The Leaving Season

by Cat Jordan

  A calendar from 1987 hung beside a rack of rusty gardening tools, which reminded me, guiltily, that I hadn’t been to Roseburg Farms in a while. The brightest spot among all the dusty knickknacks and baby food jars filled with nuts and bolts was a sheet of lined notebook paper with a simple outline drawing of a horse in midcanter, back hooves flying, tail and mane up, tacked to the wall with a strip of clear tape.

  “Hey, can you get me that Red Bull?” Lee asked me.

  Four slim red, silver, and blue cans sat on a wooden stool as if they were on an altar. I picked one up—empty, as were the second and third. The fourth was half-filled. I handed it to Lee and he tossed it back in one long swallow.

  “You drank all of those?” I asked incredulously. “It’s not even ten.”

  He thumped his chest with a fist and let out a burp. “That’s late.”

  “How early were you up?”

  He lazily leaned his butt on the Mustang’s chrome bumper. “‘Up’ implies . . .” He belched again. “That there was a down. And there was no down.” He aimed a pointed gaze at the cans. “Those tinny skinny friends of mine made sure there was no down.”

  My eyes searched his face. “You’ve been awake all night?” He had the beginnings of bags under his eyes and his cheekbones looked sharper and more pronounced than usual—but there was an odd twitch in the corners of his eyes and a jerky quality to his gestures that made him look like a living scarecrow.

  He tossed the empty can overhand like a basketball, and it landed in a wire wastebasket with an aluminum plink. “I want to finish this. You gonna help me or not?”

  “Help?” I hesitated. “I don’t know—”

  “That is why you came here, right? To help me with the car?” He leaned closer, bathing me in thick caffeinated breath and holding my gaze so long as if to dare me to contradict him.

  I couldn’t find any words. I wasn’t sure why I’d come over, why I’d left school, why I’d suddenly needed the space and time to breathe . . . and why I’d known I’d find that here with Lee. “The car, yeah.”

  “Then get over here and help me with this alternator belt,” he said.

  “The what?”

  “There’s a long belt, called a serpentine, and it fits around here.” He thrust a hand deep into the back of the engine. “And here. And here. It connects everything. Water pump, air pump, power steering, and the alternator, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Didn’t used to be this way,” he said, his voice picking up speed as he explained everything to me. “This car used to have five belts, each one handling a separate thing. But that was a pain in the ass and those belts were hard to replace, so Nate and I upgraded it to a single belt.” Lee held up a forefinger. “You look nice, by the way.”

  Startled, I glanced down at my boots. “I do?”

  “Yeah, the dress and the hair . . .” He waved a grease-stained hand at my outfit.

  “It’s a skirt and top, not a dress.”

  “Whatever. It’s nice, that’s all.”

  “Well, thank y—”

  “Bring me the manual, huh? It’s in the glove compartment.”

  As I slid into the passenger seat, I flipped down the visor and checked my reflection in the small rectangular mirror. I wet my finger and wiped off the raccoon eyes, noticing, huh, my hair did look nice for a change. I turned the visor back up quickly and caught Lee staring at me in the crack of space between the hood and windshield. When our eyes met, he stood abruptly and went back to work. “The manual, Meredith. Come on.”

  I felt a smile tickle my lips.

  We worked for the rest of the day, breaking only for a fast sandwich and soda. I managed to keep the grease and grime from Allison’s clothes, but regular soap and water would not wash off the oily residue on my hands. They needed to be scrubbed.

  Finally, at around five in the afternoon, Lee pronounced the work done. We’d not only replaced the alternator belt, but we’d also flushed the coolant lines and radiator and retrofitted the air filters. “If it doesn’t work now, well . . .”

  “It never will?”

  Lee scoffed at me. “You’re such a pessimist! If it doesn’t work now, I’ll have to try something else.” He walked over to the passenger-side door and held it open for me. “Go on, get in.”

  “We’re going for a ride now?” I felt oddly nervous. I so badly wanted the car to work. For Lee . . . for Nate . . .

  “In,” he repeated. And I obliged.

  I heard the garage door rise with a clatter and as I waited for Lee to return, my gaze again fell on the drawing of the horse on the wall. It was so simply rendered, just a bold black outline of a horse, yet it felt vivid and alive. As soon as Lee got into the car, I pointed to it. “What is that?”

  “That’s a horse.”

  “Well, duh. You like horses, I take it.”

  “Yeah.” He held up the key chain with the Ford logo on one side and the Mustang logo on the other. “Nate and me . . . We were gonna get tattoos.” He said this in an almost whisper, as if speaking it aloud would make it untrue.

  “Seriously?” Nate had never said anything to me about wanting a tattoo. Then again, he’d never said anything about this car either.

  Lee pulled up the sleeve of his left arm and rubbed his right hand against the bare skin. “Right here.”

  “Tattoos?” I still couldn’t wrap my mind around that. I felt laughter bubble up in me. “Nate?” I shook my head. “No way. Just . . . no.”

  Lee was insistent. “You didn’t know him like I did. He wanted ink.”

  I lifted one eyebrow. “Ink?”

  “Yes, Miss Meredith Daniels. That is what it’s called. Getting inked.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I in no way believe that Nate wanted to get inked. You? Sure, but him?”

  A bemused look crossed Lee’s face. “Me, but not Nate? Why?”

  “It’s permanent, Lee. A tattoo is forever.”

  “Not always, but okay. So what?”

  “So what if you change your mind?”

  Lee drummed his fingers against his chin in thought. “So . . . ?”

  “So? So!” I let my hands drop into my lap as dramatically as I could.

  Lee turned to face me, closing the distance between us to just a foot or so. “Who cares if you change your mind? The way I see it, say yes now and deal with the shit later.” He grinned as he shoved the key into the ignition and then stopped. He took my hand and held it over the key. Our fingers trembled with excitement. “Ready? One, two—”

  “Three!” I said. We both held our breath as the key clicked past start, paused, and then the engine roared to life! The smile on Lee’s face was as bright as I’d ever seen it. It lit up the dark circles under his eyes and erased the shadows on his cheeks and jaw. He nodded, a goofy grin on his face like a little kid’s. “It works!”

  “Whoo-hoo!” I shouted. I clapped my hands. Silly, but I couldn’t help it! The day’s work paid off—the Mustang was running.

  Suddenly I felt Lee’s arms around me, hugging me close. The scent of grease and dried sweat and Red Bull clung to him, clung to me, as the skin on our necks met and our cheeks touched. I felt his palm against my back. My own hands had wandered to the back of his neck and were clasped there, holding him.

  I froze in place, not wanting to move, not trusting myself to stay still. This is not a hug, I told myself, not a real hug. This was a friendly, congratulatory embrace.

  It was Lee who cut it short, who pulled back and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He said nothing, but I saw his lips twitch, as they had before. He glanced at me briefly. “Ready?”

  I nodded, willing my heartbeat to slow, forcing my brain to focus. It was sleep deprivation and Red Bull, I told myself. Oh, wait, that’s him, not me. What’s my excuse?

  Lee shifted the car into reverse and eased it out of the garage. The thrill of the Mustang actually moving quickly overshadowed any weirdness. This was all about the car
and nothing more.

  We were halfway down the long driveway, headed toward the main road, when Lee stopped the car and let it idle in neutral. He got out, walked over to the passenger side, and opened my door. “Move over, you’re driving,” he said. He tried to smoosh me over with both hands.

  “What? I can’t!” It was a stick shift, and I had only driven an automatic. I’d never learned a manual transmission.

  “You and your four-letter words,” he said. “‘Won’t.’ ‘Can’t.’ Go on. Or I’ll sit on top of you.”

  I crawled behind the wheel and stared down at the floor, a stranger in a very strange land. Brake, accelerator . . . and clutch? What on earth was I supposed to do with that? I turned to Lee helplessly. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Just try,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I drive the car into a tree and we die.”

  He threw back his head, laughing. “Oh my god, no. You’ll only stall.”

  “Oh.” I cocked my head to one side. “You’re sure?”

  He wobbled a hand in the air. “Fifty percent. We’ll know for sure in a minute.”

  I stared at the gearshift. I didn’t even know where to begin.

  “The clutch,” Lee said helpfully. “Put your foot down on that—no, your left foot.”

  “My left . . . ? But I do everything with my right.”

  “The clutch is with your left. Your right foot is on the brake. So do that. Like, now.” He was so patient, so encouraging. Maybe I could do this.

  Left on clutch, right on brake. “Okay.” I was holding on to the steering wheel for dear life. I was pretty sure my knees were locked too.

  “Now put your right hand on the gearshift. You’re gonna slide it into first gear. Then while you let your foot up off the clutch, take your right foot off the brake and put it on the gas.”

  “Wait, wait, wait! That’s too many things!” My hands felt clammy and wet on the wheel and my feet were jammed so hard against the pedals that I thought I’d actually put them through the floorboard.

  “You can do this,” Lee said calmly. “You’re smart—”

  “Not like this.”

  “—and I’m right here.”

  I felt my heart thumping in my chest. Oh god, oh god, oh god . . . I took a breath and did what Lee said: clutch, shift, gas . . . the car lurched forward and died. I yelped. “Oh no! I broke it!”

  Lee chuckled. “Like I said, you only stalled. Try it again. Come on, you can do it.”

  Fine, all right. I braced myself for a second go at it. Clutch, shift, gas. Stall.

  And again. Clutch, shift, gas. Stall.

  “Damn it!” I shouted at the windshield. “Why isn’t this working?”

  Lee tried not to laugh, but I could see the merry twinkling in his eyes.

  “You can just stop that right now,” I told him.

  “I will. It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s funny to see you get upset.”

  “Funny?” I felt myself start to fume. “You like watching me fail?”

  “It’s a car,” he drawled. “Who cares?”

  “Yes, but . . .” But I want to be good at it. I crossed my arms and leaned back in the driver’s seat, pouting. “Forget it. You drive.”

  Lee’s eyes widened. “That’s it? Damn, you give up easily.”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, you told me.” He shook his head. “Try it again. Just once more. For me?” He batted his lashes coquettishly.

  “Ugh, fine. Once more.” I started the car. Clutch. Shift. Gas.

  And stall with the force of a hundred ponies.

  “Damn it!” I screamed. “I am never doing this again. Ever!”

  Lee said nothing but got out and walked around the back of the car. I scooted across the seat, settling into the warmth he left behind. Let him drive this thing, I thought. After all, it was his now.

  I heard the trunk open and Lee returned to the front seat with a small cooler. He opened the lid and pulled out a beer. “Do you always carry a cooler of alcohol in your trunk?”

  Lee uncapped the bottle with an opener on his key chain and handed it to me. “Normally I drive a Vespa, so no, I don’t. But I had a feeling I’d get this thing rolling and I knew I’d want to celebrate.”

  “With me?”

  “Actually,” he said with a snort, “I didn’t plan on sharing.” He pulled out another beer and aimed the neck at me. “So you better not drink all of them.”

  I held the bottle up to the waning sunlight. “You know, I drink maybe once a year, if that.”

  “Bullshit. I saw you at that party. You had a beer in your hand.”

  “I didn’t drink it, Sherlock.”

  He sighed. “Great. These are good beers and I just wasted one on you. At least take a sip and toast the car, huh? Can you do that?” He tapped the neck of his beer to mine. “To our awesome mechanical skills.”

  I raised the bottle to my lips, bracing myself for a bitter brew. But it wasn’t the usual flat, watery stuff from a party keg. It was nutty-flavored and a little sweet and the bubbles tickled the roof of my mouth and tongue.

  I took three more swallows before I paused for a breath, holding the chilled bottle against my chest. “Um, that’s pretty good.”

  “Yeah, this is my mom’s favorite too. When she’s around.”

  Mom. Lee never spoke about her.

  “Oh?” I said as neutrally as possible.

  He tipped his head back and drank half the bottle in one long gulp. “I’ll bet you never had a mom who was single and married, huh?”

  “I, um . . . No. My mom is just married. You know, to my dad.” I sipped some more of my beer, hoping I could encourage him to keep talking. If he wanted to.

  “You see, Sherry Ryan is married to my dad, and Sherry Livingston is not married to my dad. They look like the same woman, but only from the outside.” Lee finished the rest of his beer and slowly peeled the label off the bottle. “When my dad’s in town, I get to see Sherry Ryan, and when he’s not, Sherry Livingston sneaks in.”

  “Do you mean—”

  “She fucks around when he’s away. Yeah.” He took another swallow. The bluntness of his words took my breath away. Luckily, Lee didn’t mind the silence.

  “Fortunately for Sherry Livingston, my dad would rather not be here anyway, so she pretty much gets the run of the house.”

  His laugh was short, more like a gruff exhale. I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet and motionless. A moment later he reached into the cooler for a second beer and a frown creased his face. “You need another.”

  “Oh no, I’m good. See?” I sloshed the beer in my bottle from side to side to prove it wasn’t empty, but when I looked, only a couple of swallows remained. “How did that happen?”

  “I told you. My mom knows her beer. Drink up.” He placed a finger at the bottom of my bottle and tilted the mouth of it toward me.

  I swallowed, thinking, thinking. “What about your father?” I asked when I’d finished. “Doesn’t he care that your mom is sleeping around?”

  “Who said my mom is sleeping around?” Lee snapped. “Did I say that? No. I said Sherry Livingston is sleeping around. That’s not my mom.” He gulped down some more beer and finished with an ahh.

  “Okay.” Lee was so very close to revealing more of himself, but he’d stopped just short of too much.

  I reached into the cooler and took out another beer. Lee silently handed me the opener, and I uncapped the bottle like a pro. I held it up to him, and he allowed a hint of a smile as he clinked ceremoniously. We sipped at the same time. I tried to match him, swallow for swallow, but had to stop before I choked—I was still a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

  “We need to name her,” Lee said, patting the seat. “What do ya think?”

  “Name . . . the car?” My head was beginning to swim. All this beer on a nearly empty stomach was not smart, but I wanted to be in the moment. I wa
nted to be spontaneous and fun.

  “Yeah, what should her name be?” Lee ran a hand lovingly along the steering wheel and gearbox.

  “Christine?” I blurted out and then started laughing like a fiend.

  Lee’s mouth opened in shock. “Meredith, do you think our car is evil?”

  Our car?

  “Maybe. She didn’t let me drive her, so . . .”

  His laughter filled the car. “You’re blaming your crappy driving skills on Christine?”

  “So we’ve named her, then?”

  “Well . . . Christine wasn’t a Mustang, you know.”

  “If Stephen King were younger when he wrote the book, maybe it would have been.”

  Lee looked amazed. “You are so wise, Meredith Daniels.”

  My head lolled on my neck as I turned to him. The second beer was definitely taking effect. “I like that you call me by my whole name,” I said.

  “You do?” He stared, examining me. “Why?”

  “Because . . . it’s my name.” I laughed. I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t like Middie. Or Yoko.” I tried to hold his gaze, but my eyes were having trouble focusing. “It makes me feel bad when you say that.” I leaned my head against the cushioned rest and kicked off my boots before pulling my knees up and placing my feet on the dash. “You think Christine minds?”

  “Nah. Christine’s cool.”

  I drank some more of the beer, taking tiny little sips instead of big gulps. I knew I was getting drunk, could feel my head getting lighter, could hear my voice slur, but I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want to plan what was going to happen. I didn’t want to worry about the future.

  Say yes now and deal with shit later.

  “Am I being spontaneous and fun?”

  “A little bit.”

  I slapped a weak hand at his chest. “Just a little? I’m drinking beer in an evil car. What more can I do?”

  “You could . . . get a tattoo.”

  “Oh, no way! No, no, no.” I shook my head from side to side and stamped my bare feet on the glove compartment in front of me. “Think of something else.”