No Right Turn

by Terry Trueman

  But there’s something about my dad that’s bugged me ever since he died. On the day of Dad’s funeral, afterward, everybody came back to our house to sit around and drink punch and eat cookies and try and pretend that everything was going to be okay. I couldn’t stand it, so I left the living room, where a lot of people were sitting and standing around. The kitchen was just as crowded. I didn’t know where to hide until I spotted the closed door to Dad’s office. I didn’t want to go back in there, I really didn’t, but I knew that it would give me some privacy. And truthfully, something weird pounded in my head—a strange feeling of being pulled toward that closed door and then on into the room. So that’s where I went.

  It was already all cleaned up; some of Mom’s friends from the hospital, other nurses, had taken care of it. I took a slow breath and started looking around. Pretty soon I started snooping through Dad’s stuff.

  Most of the things I’d seen a million times. But in the bottom drawer of his big oak desk, hidden under a pile of old bills and manila folders, and I mean really hidden, like it was a secret porno stash, I found a stack of magazines and books. I looked at the dates on them and they went back for years. There were dozens of them: hot-rod magazines, boating magazines, hang gliding, flying, and skydiving, all these magazines and books that I’d never seen before. One of the books was called Sports Car Color History, Corvette 1968–1982.

  Why did my dad have all this crap? Why did he hide it? What good was any of this to him since he’d never skydived, hang glided, owned a boat or a hot rod? And if my dad had hated ’Vettes so much, like he always sounded when we saw one, why did he have a book about them? I glanced at the magazines and thumbed through a few of the books, but I didn’t stay in there very long; the room gave me the creeps. I put everything back where I’d found it and got out.

  So when Don Lugar showed up at our house driving his Corvette, I wondered what Dad would have thought about it. What would Dad have thought about a guy who actually had a real show-off car, hitting on Mom?

  Don’s taller than my dad was; he dresses just like most older guys—kind of dorky. Now he looks up and says, “Hi, Jordan, how you doin’?” like we’re already old pals or something.

  “Not bad.” I pause, I want to just keep walking, I want to ignore Don, but I can’t stop staring at his car.

  I haven’t ever had a chance to really look at a Corvette up close before.

  I ask, “What year?”

  Don says, “It’s a 1976.”

  1970s Stingrays have that long, sleek Coke bottle shape—high curved fenders over the wheels, low to the ground. Don’s has what looks like a custom paint job, white on top and a teal blue-green all along the lower section.

  Almost against my will, I walk over to where Don wipes a soft cloth over the shiny hood. The closer I get, the prettier the car is. The white upper body is metallic, kind of cream colored with little flecks of silver in it. The windows are tinted dark, smoky gray, almost black. The tires are big, wider than the tires on normal cars, and there are bright chrome hubs.

  I blurt out, “Man …” but then shut up, managing not to suck up too much.

  I mean, I could care less whether Don likes me or not, in fact I hope he doesn’t—I’m just having this weird reaction to the car.

  He smiles. Don moved into our neighborhood about a year ago, bought the Andersons’ house on the east side of Northridge Road—the view side. It’s a large, family-type home, but he lives there alone and keeps to himself. I had spoken to Don maybe two or three minutes in the whole year he’s lived three houses away from ours, right up to the day he came to pick up Mom for their date. Truthfully, I wouldn’t say more than “hi” right now if it weren’t for the Corvette.

  But the car is so beautiful, so sleek and powerful looking that it seems to call me over to it. All those times my dad put down cool cars, I’d never thought much about it—until now. Realizing I’m being kind of rude, I hesitate before staring into the windows, which are tinted too dark for me to see inside anyway—rude or not, I can’t stop myself. I’ve gotta see more.

  Don says, “Open the door if you want to take a look.”

  I don’t even answer; I just swing the heavy door open. The interior is outlaw black.

  “Cool,” I say softly, talking to myself.

  Don laughs. “Yeah, she’s my baby.”

  “Is it as fast as it looks?”

  Don says, “She was built back when there were more stringent emission controls, so she’s no monster. But compared to everything else built in ’76, she could hold her own. Plus I’m doing some tweaking here and there, juicing her up. So, yeah, she’s plenty fast.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not really understanding what he’s talking about.

  “You wanna go for a spin?” he asks.

  Like I mentioned before, I’ve been pretty much out of it since my dad died. What’s Don thinking? That he can win me over just by taking me for a ride?

  I look at the car again and can’t stop myself from asking, “Really?” I feel weird.

  Don smiles again. “Every guy in the world who buys a ’Vette is dying to show her off.”

  I ask, “Where?”

  “Just a quick run up onto the prairie. I’ll show you what she can do.”

  My dad would have disapproved, would have warned me against taking such a chance. Dad never took a chance in his life, ever! Then again, what good did that do him?

  Before I know I’m going to say it, I hear words flying out of my mouth, “Sure, let’s go.”

  I glance at his license plate:

  I wonder, Who the hell is Nos?

  I shouldn’t be doing this, I think as I climb into the Corvette and buckle up. If Don Lugar thinks he can buy me off this easy, he’s dumber than he looks.

  But what the hell.

  TWO

  He fires the engine, and a soft rumble, deep and powerful, vibrates through my whole body. I’ve never heard or felt anything like it before.

  We back out of the driveway.

  As we move forward, it’s like we’re bumping over the surface. This car is nothing like my mom’s Honda or any of the other newer rigs in which I’ve ever ridden. Riding in the Stingray is like being strapped onto the back of an animal, maybe an oversized cheetah. It feels like the car has a mind of its own. It’s taking us for a ride, not the other way around.

  We reach the stop sign at the end of our street.

  “You ready?” Don asks.

  I’m not sure what he means, but I answer, “Sure.”

  Don cranks it through the turn, and then he punches it.

  The jolt is unlike any rush I’ve ever felt before. The car shoots forward, and the back of my head slams against the tall bucket seat. A roar replaces the soft animal rumble.

  I glance at the speedometer and notice that it isn’t working, but in only a few seconds we’re flying. I grab the black vinyl handle on the door. A hundred yards ahead is a sharp curve, a ninety-degree turn to the left where Cedar Road turns into Strong Road. As we get closer to it, I squeeze the door grip even harder.

  Don barely eases off the gas as the ’Vette screams into the turn.

  Everything moves incredibly fast. In half a second we’re through the curve and pounding along the straight stretch ahead of us.

  I start to ease my hold on the door grip when Don guns it again. In a few seconds we’re going really fast. The rush is incredible: the rumble of the engine, the deep vibration of the car, the way that every bump and dip in the road registers through my feet and legs and ass.

  Trying not to sound too scared, I say, “We must be going a hundred.”

  Don glances down at the tachometer on the dashboard and says, “Oops … more like a hundred and ten.”

  He immediately backs off the gas and smiles over at me. “Sorry about that.... She kinda likes to go.”

  I say, “No, this is great.”

  As the ’Vette slows down, he asks, “Is she fast enough for you?”

  I laugh
and answer sarcastically, “I guess.”

  Don laughs too. “You like it?”

  I don’t hesitate. “I love it.” Then I ask, “Is your speedometer broken?”

  Don says, “Yeah, I’m waiting on a part for it, a new head. But you can tell your speed by the tach. Every line mark on the tach is a hundred rpms, which equals five miles per hour … a thousand rpms is fifty miles per hour, fifteen hundred rpms is seventy-five miles per hour, and so on.”

  “And we were going a hundred and ten?”

  “Yep, pretty close to that.”

  Unable to stop myself, I ask, “Did you drive like this when my mom was with you?”

  Don laughs out loud. “Shit no!”

  I laugh too.

  We cruise on for a ways at a more sane speed, not even talking. Although only five miles north of Spokane, the prairie is mostly fields and pastures and old farmhouses, horses, a few cows. It feels like we’ve gone backward in time. I wonder if my dad, who grew up a few miles from this same neighborhood on Spokane’s north side, ever flew down Strong Road at 110 mph. I can’t imagine it.

  Don suddenly asks, “You wanna drive her?”

  I feel a jolt of adrenaline. “Me? Drive? I’ve never driven a car like this.”

  Don, I think teasing me, says, “No kidding? Well, there’s always a first time. You drive your mom’s Honda, right?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, not mentioning that Mom’s Honda has nothing to do with this Stingray—they’re not just different machines from different times, they’re in different universes.

  A few seconds later Don pulls over to the side of the road, onto the dirt parking strip. There are no other cars in sight.

  A rush of crummy thoughts races through my head again. Why would this guy let me drive his cool car? What’s he want from me? These thoughts aren’t in my dad’s voice, but they might as well be. Does Don think that he’s going to take my dad’s place? The last thing I need is another dad—the last thing I need is to go through something like that again....

  I try to push these thoughts away as we trade seats and I grip the steering wheel.

  Don says, “When you feel comfortable, just slip the gearshift into drive, the top D, and ease the accelerator down. We don’t want to throw any gravel—this is a fiberglass body.”

  I pause, trying to get comfortable. After a few seconds, finally, I put the shifter into drive. My foot still on the brake, I’m surprised how cool and calm I feel. I check both directions. The coast is clear, and I ease out onto Strong Road.

  My dad would not approve!

  Of course, that makes this even better.

  Back in Don’s driveway, I get out of the car and close the door behind me. Don climbs out too.

  I look over at him. “That was pretty incredible. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  For some reason I don’t like the sound of him saying the word “pleasure.” It’s stupid of me, I know he’s just being polite; still, something about it feels weird. Pleasure … Mom … yuck!

  But something else bothers me even more, something I hope Don can’t see in my face. As I look back at the Stingray, studying the car’s long, sleek body, I know I have to drive it again—I’ve gotta feel that rush I felt going over a hundred miles an hour, even though I know that Don would never let me drive it that fast.

  “I’ll see you, Don,” I say. “And thanks again for the ride. It’s a great car.”

  He smiles, “You’re welcome. Come by anytime.”

  As I reach the street, I yell back to him, “By the way, the keys are in it.”

  Don, maybe absentmindedly, maybe just distracted, answers, “I park her in the garage, so I always leave the keys in her in case of a fire or something—she’d be the first thing I’d save.”

  I think, The keys are always in her, huh? Is that right?

  Maybe there is a way I can go 110 again—maybe there’s a way I can drive that fast all by myself!

  THREE

  When Mom gets home from work, the first thing she asks is what she always asks: “How was school?”

  Of course, school’s an ancient memory—I’m still thinking about Corvette Stingrays, about going 110 mph on the prairie. Mentioning that little detail, the 110 mph thing, doesn’t seem like the best way to start this conversation. Still, I have to say something about it.

  “I saw Don Lugar. He was out working on his ’Vette.”

  “That’s nice,” Mom says, pretending that she isn’t paying much attention.

  “I mean, it’s the most beautiful car I’ve ever seen.”

  Mom glances over at me and laughs. “I know,” she says, all excited. “It is fun, isn’t it?” She pauses and smiles again and puts her hand up against my face. “You don’t think you’re getting a Corvette anytime real soon, do you, honey? I mean, when you’re older, you can—”

  I interrupt, laughing, “Yeah, right! But he gave me a ride in it.”

  Mom asks, “He gave you a ride? In the ’Vette? Really?”

  She sounds so silly. I had hoped her reaction would be more like mine—kind of a mix of suspicion and criticism—at least a little bit annoyed that Don was trying too hard to impress me. Instead she sounds so flippin’ happy.

  I hate how she asked, “In the ’Vette?” Like she’s all into the lingo now?

  I’m not too surprised, though. Frankly, Dad always had the “common sense” in our family—Mom always had more fun.

  I say, “We just cruised up to the prairie, a short ride, ten minutes or so. He said he wanted to show me what the car was like. We went for a quick spin.”

  Mom, sounding slightly more sane again, asks, “Did you like it?”

  I admit, “Oh, yeah. It was wayyy cool.”

  “And Don didn’t mind showing it to you?” She’s still obviously happy. I’m getting more and more annoyed.

  I just say, “No.”

  Mom says, “Well, that’s nice. I’m glad you had fun, honey; I’m glad you and Don are getting to know each other. And if he wanted to show you the car, I guess there’s no harm done.” She hesitates a second and then says, “I’m glad to see you excited about something....” She stops herself from saying more, but I know what she’s thinking; she’s relieved to see me enjoying anything at all.

  I think about my insane need to get behind the wheel of the ’Vette again.

  I think about Mom’s words: “No harm done.”

  I smile to myself.

  FOUR

  If I had to name my closest friend at school, where I don’t actually have any close friends, I’d say it’s Wally Britton. I think this is because he’s, maybe, almost as much of a social misfit as me. He has funky red hair, real wavy, like curly fries soaked in ketchup, and he’s kind of skinny and wears old hippie-frame glasses when he doesn’t have his contacts in. He carries a cell phone in a little leather case, clipped to his belt, and I’ve never, not once, ever seen him use it. For all I know it could be fake.

  When my dad died and I was in middle school, like I mentioned, I got rid of all my friends, but I met Wally at the start of high school. He’d gone to a different middle school than me, and when I told him that my dad had died (not how he’d died, just that he was dead) and that I didn’t like to talk about it, Wally said that was cool—he didn’t want to talk about it either. You could say that Wally is empathy impaired. Still, being as out of it as I’ve been for these last three years, it’s useful to know someone who still circulates on the edge of the real world.

  I call Wally and tell him about riding in Don’s ’Vette.

  “He’s the guy who’s trying to get into yer mom’s pants, isn’t he?” Wally asks.

  Great minds think alike (then again, so do moronic, perverted ones).

  I answer, “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what he wants. What I do know is that I’m gonna drive the Corvette again.”

  “What do you mean?” Wally asks. “Is this Don guy into some kind of Big Brothers trip with you now? Aren’t you a little old for t
hat?” He laughs.

  I say, “No, Wally. Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m gonna find some way to drive that car again—even if I have to sneak it out.”

  “Sneak it out,” Wally says with a real sarcastic tone. “You mean steal it. Good plan,” he adds, even more sarcastically. “Do you know what days are reserved for prison visitations?”

  Sometimes Wally can be pretty annoying.

  Two weeks later, to the day, I’m ready to steal Don Lugar’s Corvette.

  Wally’s right; that’s what it is, grand theft auto. I don’t care.

  I tell myself that sneaking the car out for a joyride isn’t really stealing, since I plan to bring it back. Of course, if I get caught, who’ll believe me? I tell myself that stealing it is partly Don’s own fault, for letting me drive such an incredible car in the first place (how’s a guy supposed to drive a Honda after that?) and for interfering with Mom’s and my fragile, crappy lives. Plus, why should Mom get to move on when I don’t even have a life? I know this is mostly bull, but it’s what I feel. So Don isn’t innocent in this—that’s what I tell myself.

  There’s something else, too, though—something bigger than all these other excuses. The truth is that going 110 mph that day on the prairie was the first time since Dad died where I did not feel like … well … like some kind of zombie.

  After that ride in Don’s ’Vette, after I drove the car, whenever I get home from school, and he’s out cleaning or tinkering with it, I always stop by and we b.s. I ask about the car, but not too much; I don’t want him to get suspicious. Mostly we talk about nothing: the weather, neighborhood gossip, nothing important. He never asks anything personal about me, and I don’t ask about him either. We don’t talk about my mom too much, even though they’ve gone out a few more times—movies, dinners, rides in his car. The only personal thing he’s mentioned is that he was divorced years ago, before he moved into our neighborhood.