“Course I do. I’ve been addicted to Car Talk for years, and I like their news analysis better than…what?” He turned his head to look at her this time. “Why are you grinning at me like that?”
“Watch the road, please. What’s car talk, anyway?”
“You never heard it? Two guys taking all kinds of calls about cars. ‘Why does my engine make this sound, how come my car seems to lose power at thirty-five miles an hour, what kind of car do I get to replace my eighty-five Pontiac Firebird.’ ”
“Interesting.”
“No, no, you don’t get it. See, Click and Clack, these two brothers, they’re really talking about people, about why we do the things we do. Like, how most of us tend to ignore the early-warning signs of a problem, or how we pay attention to the wrong details, or how we get locked into one way of thinking that holds us back.”
“In other words, the poetics of engine trouble.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I like that. That’s what I like about you, Zoë. You make these connections between things that aren’t obvious.”
“You made the connection, Mack. I just recognized it.”
Without looking at her, he took her left hand in his right and held it, steering the car one-handed while Zoë gazed blindly ahead, listening as her internal engine made a new and startling noise.
Part Three
Zoë Goren
Mustang Zoë
After my previous essay (“A Gas Guzzler’s Manifesto”), I’ve received a few rather snide letters saying that I must be ignorant of the visceral, almost carnal thrills that motor vehicles can provide. Since one of those letters was from an ex-boyfriend, I thought I should respond in my own defense. Now, while it’s true that I have remained a confirmed nondriver up until this, the autumn of my forty-second year, I am not entirely ignorant of automotive bliss. There are times when, in the words of the female country group SHeDAISY, “Life’s so sweet in the passenger seat,” especially when the sun is shining, the wind is blowing your hair back, and the driver’s suntanned hands are exactly where you want them to be, whether that’s on the wheel or your left thigh. (Of course, it helps if there aren’t too many dead skunks on the road.)
But because I have a deep-seated fear of driving, I’ve never even considered motoring along on my own for the sheer solitary pleasure of the journey. Driving, it seems to me, is rather like parenting in that it requires the coordination of many different complex skills and abilities in order to do it properly. And frankly, considering the current number of American parenting and driving casualties, I think more people should be discouraged from participating in either activity. But now that I live in a place where only the very old, the very young, the infirm, and the indigent are carless, I have started to take driving lessons. And since my driving instructor is teaching me in a souped-up muscle car, I may yet learn what it’s like to be Mustang Sally or that girl who took off in her daddy’s T-bird, with no particular place to go, and no need for any man to help me get there.
Or better yet, I’ll move back to the city and hail a cab.
New York Chronicle Op-Ed
Twenty-one
I n the country, November was a month that moved people inside, away from public spaces like parks and trails and flea markets. It wasn’t a pretty month, since there wasn’t any snow on the ground to hide the dead grass or decorate the bare trees, and the days were getting shorter As Zoë was fond of pointing out, most calendars pretended that the country went straight from foliage to snow. False advertising, she said.
Mack himself didn’t mind. As a rule, there were fewer medical emergencies in November, because you were well past the drownings of summer and the “thought it was a deer” accidental shootings of early hunting season. Best of all, the roads were mostly clear of ice and snow, making it easier for a novice driver to drive.
At least, it would be easier, if you could get the novice driver behind the wheel. So far, one week after she’d come back from Manhattan, Zoë was still refusing to make a trip to the local DMV to take her test and get her permit.
“I’m still studying,” she insisted, holding up the driver’s manual.
“We have to take advantage of the weather,” he reminded her. “Come December, we’ll have to contend with the snow.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“Yes you are. And I’m ready. More than ready.”
Zoë raised her eyebrows. “Now, that was your choice.”
They were sitting in the Crown Royal, having finished grocery shopping, and Zoë was looking particularly pretty in a navy blue pullover, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, her face clean and glowing with the knowledge that she was desired. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from the local paper she’d picked up at the store. “ ‘Wild turkeys cause minor accident on Route Sixty-five. Could be a case of bird rage, according to local business owner Jim Moroney.’ ” Her lip curled in disgust. “Don’t they ever cover a real news story? What about that development, that doesn’t warrant coverage?”
“Hmm,” said Mack absently, not really paying attention. Zoë’s face was hidden behind the front-page photo of a large tom turkey.
“Wait, there is something on the development, but it’s on an inside page, hidden under a piece about Boy Scouts.” She gave a little grunt of irritation, and Mack wondered what else might make her produce that guttural noise.
Christ, he was losing it. He ought to turn to her right now and say, You’re right, fuck this waiting, we have four hours before Maya comes home from school, let’s go back to your place and get naked. The money problem no longer bothered him: he’d gotten a few other students from the high school, and besides, it looked as though Moira was going to be selling the farm and giving him a share of the profits, whether he liked it or not. So why not go for the gold? What was he afraid would happen?
You know what, said a voice in his head. First you’d screw each other’s brains out, and then it would all be over. Because, let’s face it, she’s used to interesting, sophisticated people, and how long do you think you’re going to hold her interest once the shiny new wears off the sex?
Of course, she might be forced to hold on to him until the end of the school year, or whenever it was she was planning on moving back to Manhattan. But Mack didn’t relish the idea of being a mercy fuck.
“This isn’t news,” Zoë said, her voice heavy with contempt. “This is propaganda for the developers. And it’s not even very good propaganda.”
That caught Mack’s attention. “Why not?”
“Because according to the paper, everyone’s doing a fabulous job and all the approved development projects are exciting opportunities. No dissenting opinion, no attempt at balance. The paper probably published a press release from one of the interested parties.” She closed the paper, crumpling it up. “And even if your aim is to manipulate public opinion, the more objective a story appears, the more effective it is at convincing its audience.”
Mack remembered the army news, with its self-congratulatory reports. “So isn’t all news propaganda? I mean, everyone has a point of view.”
Zoë glanced at him. “I don’t know. I’ve always believed that even if you can’t be completely impartial, real journalists attempt to be objective. Maybe it’s the intention that counts.”
Mack considered this as they passed a house with a sign that said “Grow Smart Not Big.” “You know what I like about you?”
“What?”
“You may know a hell of a lot more than I do, but you never cut me down when I offer an opinion.”
“As the old Jewish saying goes, I’m not so small that I have to make myself out to be so big.”
Mack grinned. “I never heard that one before. Is it Iraqi Jewish?”
“No, actually, I borrowed it from a Russian Jewish friend.” When Zoë had told him her family was originally from Iraq, but Jewish, his mouth had pretty much dropped open. He hadn’t even thought Iraq had Jews. But remembering Adam, Mack thought he could see some fami
ly resemblance, or tribal resemblance, whatever. Not a physical resemblance, more of a quality of being, cynical and yet warm, clever and yet kind. Except that he’d always heard that Jews were close with their families, and that clearly wasn’t the case with Zoë.
She didn’t talk much about her father, except to say that he had never even seen Maya, and that her mother would meet up with them only when the father was away. There was a sister in Israel, but Mack got the feeling that she was in more contact with the folks than Zoë was.
So in a weird way, Maya was growing up the same way he had, with just one strong female. Except that Zoë was really a mother, not just a substitute who’d been drafted into duty, as Moira had been. Plus she was older and a lot wiser than his sister had been, and was clearly enjoying her responsibilities. No wonder the kid was a little too dependent on her mother. But he liked her, the truth was that she was an easy kid to like, funny and smart and surprisingly determined. In some ways, it was easier to imagine life with a kid like Maya than trying to wrap his head around the idea of some mystery baby. What if it turned out that you didn’t actually like your own kid? Everyone laughed when you said that, but it was clear that a lot of folks didn’t like at least one of their offspring.
But Mack knew he liked Maya, liked the way she thought things through, liked the way she was willing to take chances. And he thought that Maya might be beginning to warm to him. He’d given her a harmonica and in the evenings they attempted “On Top of Old Smokey” and “Oh, Susanna.” He wondered if she and Zoë could ski, or if they’d be willing to learn this winter. He’d already started looking at catalogs and circling the kind of sleds he wanted to get them, one a disk, the other a three-person toboggan.
So, yeah, Mack wanted to go to bed with Zoë, but not just that, and not just once or twice. And if waiting a little meant that he could keep this thing going a while longer, then he wanted to wait. And as far as he could see, the only way he could get Zoë to stay in the country would be to teach her to drive, and the only way to do that would be to seduce her into it.
If only she’d grown up thinking about cars like everyone else, as something basic and necessary, if only she had grown up sitting on her daddy’s lap and steering the last half mile home.
Mack looked at Zoë. “Okay,” he said, “I have an idea.”
“Watch it,” she said sharply, staring at something at the side of the road. Mack swerved just in time to avoid hitting a wild turkey that took off, wings beating wildly against the windshield.
“Jesus,” Zoë said. “I guess that turkey story was news. Hey, where are we going?”
“To do a little remedial driving work.”
“Okay, that’s a ridiculous idea. And also not so safe.” Zoë looked at Mack, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, which he had moved farther back to provide extra room.
“We’re in an empty parking lot. Trust me, it’s safe.” He gestured at the squat brick town hall and its large, vacant lot, ringed by a few scraggly pines and bare locust trees. “What can you hit here? Nothing.”
Zoë put her hands on her hips. He had gotten her to stand outside the car on the driver’s side, but once he had told her what he had in mind, she had buttoned her black leather jacket and refused to cooperate. “But I haven’t even passed my written test yet, or gotten my learner’s permit.”
“We’ll do that next. First I want to show you that this isn’t so scary.”
“And you actually want me to sit on your lap?”
“You bet.” Her cheeks had turned pink, possibly from the cold.
“You’re insane.”
“Come on, quit stalling. It’s not as if you haven’t done it before.”
“Yeah, but that was fooling around, not a driving lesson.”
“Your point being?”
“I must be crazy, too.” She climbed on top of Mack’s lap, and a small grunting sound escaped him which she misinterpreted as discomfort.
“That does it, let me go,” she said, trying to squirm off. “I’m crushing you!”
“You’re not.” He spread his thighs so she was essentially sitting between his legs instead of on them. Still, there was a certain amount of contact. Mack did his best to ignore it.
“Even if I’m not crushing you, what’s the point of this? We can’t drive like this.”
“Right now, we’re just going to get you comfortable the way a kid gets comfortable. The first lesson most people have is sitting on Daddy’s lap, steering around the parking lot.”
“Mack, that’s ridiculous.”
“I got the idea from that teacher at Maya’s school. We have to make this really fun and simple. This way, I can work the gas and brake, and all you have to do is steer.”
“Do you plan on doing this with all your nervous students? Because I’m sure there’s some sort of federal guideline against it.”
“Most of my students are teenagers. Besides, you’re different.”
“In what way?”
“We’re already involved.”
Zoë sighed. “What if someone sees us?”
“Trust me, nobody goes to the town hall parking lot on a Monday morning. There aren’t any meetings until noon, which is why I picked this place.”
“What if I crash the car?”
“You can’t. I’m controlling the gas and the brake, and my hands are right here. Are you ready?”
“No.”
“I’m going to start anyway.” Mack turned the ignition and stepped lightly on the gas. Zoë squealed and began to hold the wheel with shaking hands.
“Which way do I go?”
“Anywhere you want. The parking lot is empty.”
“I think I’ll go straight.” They drove very slowly to the end of the paved lot, then Mack stepped on the brake.
“What now?”
“Right?”
“First you need to reverse.”
“I can’t reverse!”
“Sure you can. Just turn and look over your right shoulder and…ah.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing?”
“What is it? You just got a funny look on your face.”
“You’re not supposed to be looking at my face, Zoë. Look over your right shoulder, you always look in the direction you’re going, and…” They reversed a few feet.
“I did it!” She looked back at him, grinning broadly.
“Excellent. Now, if you want to reverse and turn the wheel, look and see what happens.”
They reversed as Zoë turned the wheel to the right. “Oh, that’s weird,” she said. “I remember reading about reversing direction in the driver’s manual and it didn’t make sense, but now I…Mack, what’s wrong?” A horrified look crossed her face. “I’m hurting you, aren’t I?”
“Not hurting. Not in a bad way.”
“Oh, I…oh. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing, I can just ignore it till we finish the lesson.”
“Oh, good, because I’m really starting to enjoy this. Let’s try going forward again.”
It took Mack five minutes to realize that Zoë was torturing him on purpose by shifting ever so slightly in her seat every time she turned the wheel.
“Okay,” he said, “I think that’s enough.” He turned off the engine.
“Aw, I was really getting into it. Couldn’t we just go for ten more min…oh!”
Mack had bitten her, gently, on the fleshy pad of muscle where shoulder met neck. He slid his hands up under her sweater, cupping her breasts through the silky material of her brassiere, plucking her nipples until they were hard.
“Is this part of the lesson?”
Mack made an odd growling noise, and if he hadn’t heard the sound of a car pulling up he thought he might have just gone ahead and pulled down their jeans and taken her right there in the car.
“Someone’s coming,” he said, and Zoë banged into the gearshift as she wriggled over him and into the passenger seat.
“Who is it?”
Mack checked in his side mirror. A white pickup truck, its wheels caked with mud, was pulling into the front of town hall. For a second, Mack thought the truck looked like Moroney’s, although Mack couldn’t imagine what his former boss might be doing with a chainsaw. His former boss wouldn’t be risking another heart attack when there were Mexicans around to hire for inadequate wages.
Mack checked his side mirror again, and saw that the truck was continuing on around to the back parking lot.
“Shit.” Mack didn’t want to imagine what Moroney would do if he figured out that Mack was mixing business with pleasure. Refastening his seat belt, Mack threw the car into drive so fast he nearly stalled it. For a moment, as the two cars passed each other, Mack and Moroney locked eyes. Was it his imagination, Mack wondered, or did Moroney look sheepish? He tried to imagine what was giving his former boss a guilty conscience. Maybe’s he’s killed someone and chopped the body up, he thought, but when he turned, all he could see in the back of the truck was some chopped-up firewood. And why the hell was Moroney keeping the chainsaw in the front seat? There was something fishy going on.
“Wow,” said Zoë. “That was interesting.”
“Well,” he said, when they were back on the road, “sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” said Zoë, casually pushing her glasses farther up on her nose. “You just accomplished something I thought was impossible. I’m looking forward to our next lesson.”
Mack was so pleased he forgot about Moroney.
“Okay,” said Mack, lighting a small twig and placing it under a heavier log in the fireplace. “Let’s talk about the driver’s test. Have you been studying your manual?”
“I have,” said Zoë, sitting down on her couch, “but I’m never going to be able to remember all of it. What color and shape are warning signs and what does a double solid line mean and turn in the direction of the skid.”
Mack brushed off his hands on his jeans and moved to sit at Zoë’s feet. “Sounds like you remember a lot already.” He pulled one wool sock off Zoë’s foot, and she tried to tuck it under her.
Flirting In Cars Page 21
