States of Motion

by Laura Hulthen Thomas

  “I remember when it was the Tastee Freez. We went there for Sunday school when I was little.” Tammy’s defense of his memory’s ghost was gentle, sweet. A well-meaning young woman. Fair minded and considerate, as women, as all people, should be. Not a bit like that Jenny and Dr. Frank and the phony bill of goods they pushed on the cosmetically challenged. Jerrell sidestepped a swell of rage. He’d botched that encounter but good so he had only himself to blame. He took another swig of Vernors and gagged. The latex taste would never wash away until he could get his mouth around that whiskey flask.

  “Your mom never took us to the Tastee Freez.” Mr. Salisbury cast an accusing glance in the rear view mirror.

  “Eyes ahead. Except to check traffic conditions.” Jerrell made a note on the clipboard. Mr. Salisbury’s hands maintained the correct position. Steady grip, no bleach to the knuckles. Yet the young man still couldn’t track to the road. His weaving rubbed Jerrell’s tire against the curb just past the stoplight at Maple. The car shuddered. The rattle behind the glove box and the cap in the cup holder clinked like pennies in a jar. Jerrell applied the instructor brake gently. “Easy there.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Jerrell.” Mr. Salisbury corrected. Now he was riding the center line.

  “She did so.”

  “Did not.”

  “She’s my mom, so I ought to know what she did. Anyway, you never did tell me how you know my mom taught Sunday school.”

  The backseat defense was heating up. Guess the flirtation had flamed out. Jerrell imagined that if he looked at the young lady, he’d see delicate pinking cheeks, dismay’s pretty flare. He decided not to look. “Let’s simmer down, kids. Take a left at Redwood, Mr. Salisbury.” Jerrell screwed the cap back on the Vernors and slid the bottle to the floor mat.

  Mr. Salisbury glanced at Jerrell’s boots. “My dad says the number one cause of crashes is unsecured beverages.”

  “How would you know whether we went to the Tastee Freez?” Tammy persisted. “You never even went to my church.”

  “That so? Left blinker, remember, Mr. Salisbury. I’m gonna have to start deducting for that.”

  Mr. Salisbury pulled the indicator. “Because your mom slapped me and then got me expelled from Sunday school, that’s how.”

  Tammy paused. “That was you?”

  The speedometer inched up past Redwood’s limit. The Vernors collided with Jerrell’s ankle. Mr. Salisbury’s hand position on the wheel slid to seven and four. “Watch your speed,” Jerrell reminded him. “Check the posted limit.”

  Mr. Salisbury eased up on the gas, settled into a cruise of thirty-five. “Yep. That was me.”

  “Oh. I forgot about you. Probably because you never came back, and then, well. But Mom did not get you kicked out.” Tammy snapped off a nail with a plush nibble. The brittle sound of her mouth working the finger again drew Jerrell’s attention to unproductive channels of desire. Before Lydia had left him, lust’s lovely fulfillment was an obtainable mercy. They’d always been fine in that department, the kissing issue aside. When would such feelings again be mercies, not torments? Lydia had proven that staying in a place would always come to mean being left behind.

  Although it was completely against instructor protocol, when Jerrell’s cell phone buzzed he answered it gratefully.

  “Yeah, well, who would want to come back after getting whacked by Jesus’s babysitter?” Mr. Salisbury’s eyes were—again—not on the road.

  “Eyes forward, Mister. This is Jerrell.”

  “My mom was not Jesus’s babysitter. She got trained in Sunday-school teaching.”

  “Your mother is asking for you, Mr. Jerrell.” Whose voice of Assisted Living was this? The Staff never ever identified themselves.

  “She went to school to learn to cut and paste for Jesus?” The passenger tire crossed Redwood’s side line. “Takes lots of training to make a stupid diorama out of Daniel 12:3.”

  The shoulder’s bumpy gravel rattled the dash, drowned out the voice of Assisted Living. “Correct to the center of the lane, please. Tell Ruth, Mom, I’ll be over directly after my shift.”

  “She’s past understanding, Mr. Jerrell.”

  Mr. Salisbury overcorrected. The Gold Star front fender angled over the center line just as a front loader rumbled by. The Vernors thudded against Jerrell’s toe. From the backseat came a throaty creak. “Not too far. Gotta start deducting for that. Tell my mother we’re making solid progress on the braces issue.”

  Assisted Living’s voice garbled. “Accident,” Jerrell made out through the reception’s dead patches, and then, “Morphine.”

  “On my way. Tell her not to worry about those braces.” Jerrell snapped the phone shut crisply. Secured the Vernors between his boots. Wondered if the moisture clinging to his socks was sweat or ginger ale.

  “I remember that diorama.” Tammy’s voice trembled. “Did you do dioramas in your day, Mr. Jerrell?”

  Mr. Salisbury sped up. Jerrell glanced back at Tammy. Her knees were pressed together, her knuckles pearly knobs on the door handle. A metallic-green Chevy Caprice crept to the rear bumper, a bit too close. “Ease up there, Ace. I was never a churchgoer, young lady.”

  Mr. Salisbury mashed the brake. Brought the vehicle to a dead stop in the middle of Redwood. The Chevy veered left, missed the Gold Star fender by a hair, roared past in a no-passing zone. The driver leaned over the passenger seat as he passed to flip the bird. Mr. Salisbury rolled down the window and returned the gesture. Tammy gasped, an adorable hiss.

  “What do you think you’re doing there, Mr. Salisbury?” Jerrell kept the tone mild.

  “The fucker was tailgating me.”

  Tammy gasped again. Mr. Salisbury balled his fists in his lap, nerves jazzing a shoulder roll under the lofty leather padding. Joker at the wheel, the rare hard case in the Gold Star car.

  Well, Jerrell should call it a day for Mr. Salisbury. But today was Salisbury’s lucky day. Jerrell didn’t have what it took to bust his balls. Had to conserve his energy for the next move with Frank. Had to figure out the next goddamn move. “OK, son. Never mind the asshole behind you honking or tailgating or flipping you off. Never flip them off back. Those types of drivers, those asshole types, they’re just obstacles to your safety. To you getting where you want to go. Understand?”

  Mr. Salisbury clenched his fists tighter. “Yes, sir.”

  “Look.” Jerrell felt almost sorry for the kid now. Who was instructing small town men to keep their fists in their laps? When had this education become the norm? “You never really see how the world is full of obstacles until you start driving, Mister. You too, Tammy.” He was bold enough, now, to address the pinking cheeks, the breath she’d been holding although the next cemetery was miles down the road. “You can’t let those asshole drivers get to you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” They spoke in docile unison, these kids. These student drivers. For the first time, Jerrell felt a measure of satisfaction with the Gold Star instructional environment.

  Jerrell burped. Rubberized ginger misted his nasal cavity. “Good, then. Proceed, Mr. Salisbury. Hang a right at Beech.”

  Mr. Salisbury managed to remember the turn indicator. Progress was being made. “And they that are wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars forever and ever,” he recited cleanly.

  “I can’t believe you even remember that.” Tammy sheared another finger. The pliant click of teeth on nail. A soft moue from her lips. Jerrell reached for the car’s heat control. Clicked the temperature down a notch. Resisted the urge to dig out that flask. Stupid thing made him feel like crying. Lydia had given him the flask for his birthday, the last one she’d stuck around to celebrate. Embossed his initials. Filled it for him with Bushmills. Probably planning even then to leave him. Looking back on it maybe it was a sign, some statement that he was drinking too much, but a woman didn’t leave a man just over the occasional after-shift drinks with the gang.

  Mr. Salisbu
ry kept the car dead centered in the road all the way through the turn. Grasping the basics, he was. A little deliberation, a little discipline, was all it took. The kid might end up passing driver’s training after all. “Who could forget good old Daniel? All’s I wanted to know was, how the heck do you build a diorama out of that?”

  Jerrell couldn’t tell if the young man was addressing him or Tammy. “I suppose it takes a little imagination, that’s all. Follow the train bridge down about a mile.”

  “Why they’d put a train track in the middle of the road?” Tammy asked.

  “There used to be a train.” Sometimes the student drivers couldn’t reason out the simplest detail of the roadway environment. “Why’d your Sunday-school teacher hit you?” Jerrell’s question surprised him as much as it surprised the kids. An impulse, a crossing into personal territory he didn’t usually undertake with student drivers. But maybe the boy had some feelings to work out. Feelings Jerrell was well-qualified to help him investigate.

  Mr. Salisbury accelerated to the posted limit. “I asked her what a firmament was.”

  “She didn’t get on your case for that.” Jerrell didn’t have to turn to visualize Tammy’s exasperation. “You called Jesus dumb.” As if that would justify hitting a kid.

  “Did not. I called Daniel dumb. And the Bible.” The speedometer ticked up five clicks. “And dioramas.”

  “Watch your speed there,” Jerrell reminded him.

  “Well, there you go.” Tammy’s smug tone masked a certain relief, the typical attitude toward a boy who had it coming. “Same dif.”

  The car approached the flashing light by the abandoned train station. A man in a felt hat, collar turned against the wind, stepped from the curb as if the train had just deposited him at home for the evening. Salisbury was speeding again. “Yield to the crosswalk, Mr. Salisbury.” Jerrell covered the instructor brake as a precaution. The man on the street hesitated at the lurid gold stars and the clown car mascot that suggested exercising caution near a student driver. Jerrell flashed him a wave. Keep coming, keep coming. Like an old-time commuter to a Dearborn white-collar job. All the pedestrian needed was a chintzy fake-leather briefcase to be the phantom of Jerrell’s dad.

  Mr. Salisbury braked dutifully. No sudden jerking. Controlled movements. Maybe going a round with the lovely Tammy was focusing the young man’s driving skills. “What, so Jesus is exactly the same dif as Daniel and the Bible and stupid dioramas?”

  “You didn’t learn much in Sunday school.” Tammy crunched her nail between her teeth.

  Mr. Salisbury soared through the crosswalk as soon as the man’s coattail fluttered by. “Don’t jump the gun there,” Jerrell admonished.

  The man’s coat was frayed, grimy at the hem. The hat was stained, the brim speckled with holes. The pedestrian glanced back. Grizzled beard, gray teeth bared in a startled grin. Tired, sorrowed eyes met Jerrell’s. The look his father had given him after Ruth brought him home from the ER, jaw wired shut, just what a smart-mouth wise-guy hoodlum had coming for snapping the bills off her swan collectibles because she’d given him the strap for ruining her stupid UAW hall fashion show. His dad was no crash-site investigator. He’d glued those damn bills back on while they were gone. Could hardly tell where Jerrell had broken them. His old man never asked what happened to his son’s jaw. He never even asked why Jerrell had attacked the swans. Jerrell was old enough to know better, of course, but he’d read somewhere that swans were the only birds with teeth. Why not check for the Hull Collectibles’ anatomical correctness, had been his thinking at the time. It was easier to think he was just investigating than hitting Ruth back. Jerrell should hate his father for his silent repairs, his caution to keep quiet, keep quiet. He should wonder at what point in his life a man’s silence transforms from restraint into terror. But there was no future in excavating the secrets of a dead man’s heart.

  “Learned what a goddamn firmament was, didn’t I?” Mr. Salisbury glared at Tammy in the rear view mirror.

  The pedestrian stumbled past the abandoned tool and die, disappeared down Henry Street.

  “All right, kids. Let’s simmer down. Watch the language.” Jerrell popped open the glove box. His hand was throbbing. Were those goddamn braces going to give him blood poisoning? Where had he stashed the Tylenol? “Lesson’s over. Let’s head back to Gold Star. Proceed to State and take a left.”

  “‘The vault of the Heavens,’ is what your mom said.” Mr. Salisbury faked a falsetto. “‘And by the way, it’s not a firmament, when we speak about the Bible. It’s the firmament. The firmament of Heaven.’ All snooty, she was.” Mr. Salisbury’s cheeks blotched crimson. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “Remember?” As if what Tammy remembered, not what her mother did, was the real heart of the matter.

  “Let’s focus on our driving here, Mister.” Had to do his job to keep the kid calm, but Jerrell had that number, all right. There was a reason he never attended Sunday school. Anyway, Ruth avoided church. Another covenant between them. She wouldn’t expose herself to the charade of repentance. And he would not be asked to forgive.

  “I mean, the vault of the Heavens. Who was she kidding?”

  “Well, that’s what the firmament is,” Tammy said. Hard-edged, her faith no longer innocent and charming but as ancient and superstitious as believing in that vault. “Golly, remember that Misty girl, that weird girl, what she said after my mom slapped you?”

  Mr. Salisbury’s face cleared. His shoulders relaxed. “That retarded girl?”

  “Let’s not use that language about the disabled. Left blinker, remember.” Jerrell gave up on the Tylenol, clicked the glove box shut.

  “OK, differently challenged. Mentally unable. Whatever.”

  “She actually said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’” Tammy giggled.

  “I remember she said that.” Mr. Salisbury’s expression lit up with the same happiness Jerrell had spied through Dr. Frank’s window. “Remember what I said?”

  “Wrong commandment!” the kids cried in unison. Tammy dissolved in laughter. Smiling with joy, Mr. Salisbury tried to catch her eyes in the mirror.

  Jerrell’s cell phone buzzed. He snapped it open, brought the lonely hiss to his ear. Another patch of dead reception. The train-bridge column might be blocking the connection. “Turn left ahead, Mr. Salisbury.”

  “Then she hit you again, didn’t she?” Tammy ceased laughing so suddenly Jerrell wondered if she’d been faking.

  Mr. Salisbury fell silent. The stop sign at the dodgy turn was coming up fast. Jerrell covered the instructor brake. Mr. Salisbury brought the car to a smooth stop in time but made no move to turn.

  “Take a left, Mister.”

  Mr. Salisbury craned his neck to peer down State. Noted the column obstruction, how the cars appeared out of thin air, whizzed by. No way to see the traffic coming. How had it happened that the Big Boy was long gone but the dodgy turn was still here? Why hadn’t the town laid this hazard to rest long ago?

  Mr. Salisbury pulled the turn indicator dutifully and gave Jerrell the expected uncertain glance. “But I can’t see anything.”

  The cell phone hissed. Or was it breathing? Jerrell squinted. As if that would improve his hearing. “You can see. Nose out a bit. Use caution before proceeding.”

  “Then remember my mom told you to cut out stars for the righteous or else.”

  It was breathing. Her breathing. How could Jerrell mistake that sound, and the blank-canvas feeling it raised in him? Docile. That’s what Lydia had called it. Like riding out Ruth’s black moods was a weakness, not a fortitude. Or a gift. Jerrell had always known that if he ever did raise a hand to Ruth he’d kill her, pure and simple. Their covenant depended upon his devotion to her nastiness. He’d never think of his confused feelings as tenderness, a gratitude that she’d seen the dark huddled thing he really was. Ruth always had ridden right inside him on his air, all the way to the place where he began.

  A rasping plagued the phone reception that could be a last attempt
to draw breath. Was she past the keening stage? Was Assisted Living standing over her? Goosebumps prickled Jerrell’s arms despite the Gold Star heating vents pumping the everlasting hot air. He clicked open the glove box. Fished the flask from the bloody towel’s swaddle. “Mom? Mom, is it you?”

  “Is this a trick?” Mr. Salisbury gave him a look. Doubt. Fear, too. Even for an experienced driver, the dodgy turn was a wing and a prayer.

  “So that’s why you never got the Tastee Freez treats. You never came back to Sunday school.” Tammy spoke like she was explaining the obvious to a dolt. But Jerrell recognized her tone as pure enjoyment.

  “Your mom hit me!”

  “So?” Tammy drummed her slender fingers on the door handle. “You were asking for it. Everyone knew you were a loser even back then.”

  Mr. Salisbury reoriented his gaze from the mirror to the dodgy turn. Gripped the wheel, nine and three on the dot. “Tastee Freez was dumb.”

  Jerrell couldn’t agree more.

  Through the phone came the chiming of the blue bird clock. Then the windup wail he’d heard all his life, it was you! it was you! As if he’d been cheeky although he hadn’t said a word. To Ruth he would always be just a smart-mouth wise-guy hoodlum. A real Tom-Dick-and-Harry was the son his mother had wanted. A nobody. Not the troublemaker who only craved a cradle for his heart. No matter how strongly he came at her, she’d always come back at him stronger. Her decline could only ever lead to his decline.

  Jerrell unscrewed the flask, took a swig. The Bushmills went down smooth. He wiped his mouth and handed the flask to Mr. Salisbury.