Rules of the Road

by Joan Bauer

  It was so hard to hear the official words.

  Mrs. Gladstone stood straight and proud on the podium like the true person she was.

  Elden shook Ken Woldman’s hand gleefully.

  “But,” the woman continued, “over four hundred voters have written in requesting that Madeline Gladstone stay with the new company.”

  People were applauding and Ken Woldman took the microphone and said to the crowd, “Now I’m a numbers man, and I know the numbers don’t lie. There’s room in this company for both kinds of shoe stores. Madeline and I have been having a real interesting talk and I’d like to keep her on as a member of the board of directors and give her complete charge of quality control. I need to learn what this woman knows about selling shoes.”

  Elden jumped up and said maybe they should talk about this in private before making big decisions, but his voice got drowned out by more clapping. Mrs. Gladstone clomped up to the podium, raised that wicked cane of hers, and said, “Complete charge, Ken?”

  Ken Woldman held out his tanned, prosperous hand. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what I said.”

  She rammed that cane on the floor, shook his hand neat, and said, “I accept. And my son can tell you that the women in my family live to a ripe, ornery old age.” She turned to Elden. “So, Elden, I’m going to be around for a long, long time. Won’t that be nice, dear?”

  Elden half-smiled because the whole world was watching and slumped in his chair, soleless.

  CHAPTER 26

  I steered the Cadillac onto I 20 East and watched the last of Dallas disappear in my rearview mirror.

  It was so hard to leave, but like my grandmother always said, wherever we go, we take everything we’ve ever learned with us.

  Alice was staying in Dallas to visit with friends and gloat. She told me how to keep my bangs wispy and that my hair needed to be cut like clockwork every six weeks or everything she’d done for me would go out the window. She flounced out my shirt and told me to always keep my belt buckle shined. I hugged her for a long time and then she said, “Oh, we’ll see each other again, honey. I’m not through changing your life yet.”

  We didn’t stop much along the way. Mrs. Gladstone had to get to work putting traps down around Gladstone’s to catch the rodents that were sure to crawl in through the pipes. She said that she was going to need to be coming back and forth to Texas after her operation to kick butt and she’d sure like me, her assistant, to be driving her if we could coordinate trips with my school vacations.

  When we caught sight of the Chicago skyline, it just took my breath away. There isn’t a better skyline anywhere with the old and the new combined, with the vision of the architects so proudly maintained. I mentioned that the same thing could happen at Gladstone’s Shoes, combining the old with the new, and Mrs. Gladstone said she wasn’t that old, and I lied and said of course not, and tried to change the subject.

  Mom and Faith were waiting for me when we pulled onto Astor Street and they hardly recognized me with my new haircut and adult persona.

  “Your daughter,” Mrs. Gladstone said to Mom, “is an extraordinary young woman. It has been an honor to be with her this summer.”

  Mom’s lower lip started going and she said she knew and I stood tall like the assistant to the Director for Quality Control and didn’t cry even though I wanted to.

  I pulled the Cadillac into the garage with everyone looking and didn’t lurch or lunge once. We all helped Mrs. Gladstone with her bags and she said she’d see me Monday morning for brainstorming.

  “Yes, ma’am. You want me to pick you up?”

  “Well, of course I do.”

  “Sorry.”

  Mrs. Gladstone got strict when she was feeling emotional.

  We spent days catching up.

  Faith told me how she visited Grandma every Tuesday when I was gone. She even wrote down what happened at each visit so she wouldn’t forget to tell me and showed me her notes. Little sisters do have their moments. She said that Grandma called her Jenna twice and once Grandma remembered her name.

  “I didn’t do it as well as you, Jenna, but—”

  “You did great, Faith.”

  “I did better with Grandma than I did with Dad.”

  Dad started calling the house drunk late at night a week after I left. Faith was home alone.

  “I couldn’t understand him half the time, Jenna. I wanted to talk to him, tell him what I was doing, but . . .”

  “You can’t talk to him when he’s drunk.”

  “We got the unlisted number and the calls stopped.” Faith’s eyes got sad. “I never knew what you had to go through, Jenna. I never understood how you protected me.”

  I shrugged and said it was no big deal.

  “It’s a big deal,” Faith assured me.

  Mom got a raise and a new boyfriend while I was gone. The raise didn’t take any getting used to; the boyfriend did, even though Mom assured me, “We’re taking it very, very slow.” Not that I didn’t like Evan right off—he didn’t try to win me over like some men do. He was funny and knew all about computers. I’d just expected Mom and Faith to be exactly the same when I got back—no changes. I knew this wasn’t fair because of how I’d changed. We’d all been on journeys this summer.

  I was walking through Lincoln Park, my favorite thinking place, past the South Pond with the paddleboats and duck feeders. I walked up Dickens to Clark Street, heading to Opal’s house, when my father pulled up beside me in a little gray Saturn.

  How did he find me?

  He motioned me inside the car.

  I wasn’t ready for this.

  “Okay, Dad.”

  I got in. It wasn’t until he started down Clark Street that I realized he’d been drinking.

  “Dad, stop.”

  He shook his head like he was trying to clear it, grabbed the wheel tighter, veered the car away from a bicyclist.

  “Dad!”

  “I’m okay, Jenna girl.” He kept going, swerving.

  “You’re not okay! Stop the car!”

  He didn’t.

  He turned right on Armitage, tires squeaking, almost rammed into a stop sign.

  “Dad, you’re drunk! Stop the car!”

  “I’m driving here, Jenna girl!”

  “No! You’re not driving anymore!”

  “Whose gon stop me?”

  “I’m not going to be road kill! Do you hear me? I said, do you hear me?”

  I tried to take the wheel from him, but he pushed me away. How do I stop the car?

  I looked madly around.

  Couldn’t reach the brakes.

  Couldn’t take the keys out.

  Think.

  I shoved the gear shift into neutral, pulled like crazy on the hand brake between us.

  Work!

  “Hey!” Dad shouted as the car went slower, slower, then finally stopped just short of hitting a parked van.

  “No more, Dad!”

  A policewoman got out of a patrol car, ran toward us.

  I pushed the door open, jumped out. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” I shouted. “This man is my father. He’s been driving drunk.”

  “What’re you doing?” Dad bellowed.

  “Step out of the car, sir,” said the officer.

  Dad did, not well.

  “Sir, have you been drinking?”

  Dad looked down, swayed a little. “Nah.”

  She gave him the alcohol balloon test; Dad reeled in front of the little white balloon, finally blew it up. In seconds, my father became an official drunk driver.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to bring you in.”

  “Ahhhh . . .” Dad shook his head, looked through me like I wasn’t there, and was led off.

  “It could have been you who killed him, Dad! It could have been you!”

  I ran home, pumping my long legs, stretching faster and faster on each block. I took the stairs to our apartment two at a time, and crashed against the front door.

 
“I’m okay.”

  I said this as much for myself as for my mother as I ran past her and Evan. They were sitting at the dining room table eating Brie and oatmeal crackers, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  “Jenna?” Mom got up and started after me. She was in her white nurse pantsuit with her name tag: “Carol Boller, R.N.” Her hair was extra curly because of the humidity.

  I held up my hands. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  If you both watch closely you can see me fall apart.

  Ready?

  I ran through the kitchen.

  Ran past Faith, who was making an egg-salad sandwich.

  Ran into the bathroom that Faith and I shared, locked the old, scratched door with the bent copper key, kicked aside the hair dryer on the floor, turned on the shower full blast.

  I shook off my stacked leather shoes, threw off my clothes, pushed back the ornamental fish shower curtain, and climbed in.

  I threw back my aching head as the water pulsated over me.

  I hated him.

  Terrified Teen Has Drunk Father Arrested.

  I closed my eyes, stuck my face directly under the warm spray.

  Just wash it off me.

  I saw in my mind Dad staggering home when I was small.

  Sitting there in his white bathrobe, hungover, when I’d come home from school.

  I never wanted friends to come home with me.

  Daddy’s sick, that’s what we’d say.

  The water pounded my eyes, face, neck. I washed myself three times. I remembered when I cut my foot and was in the hospital getting stitches. Everything is scary when you’re six. Dad walked in holding the biggest stuffed elephant in the world.

  I slammed the memory blinds shut.

  Let the water do its work.

  Clean Teen Faces World—Vows to Fight On.

  I turned off the shower, thankful for the fog that had settled on the mirror, which meant I didn’t have to see myself. The towels were heavy with wetness, I dried myself as best I could, put on my yellow terry cloth robe. A knock rapped on the door.

  “Jenna?” It was my mother.

  I unlocked the bathroom door to her worried face.

  “Evan’s gone,” she said.

  Mom hadn’t had a boyfriend in a long time.

  “Did he leave because of me?”

  “He left because it was the right thing to do.” Mom planted her emergency room nurse shoes in front of me like she did when she had to give a patient a shot who didn’t want one.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  I leaned against the door; told her. I didn’t cry.

  Mom pushed her own angry tears away.

  Don’t cry, Mom. I know how much you hate him.

  She went into ER nurse mode, sitting me down, getting me water.

  Was I all right?

  Yes.

  Hurt in any way?

  No.

  Did I want her to stay home tonight, not go into work? She’d be happy to—

  No.

  We sat on the wobbly wooden stools as night fell on the kitchen—mother and daughter trying to reach each other, but more than anything just swallowing the pain.

  CHAPTER 27

  I bought my car the next week—a Chevy Cavalier with a sun roof and torn bucket seats. It wasn’t quite the one I’d dreamed of—I couldn’t afford the Corvette convertible—but it was red, and most importantly, it was mine. Opal came with me when I drove it off the lot. She christened it with sparkling apple cider—opened the bottle and poured it over the left front bumper as the used car salesman applauded.

  A red car. My dad would approve. He’d gotten out of jail when Sueann Turnbolt paid his bail. I knew this because I’d called the jail. I’d had the car for three days and already I’d waxed it twice. I used the gentle circling motion Dad taught me when he used to wax his cars, careful to not leave any streaks or buildup. It’s funny the things we hold onto from our parents and the things we leave behind.

  I was driving down Lake Shore Drive with the picnic in a basket—fried chicken, olive rolls, fruit salad, and lemon cookies. I pulled into the driveway of Shady Oaks Nursing Home and walked inside, up the stairs, past the nurses station, past the tired, blank stares of the old people in wheelchairs and walkers to my grandmother’s room. Gladys was sitting in a chair by the window reading. She smiled so big when I walked in.

  “Well,” she declared, “look, Millie, it’s Jenna. Back from Texas.”

  “Texas,” my grandmother said flatly.

  I handed Gladys a postcard of the big Texas sky. “That piece of the sky I promised you.”

  Gladys held it to her heart, smiling.

  “Come on, Grandma,” I said, “we’re going on that picnic.”

  Grandma looked at Gladys, who said, “Millie, you go on now with Jenna. She’ll take good care of you.”

  Grandma wanted to wear her pink sweater even though I told her it was hot. I helped her on with it. The memory board had my daisy postcard pinned to it alongside one of Faith’s new modeling photos. I took off my little sign that read “Jenna’s gone to Texas. She’ll see you when she gets back.”

  I pointed to Faith’s smiling face. “Faith and I are going to come together next week to see you Grandma, but I wanted to spend some time with you alone.”

  Grandma walked out the door with me like a little child. It took a few tries to get her in the car, but once we got moving, she started smiling.

  “I know you don’t remember everything like you wished,” I said as I pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, “but I promised you when I got my car I’d take you on a picnic.”

  “Picnic,” said my grandmother.

  I drove to the Belmont Harbor exit, got off by the boats, parked near the water, and helped my grandmother out of the car. She walked with me slowly. I found a park bench, put a blanket down. Her face lit up for a minute.

  “Jenna?” she said.

  I smiled. She remembered. “Yeah, Grandma, it’s me.”

  “You never liked keeping your underpants on,” she announced.

  I laughed. “That’s not true!”

  “You were always running buck naked around the yard.”

  I opened the picnic basket, laughing. Of all the things about me to remember. “I got over it,” I said and handed her a plate.

  “I don’t remember things like I used to,” she said sadly.

  “I know.”

  “I can see you as a child sometimes, but not . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I would like to remember you more,” she said, looking off as a pigeon swooped down and ate a piece off her cookie.

  “I know. It’s not your fault.”

  She ate a little bit and didn’t say much; she fed the squirrels, though.

  So I talked.

  About shoes and Harry Bender.

  About Mrs. Gladstone and Cadillacs.

  About driving and earning money and buying my car and what happens to a person when they’ve been to Texas.

  “I think Texas makes you think about things in a bigger way,” I said. “I’ve never been anywhere that changed me so much.”

  Grandma was picking at her shoelaces.

  “Tight,” she said.

  I bent down to check them, loosened the laces, made sure the tongues lay flat; relaced them. She was silent as I helped.

  The grass was scorched and brown from the hot summer sun. We headed toward the car, Grandma and me.

  I said, “I remember when I was a little girl and we’d make that grape jam from the grapes in your yard and I’d get it all over everything . . .”

  “Including the cat,” she said softly.

  I opened the car door. She got inside and grabbed my hand like it was a life raft. I crouched down, held her hand for the longest time.

  So much sadness.

  So much pain.

  But remembering the good things—that’s what keeps anyone going.

  CHAPTER 28

 
I sat on the rock in the Rookery of the Lincoln Park Zoo waiting for my father. I always liked the Rookery because it was a little haven tucked away from the noise of the city. It had a small pond and rocks and moss and plants surrounding it. Ducks swam and birds sang and butterflies fluttered overhead. I always felt at peace here, even if things were going wrong other places.

  A mother duck and her babies swam by. Funny, how in nature you see so many single female parents. Lions, bears, dogs, cats. The mother always gets the kids, the father goes off somewhere to start another litter. I mentioned this to my mother once. She said anyone who gets the kids gets the deal.

  I threw a piece of bread into the water. The mother duck let the lead baby get it. Then another piece of bread hit the water; it wasn’t mine. I turned to look.

  My father was standing there holding a bag of bread.

  “I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said.

  He threw another hunk of bread into the pool. “I didn’t either.”

  I tried not to study him to see if he was drunk. He looked okay, but . . .

  “I’m not drunk,” he said, sounding normal.

  “Okay.”

  “You wanted to talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dad sat down on the rock that was higher than mine. He was wearing clean jeans and a golf shirt.

  “I don’t apologize for what happened with your license,” I started.

  He let out a long sigh.

  “I would do it again, Dad, to save your life . . .and mine. I had a good friend who—”

  “I was handling it, Jenna.”

  “No.” This was going down the toilet fast.

  “I lost my license, Jenna! I’ve got to do six weeks of community service!”

  Good.

  “Just listen,” I pleaded.

  I threw up my hands and the words poured out of me.

  “I remember the smells mostly, Dad—the drinks with the half-eaten olives—the aroma of my childhood was gin, bourbon, and scotch. I’d sniff the glasses in the house; took a lick off a bottle once. It was awful. Something’s wrong with us, I kept thinking. This doesn’t happen at my friends’ houses.

  “I’d go to liquor stores with you, Dad—all the store owners knew you. You were happy in those shops and I tried to be happy, too, but I knew that in just a few hours things were going to change.