The driver, a thirtyish woman with hair as long as Cher’s, jumped out of the Pinto. Our two cars were rubbed up against each other.
“Didn’t you see me!” she screamed.
I looked at her, woozy. Eyebrows up. Eyebrows up.
“Well, at least back up!”
I put the car in reverse and inched backward, then for some reason I pulled up the emergency brake and turned off the motor. Suddenly, she was at my window.
“I guess we’re going to have to exchange information,” she said, running fingers through her endless mane.
Sitting there, looking up into her thin face with its harsh angled nose, my brows ridiculously arched, I realized I had failed at something profound. Out of my gut came agonizing, wrenching moans. Loud ones.
“Oh my God, don’t do that!” she yelled, appalled. “Listen, listen, is this like not your car or something? It’s okay. It’s not that bad. It’s just got a little dent. And mine, it’s really old anyway.”
Tears fell. Unable to see through blurry vision, I irrationally turned on the windshield wipers.
“Uh, are you all right?” she asked.
I shook my head no as she handed me crumpled tissue from a huge macramé purse with an owl’s face on it. I wiped my eyes, turned off the wipers. Burst into tears again.
“God, you are a mess.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not you…it’s just that…it’s not you.”
“That’s obvious.” She looked around, as if to ensure no one had seen the crime occur. “Listen, I don’t mean to just leave you like this, but I have an appointment I cannot be late for. A very important one.” She dug around in that voluminous purse until she found a pen. She dug deeper and, unable to find a piece of paper, opened a stick of Juicy Fruit gum, popped it in her mouth, and scribbled onto the back of the wrapper, thrusting it at me when she was done. “Here, call if you want to. But you should know now, I got no-fault insurance.”
I took the gum wrapper as she disappeared through the clinic door, her Cher hair swinging. I could barely read her chicken scratch, yet the sight of it made me think of Selena’s neat, lovely, schoolteacher’s cursive. I stumbled out of the car, headed for fresh air and the trunk. I tore into my Samsonite bag, looking for that little piece of folded paper, unable to find it, such a little bitty piece of paper, desperate to find it, that little tiny scrap of paper…. Rummaging, I tossed aside the clinicappointment card and found myself holding Daddy’s obituary. His picture stared out at me. It was my favorite photograph, and taken by me on an autumn day as he leaned against the den radiator, sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. I kissed his image and got back into my car, locked the doors, reclined the bucket seat all the way back, and lay there, letting the bodily symptoms of grief encroach: burning sinuses, stinging eyes, aching chest. When I couldn’t bear my own pain, I sat up and gripped the steering wheel, shaking it ferociously and screaming: “How could you leave me? What am I supposed to fucking do now? What am I supposed to do? Daddy. How could you? How could you, Daddy?” I raged and cursed at my father, feeling betrayed, left in agony by a hit-and-run. Then I cried.
When it was all over, with my forehead throbbing as it pressed up against the steering wheel, I found it. The little piece of paper. Right there, in my lap. Fallen out of Daddy’s obituary. It read: Josie D. McHenry, 722 Barnett Street, Atlanta, Georgia. I slid Josie’s address into the sun visor. Yanking open my glove compartment, I pulled out my new road map, and the Polaroid of me and Josie fell to the car floor. I studied the map. Atlanta was directly below Detroit. A straight shot down I-75 South. I picked up the picture of us, examined it. There it was, smack dead in the middle of Josie’s face. Daddy’s beautiful pug nose. I tilted the rearview mirror, caught a peek at my profile—saw cried-out brown eyes and a Creole’s nose.
I turned the key in the ignition. As I shifted through neutral into reverse, the car purred. I pulled away from the hot green Pinto—its bumper dotted with white paint—shifted into first, wheeled out of the parking lot, and made a bold U-turn on Greenfield Road. Within minutes I was sliding onto the entrance ramp of the Chrysler Freeway. I pushed the stick past third into fourth and once out there in the full flow of traffic, crossed over to the fast lane, easing into fifth. My fingers turned on the radio, punching through stations until the song leaped out at me. Brandy you’re a fine girl what a goooood wife you would be but my life my love and my lady is the sea! I leaned back against the headrest and buckled up for safety. Random, familiar tunes coming through the airwaves like prophetic messages would guide me through Michigan, that long stretch of Ohio, across the Mason-Dixon line into Kentucky and right through to Georgia. My foot heavy on the gas, and with somewhere to go, I drove.
I dream that I am sitting in the quasi-funky intersection of Atlanta’s Little Five Points neighborhood with its vintage shops and old record stores and alternative newspaper bins, my sister, Josie, across from me at an outdoor café with the back-to-nature name Eat Your Vegetables. She is telling me about her memories of Daddy, and I am breast-feeding little Kimmie as I cradle her in the crook of my arm, intoxicated with my own escape. Southern sun shines.
I have sold my car, in love with mass transit.
Reading Group Guide
1. How does Rae’s discovery of her father’s other family impact her life? In what ways does her relationship with her father shape her life perspective as she matures? Is he a positive or a negative influence?
2. How does Aunt Essie’s presence in the house change Rae’s life? Is she a good mother figure? What are her shortcomings?
3. How does the author show intimacy between Rae and her father? How does Rae react when her father begins to withdraw as she grows older?
4. Much of the novel is centered on cars and driving. What does driving represent to Rae and her family? What do the cars they drive tell us about the various people in Rae’s life?
5. The novel takes place in Detroit during the heyday of Motown. What is the significance of music in the book? How does the author use it to define different characters?
6. Rae’s father is uneven with his love and affection. In what ways does he treat Rae differently from Kimmie? How does his treatment of Rae change throughout the novel? What are the reasons for this change?
7. How does Kimmie’s death impact the dynamics of the relationships in the household? Who is affected most by the tragedy?
8. What is the significance of the title, and how does it connect to the main characters’ lives? By the end of the novel, which characters have “shifted through neutral”?
9. What has Rae overcome by the end of the book? Has she adequately exorcised the issues she has with her father, or are there more things with which she must come to terms? Has she matured?
Acknowledgments
This novel evolved over time, and along the way an array of people helped me keep the faith. Many thanks to members of Dark Body Writers’ Collective past and present, for listening to endless versions of this work; Tom Jenks, for mentoring guidance and incisive instruction; Carol Edgarian, for sage insights offered gently; Bert Baisden, for giving me new ways to approach old material; Amanda Insall and Lizzy Streitz, for being the best writer friends a girl could ever have; John McGregor, for priceless advice offered freely; David Tager, for reading early drafts of an unwieldy manuscript; Michele Blackwell, for unwittingly giving me the courage to write about my hometown; members of Joan Silber’s Spring ’98 Fiction Workshop, for timely encouragement; my agent, Neil Olson, for his deft blend of literary sensibility and savvy know-how; my editor, Dawn L. Davis, for effusive support coupled with an exacting eye, and her editorial assistant, Darah Smith, for making everything easier; Lula Mae Isom, for helping me to remember; my husband, Rob, for unwavering, long-haul belief in me; my son, Tyler, for inspiration…
And to each of my loved ones, for having lived.
About the Author
BRIDGETT M. DAVIS is an Associate Professor of English at Baruch College, w
here she teaches creative writing and journalism. A graduate of Spelman College and Columbia University, she is the director of the awardwinning film Naked Acts.
www.shiftingthroughneutral.com
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Praise for Shifting Through Neutral
“Vivid and heartbreaking…. A riveting family drama filled with sharplydrawn individuals who love and fail each other with stunning intensity.”
—Booklist
“There is a strange, compelling sweetness to the sorrow in this book, a poignancy that cuts incisively through the tender tissue of family love…. A wonderful and unique story of a father and his daughter.”
—Elizabeth Strout, author of Amy and Isabelle
“Davis’s characters are so sharply defined that you imagine she must be writing them from memory…. A tender telling that made me long for myown father.”
—Africana.com
“Bridgett Davis’s lyrical language is addictive and haunting. This beautiful coming-of-age story will assuredly capture many hearts.”
—Trisha R. Thomas, author of Would I Lie to You?
“The author’s prose is poignant, like a strong left hook…. Sad, butendearing…written with precision and skill.”
—Atlanta Daily World Celebration of Books
“Shifting Through Neutral is a beautifully rendered story by a writer to watch. The setting and characters are so familiar yet largely absent in contemporary fiction, particularly the father, JD—although there is one in every black neighborhood. I adored him and will remember him for a very long time.”
—Benilde Little, author of Acting Out and Good Hair
“A complex first novel.”
—Essence
“Shifting Through Neutral is a vibrant, deeply felt journey through a young woman’s coming-of-age and coming to understand her father. Hop in—this novel is a ride well worth taking. Bridgett Davis understands the rules of the road.”
—Martha Southgate, author of The Fall of Rome
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SHIFTING THROUGH NEUTRAL. Copyright © 2007 by Bridgett M. Davis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JANUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061856686
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