Children who need me, or whose mothers needed me? Drink, leave, and pretend it was for their benefit. I was a real loser, Nina, as I’m sure your brother and sisters have told you.
Ultimately, after Archie’s mom, Rosie, died, my life fell apart completely. On the surface it was better than ever. The firm was thriving, my bank account was enormous, I had beautiful girlfriends and lovely cars and no joy at all. I drank myself to sleep and hoped I didn’t dream.
Then I got lucky: Eliza walked into the middle of this disaster and pulled me out. She helped me stop drinking, she helped me get into therapy, she helped me start over. There was something about her, a deep reservoir of calm and confidence I could cling to. F
or the first time it was acceptable to simply be me. But there was nothing she could do to fix the crap I’d left in my wake, and I’ll admit it: It was easier for me to walk away than it would have been to go back and make it all right. I could see how much damage I had done, but I told myself it was too late, anyway. The truth is I was scared of my own kids, and how angry they were, so I hid on the other side of town.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t enjoy being alone; there’s a lot to be said for it. But if you’re choosing to be alone because you’re scared of other people, resist that fear. Trust people with your truth, and bravely tell them you’re not brave at all.
Finally, hold on to the family you’ve suddenly acquired; they’re my real gift to you. And you, dear Nina, are my gift to them.
He signed it,
Love, Dad
Well, damn, thought Nina. I guess I left the window open; there’s rain all over my face.
Twenty-seven
In which Nina delivers a letter.
Lydia lived in Santa Monica, which would normally be enough reason to avoid her all on its own. But now Nina had a mission, so the next day she crossed the 405 for the second time in a week, and made her glacial way down Olympic Boulevard.
Santa Monica is literally a separate city from Los Angeles, albeit one with no perceptible border or an inch of physical separation. It even has its own weather. Cooler, foggier, more, you know, coastal. It has fierce devotees who regard the East side of LA with the same disdain Nina had for the West side, but as they tended to be richer, more opinionated, and deeply into things like crystals and colonic irrigation, Nina didn’t worry about it.
