Rear-View Mirrors

by Paul Fleischman

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” I murmured. I walked inside, went up to my room, opened Owen’s box, and unwrapped the tissue paper. And was amazed to find that he hadn’t carved a bantam chicken or an eastern phoebe—but rather the right profile of my face.

  I held the wooden silhouette toward the light. Each feature was true, every eyelash remembered. Dazed, I realized that he must have been studying my face during his visits. That, unlike me, he apparently found it attractive, even beautiful, worthy not simply of his sketchbook, but of wood. I thought back to the night I’d arrived and my hoping my father might compliment my looks, even if I’d known he was lying. Owen, I believed, was being truthful. And though I couldn’t see losing my heart to him, I felt as if I’d always be grateful.

  8 / Sphinx Moths

  Rounding a curve, I dodge a chipmunk, then spot the car ahead and have half a minute to decide what to do.

  It’s clearly a woman standing beside it, eyeing the tire. I glance at my watch. The highway’s been mercifully free of hills for a while and I know I’ve been making good time. Surely I can spare a few minutes. Not that my father would, I feel sure. But that’s not the side of him that I particularly want to emulate. My mother, I know, would stop without any such calculations, and I decide I’ll stop too.

  I slow down, coast, then put on the brakes, in the course of which approach I see that the car’s an old convertible, that the left rear tire is flat, and that the driver is scarcely older than I am.

  I halt beside her. “Need a hand?” I ask. I notice she doesn’t seem thrilled to see me.

  She gives me the once-over. “I’ve got a jack and all that,” she replies. She looks up the road. “I thought I’d maybe get lucky and some cute guy would stop who’d know how to use it.”

  I’m stunned by her show of gratitude. So much for Good Samaritanship and Sisterhood Is Powerful. I’m ready to leave, my selfless concern for her welfare gone, then I find that it’s been replaced by the desire to straighten her out. I get off my bike, bring down the kickstand, and vow to teach her how to change her own tire, just as my mother taught me.

  “You’ll need a lug wrench, a screwdriver, and a jack,” I inform her. She’s blond, attractive in her tank top and skirt—and looks as stunned as I’d been. She casts a last, sulky glance up the road, apparently figures she’ll make do with me, and searches her glove compartment for a screwdriver. Something tells me it’s not buried underneath books by Gloria Steinem.

  I pry off the hubcap. She opens the trunk, finds the lug wrench, and we loosen the nuts. Then she gets out the jack and I put it in place.

  “Now you use this rod and jack up the car.”

  She looks less than pleased at the prospect, but she does it. Under my prodding, she takes off the wheel, puts on the spare, tightens the nuts in the proper sequence, and lowers the jack. The whole chore is done in fifteen minutes.

  “Guess I’ll go on into town,” she says.

  She makes no move to kneel and kiss my running shoes, and I have the feeling I haven’t changed her thinking a bit, much less opened the golden doors to a career in car repair.

  “Thanks,” she adds.

  “No problem,” I reply.

  She takes off and I head down the road behind her. The sun is out and the highway dry. I ride along a lake for a while. The air smells of summer. The forests and fields are lush, so green with growing things that it’s hard to believe this landscape will ever resemble a Christmas card scene. This summer day, similarly, has felt so long to me that it’s seemed it would never become a summer night. But now, passing through a stand of birches, I see that the sun’s dipped below the treetops and sense the coming on of evening. Tacking back and forth up the hill, I notice how long the shadows have grown and decide that, rather than sit back and coast down the other side, I’ll shift gears and pedal. Which I do, the asphalt whizzing by beneath me and the air whistling in my ears. All of a sudden I glimpse a wing flapping to my left. I turn and gape. It’s an owl! The first I’ve ever seen. Then just as suddenly, my handlebars jolt, in shock I discover I’m off the road, my heart somersaults, I reach for the brakes—and am halted instead by the trunk of a tree.

  Adrenaline flashfloods through my veins. I find myself straddling the bar of the bike, my hands pressing against the tree as if warding off an attacker. This time, thankfully, I’m unhurt. Then I realize, to my terror, that my bicycle is not.

  I get off, bend down, and inspect the front wheel. And see that it slammed into the tree near the dent it picked up earlier—and that the rim is now buckled hopelessly out of shape. I try turning it around but it won’t pass between the brakes. I try bending it, then banging it with a rock I pick up, without success. I stare at it, and for some reason don’t start swearing. There’s no time for that. I need to concentrate on getting a new wheel—right now.

  I look around. No houses in sight. And no time to go walking in search of one. I’ll need to hitchhike into the next town and hope that someone can fix me up there.

  I haul the Raleigh over to the road and lay it down with its bad wheel sticking up. Despite which advertisement that I’m hitching out of need, not depravity, a woman in a station wagon zips by me. I gaze at the spot where I went off the asphalt. Hadn’t I vowed, after the spill that morning, to keep my eyes on the road? That one was the fault of a truck and a pothole, but this one was all mine—unless you counted the owl. Even so, why should a few seconds’ inattention be punished so severely, and just when I was nearing home?

  I hold out my thumb to a man in a truck, who eyes it as if he’s checking for dirt under the nail and passes me by. At which point, my composure begins to leave me and I feel like cursing him out. With no time to wait for some saint to come by, I decide that when the next car appears I’ll wave my arms like a true damsel in distress. A minute later, a truck crests the hill. I get ready to flail—then notice a car slowing to a halt from the other direction. It’s the girl I’d helped twenty minutes before.

  Rejoicing to see her convertible, glad I played the Good Samaritan after all, I hurry across the road.

  “I don’t suppose there happens to be a bike shop in the next town,” I ask.

  She gawks at me. “In Hopkinsville?”

  Suddenly, I wonder how I could actually have expected there would be—or that one would still be open at this hour.

  “Any idea where I could get a new wheel?” Anxiously, I study the girl’s face, hoping that I’ll see it light up.

  “Beats me,” she says.

  I peer into her eyes, willing her to think more deeply.

  “Closest bike shop would probably be in Concord. Forty miles away.”

  “Too far,” I reply.

  She sighs, as if I’m asking too much, which I suppose I am.

  “Around here, your only hope would be Lyle.”

  Her eyes don’t light up, but mine do. “Who’s that?”

  “A junk seller. Down Wheelock Road. He’s got everything under the sun—most of it rusted.”

  “Terrific! Can you give me a lift?’’

  She nods. I carry the Raleigh over, lower it into the back seat of her car, hop in the front, and we’re off. I don’t have to tell her I’m in a rush—she’s quickly over the speed limit, zooming back the way I’d come, then turning onto a narrow road. The breeze in my face feels great, and though virtue may be its own reward, tangible compensation like a ride to a junk shop sure comes in handy. I think of my father, who wouldn’t have helped with the girl’s tire, or been helped in return. No wonder he worried about death so much: his unconnectedness to people left him without a vision of friends and family keeping his memory alive. My mother’s house has always been full of people; I review my stay with my father and can’t recall anyone coming to dinner.

  “That’s it on the right,” my driver says.

  I spot a ramshackle house ahead. I reflect on the fact that I’ve no doubt broken the rules of the ride by hitchhiking, then remember that if I get a wheel here I’ll be
having to ride about five extra miles—back to the place where I went off the road—and figure that that evens things out.

  “That’s his truck in the driveway.” We pulled in behind it. “So he must be home. Mind if I leave you?”

  At this, I rate my rescuer as only a fair-to-middling Samaritan.

  “There’s got to be a few bicycle wheels around here somewhere,” she reassures me.

  I scan the junk strewn about the yard and come to the conclusion she’s probably right. If he doesn’t have the size I need, I’ll bet that there’s another bike here that he’d let me ride home and bring back tomorrow.

  I lift out the Raleigh. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime.”

  I wave as she roars down the road, lean the bike against a tree, then pick my way between lawnmowers, sinks, a mountain of hubcaps, assorted pitchforks and hoes, and finally reach the front door.

  I knock. On the wall to my right is a sign saying “Lyle’s Pre-Owned Merchandise.” On the window to my left a bumper sticker reads “Ask me about Moore’s Grease Remover.” Deciding I’ll pass up the invitation, I listen for footsteps, and don’t hear any. I press the buzzerlike doorbell two times, peek around the side of the house, and behold a vast lot that seems to contain all the ingredients for a second Creation—most of the miscellany looking as if it’s been sitting outside since the first one. Wondering if Lyle might be back there, wondering if he’s here at all, I return, press the buzzer a full minute—and am surprised when the front door suddenly swings open.

  “What in bloody blazes do you want?”

  The man is gray-haired and stooped, but not, I perceive, the kindly codger type.

  “I was hoping you’d have a bicycle wheel.” I hear a voice from a radio within.

  He looks peeved. “‘Trading Block’ is on. Can’t it wait?”

  “Actually, it can’t.” I smile apologetically. “That’s my bike up against the tree.”

  He sighs, stomps down the path, and inspects it. “How in hell did you manage that?”

  I choose to regard the question as rhetorical. “I don’t guess you could fix it.”

  “You guessed right,” he snaps. “And some feller just bought up all but my little kid bikes. Don’t think I’ve got that size wheel. Try Ray Meade in Essex.” He straightens up and heads back toward the house.

  “You don’t think you’ve got it?” I catch up with him. “I’m a customer. Would you mind making sure?”

  “You saying I don’t know my stock?” he shouts. He stares at me and snorts. “I was in the pre-owned merchandise business twenty years before you started in dirtying diapers!”

  “Look!” I shout back at him, angry and desperate. “I’ve got less than an hour to get back home! Will you find me a Goddamn wheel or won’t you?”

  He whips out a crescent wrench from his pocket, throws it down on the dirt, and storms off. “If you find one—it’s yours!” He reaches the house. “Leave a dollar in the mailbox!” The door slams shut behind him.

  I snatch up the tool and run to my bike. Using it to loosen the axle nuts, I take off the Raleigh’s wheel and jog toward the back of the house with it. I pass through a land of lobster traps, then car engines, milk crates, shovels, screen doors. Turning up an aisle of junked cars, I climb onto the roof of a truck, look around, and spot a cluster of bicycles.

  I dash over to them. They’re all too little, and out of the question for riding. Then I notice a pile of parts nearby. Rooting through pedals, seats, handlebars, I spot a wheel, pull it out, and hold it up to the Raleigh’s. Too small. Frantic, I scurry around searching for an adult bike that might have been missed. Nothing. I swear, and kick at a stone, which strikes a woodstove. I run toward it, climb on top, take another look around—and spot it an aisle away. Not a bike, but a handmade-looking cart, like the one my father used for compost and such, with what looks like a pair of bicycle wheels. I streak over, find that’s just what they are, check one for size, and quickly remove it. The spokes have some rust, but it’ll definitely do. Then I find that the tire is soft—and realize that that’s actually good news. If the tire had a flat, there’d be no air at all. Rushing back to the pile of bike parts, I fish out a pump I remember seeing and hope that it works. It does.

  Two minutes later, the new wheel’s on the Raleigh. I put a dollar in the mailbox, place the wrench on top of it, get on my bike, and ride off. I didn’t take time to look at the map—I know I’ve got about fifteen miles left. Nor did I peel my orange, the last of my food, even though my stomach’s empty and I could use the extra energy. There’s time for only one activity: pressing the pedals as hard as I can.

  I reach the highway and retrace my route. The sun, veiled by the trees, feels weak, and for once I wish it were back beating down on my shoulders from high overhead. As if keeping a death-watch, I’m constantly checking on it, noting each change in its condition. I recall that my paper, the Concord Monitor, said it would be setting at 8:30, and I wonder if that time’s right for North Hooton. I decide that, the newspaper aside, if there’s any sun showing when I reach the house, the terms of the ride will have been met. Then I picture the tree-covered hill to the west of the house, and pump even harder than before.

  The roadside all seems vaguely familiar, a fifteen-minute déjà vu. Then I notice that the sensation has vanished and know that I’ve passed the site of my mishap. The memory of which locks my eyes on the road, which I read as a golfer does a green. I wind alongside a stream, cross a bridge. My palms feel numb from clenching the handlebars all day. My shoulders ache. My butt is sore, to put the matter mildly, and has grown to detest the Raleigh’s rocklike seat. I lift myself off of it for a spell, and pass through Pittsford without breaking my rhythm—the last town before North Hooton.

  I open up my canteen while riding, gulp down some water, and pour the rest down my back. The sun may have lost its leverage, but the air’s still steamy and my sweat glands have been working overtime. I’m on the home stretch. I check the sun, see that it’s sinking, remind myself that I’ve got my father’s long legs, and command my body to prove that I’ve got his cyclist’s endurance as well.

  I tear by a marsh, alarmed to find that frogs are already starting to croak. I cross the county line. I know I’m getting close and begin to search for signs of North Hooton. I pass the town dump at top speed. Then the windmill. I charge up a hill, my heart ready to burst. My eyes are sick of the sight of the road, legs shaky-weak, thoughts wild from exhaustion. Why am I putting myself through this? I don’t have to. I didn’t even love him, for Christ’s sake. My lungs crave air, my chest feels close to caving in. I enter the town. Because he was your Goddamn father, that’s why.

  I pass the church, then the house with three chimneys, and turn by instinct onto Hatfield Road. I no doubt hear birds, dodge bumps, glimpse flowers, but my mind scarcely registers these events. The road turns to dirt. It’s dim among the pines. I pass the Knotts’. Then the pond to my left. I spot the mailbox. Turn right, up the driveway. Run the bike up the hill toward the barn and look west.

  And stare at the barest bit of orange showing above the hill.

  ***

  I awaken the next morning, look at the window, and gaze at three panes of maple leaves, one of hillside, and four of sky. The sun, I notice, has risen out of view, and I realize I must have slept late. I reach for my watch and peer at the hands. 8:40. I have to be in town by 10:05 to catch the northbound bus, the first of three I’ll need to take to get me to my dig in Maine. I get up, take my first step of the day, and wonder how I’ll ever manage to take all the others down Hatfield Road.

  I put on my clothes and creep downstairs. My leg muscles feel as stiff as beef jerky. My rear end’s still sore. My shoulders and arms are bright red, having been well done by the sun. I eat breakfast on the porch, then, as if I’m climbing Mt. Everest, labor back up the stairs. I roll up my sleeping bag, strap it to my backpack, gather up toothbrush, cap, and comb. Taking a last look around the room, my eyes
catch on the sight of the pair of sphinx moths mounted on the wall. I remember looking at them often last summer: at their amber wings, their blue-black eyespots, the label with their Latin and common names. Having read the Oedipus plays that year, I knew that the Sphinx was a creature who’d posed a riddle demanding self-understanding. I recall studying the moths my last morning and, as if they demanded the same of me, actually speaking aloud the words, “I’m not a copy of my mother.” A statement that would have gladdened my father. I think of him, and of our parting that day.

  ***

  “A great state, New Hampshire is,” he said.

  We both spotted the bus coming into North Hooton.

  “Can five million chickadees be wrong?”

  I smiled, leaned over, and picked up my suitcase.

  “Oakes College, of course, is just up the road,” he added.

  “The third time you’ve told me today.”

  He paused. “As for my spot out on Hatfield, I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said Thoreau would have sold his soul to IBM for the deed to the place.”

  I felt like I was being tempted to stay by Mephistopheles himself. “I’ll try to visit sometime next summer.” I looked at my father and at the now-familiar town behind him and suddenly knew that I really would try. “I promise.”

  This seemed to cheer him. The bus stopped before us.

  “Then I’ll keep your application for the position of heir on file,” he said. The bus door opened. We didn’t hug, but he patted my shoulder. I started up the steps. “And I want you to know, Olivia, that I think you’ve got what it takes. And that you’ve got the inside track for the job.”

  The door closed behind me and I moved down the aisle. It hit me that my father had never said anything quite like that before—and I felt as if I’d at last received the paternal blessing, something I’d been waiting for for so long.

  ***

  Standing in front of the sphinx moths a year later, despite the recollection of that scene, and yesterday’s tribute to my father, I know I’m not a copy of him either. That I’m not really the sort of heir he wanted. “I’m not a copy of either of my parents,” I silently address the moths.