Drives Like a Dream

by Porter Shreve

  Casper and Jessica laughed.

  "Don't you worry about that," Gisele said, sounding patronizing. "We've arranged some drivers for you."

  "Oh, thank you, dearest," M.J. replied, and winked at Jessica.

  Reverend MacPherson came up to them then, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, and shook each person's hand. "So happy you could come," he said, with his air of pleasant all-knowingness.

  "Can I borrow you two for a moment?" He turned to Ivan and Gisele. "Excuse us, please."

  "That minister is a horse's ass, but God bless him." M.J. started toward the lakeside, where people were gathering for pictures. She steered Casper in front of her. "What is it about the clergy, the police, and anyone who wears a uniform? You can't trust their motives."

  Jessica followed along. "So, I've been wondering. I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but you don't seem especially thrilled about the wedding."

  M.J. stopped and turned so she could look Jessica in the eye. "I admire your asking. But I'm sworn to secrecy, dear." She kissed Jessica on each cheek. "You'll understand sooner than you'd wish why a mother might have mixed feelings on a day like this."

  5

  AN OVERPOWERING SMELL of rubber and engine oil floated over from Uncle Ed's garage as Lydia stepped out of the Escort. She slammed the door shut, trying to assure herself that the car was fixable. Her focus had always been on the history of automobiles, not the intricacies of their engines.

  She walked into the first open bay of the garage, and a crew of mechanics looked up, surprised. Over the loud tock-tock of an oil gun counting its measure, she explained how the wheel had tightened up, how the gauge had fallen so quickly.

  "Sounds like an alternator problem," offered one guy in a shirt with cut-off sleeves. A toothpick moved in his mouth as he talked.

  "Nah, it's the battery," shouted another.

  Soon the whole team came outside to look under the hood of the Escort, each giving the engine a cursory once over.

  "It may seem like the battery, but that's what happens when the alternator's shot," said the one with the toothpick.

  "I'll give you four hundred dollars for it," came a voice from the pit. "The repairs on that thing will be more than it's worth."

  The manager had come out to take a look, too. He was someone who looked older than his years, Lydia guessed. His face was leathery, his hair smoothed back. He closed the Escort's hood and said, "Saturdays get busy around here. Not much we can do today. But feel free to use the phone."

  In his office, he flipped through the yellow pages and slid his blackened fingers down to the listing of a nearby towing service. "This guy's the quickest in town—your only bet, really, if you want to get that thing on the road today." He left Lydia in the office and went back to the garage.

  She began to sit down on a padded stool, but when she put her hand on the chair, her fingers came up smeared with grease. No paper towels or tissue in sight; the whole place teemed with dirt. Frustrated, she wiped her fingers on her gray skirt, leaving two black lines on her hip, like mini tire tracks angling off.

  "Of course," Lydia said to herself, as an answering machine picked up at the towing service. She left her name and the number at Uncle Ed's, displayed in large brown type on a sign in front of her. She turned back to the phone book and began calling other towing services. No one had a truck available. The estimated wait was several hours. It was turning out to be, quite possibly, the longest day of her life.

  She went outside and leaned against the Escort. The heat of the asphalt mingled with the warm breeze of cars rushing by on Washtenaw Avenue. The digital clock at the Comerica across the street read 1:55. Nearly an hour into the wedding.

  There in front of her, almost beckoning across the four-lane road, was an Arby's. She hadn't eaten fast food in years, but on this day she suddenly craved it. She opened the front door of the car, slid her laptop under the passenger seat, and locked up. Then she hurried across Washtenaw, holding up the hem of her skirt.

  Once inside, she ordered a large roast beef sandwich, curly fries, and, though it was the last thing she needed right now, a large cup of coffee.

  "Do you want the horsey sauce or the Arby's sauce with that?" the pixyish woman behind the counter asked.

  "What do you mean 'horsey' sauce?" Lydia pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet.

  "It's like horseradish, ma'am."

  "Fine," Lydia said. "I'll have that." And before long she was sitting at a table by the front window, a paper napkin spread out on her lap. She ate some French fries and took a big bite of her roast beef sandwich. In front of the restaurant a cartoonish Arby's cowboy hat stood two stories tall, outlined with lights.

  She looked down at her lunch. Her eyes welled up and the tears came. Maybe she was a pathetic, lonely person. Maybe Jessica was right: Lydia expected too much of her family; her hopes were absurdly unrealistic. How else to explain how thirty-three years of marriage had ended here, with her eating a sandwich, soggy with horsey sauce, while her children were celebrating their father's new life.

  Pull it together, she thought to herself. She patted her eyes with the stiff napkins and got up to toss out the leftovers. In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, then soaped a paper towel to clean the grease tracks off her skirt. But the stains smeared, of course—the skirt was probably ruined.

  Davy had given her his cell phone number this morning, and though she'd promised herself she wouldn't use it, this did qualify as an emergency. She dug in her purse and found the slip of paper. She figured the service would have to be over by now. At the Arby's pay phone, Lydia took a deep breath and dialed.

  Davy answered on one ring, his voice cross. "What?"

  "There's been a problem," Lydia began.

  "Oh, Mom. I'm sorry. I was expecting Teresa. She's been driving me nuts."

  "Where are you, honey?"

  "You don't want to know," he said. "I'm driving Dad's car to a place in Birmingham called the Casual Cactus. The wedding was interminable, and Dad played a ridiculous song on the guitar."

  "He plays guitar?"

  "Apparently. And before the reception is over I'm sure he'll wrangle me in for a jam session."

  "Where's Jess?"

  He hesitated. "Oh, she's in another car. Listen, Mom, how about I call you back? I shouldn't be driving and talking on the cell."

  "Actually, I better call you—in about fifteen minutes?"

  "Fine," Davy said. "Talk soon."

  When Lydia returned to Uncle Ed's, the manager told her that the towing service had called and the guy was available if she buzzed him back within the next fifteen minutes. Lydia thanked him and said she just needed to get something from the glove compartment before calling.

  Sitting in the driver's seat of her broken-down Escort, she allowed the minutes to tick by. She wouldn't call the towing service, not until after she had spoken with Davy, she decided. He could save her a lot of money that way. But when Lydia went back to the garage and dialed Davy's cell phone, she got his voice mail. She tried several more times before he finally picked up.

  "Hey, Mom. We're just walking in to the reception now. What's going on?" He raised his voice over the noise of a crowd.

  This time Lydia did not delay. "My car broke down."

  "Jesus. Where are you?"

  "Ann Arbor."

  "Ann Arbor? What are you doing there?"

  "It's a long story." She caught herself. "Research."

  "Who is it?" Lydia overheard Jessica asking.

  "It's Mom," Davy said, and then Jessica was on the line.

  "What's the problem?"

  "The car died."

  There was a pause, just the din of the party in the background. Then, "Surprise, surprise. How perfect, Mother. What impeccable timing."

  Lydia felt her calm slipping. "Is it my fault that the car died, Jessica?"

  "I don't believe this."

  "Perhaps you'd like to speak with the manager at this lube shop wh
ere none of these mechanics know how to fix it."

  "You're amazing."

  "Don't talk to me that way."

  "Here we are, literally walking inside the restaurant to the reception and you call looking for a rescue. I honestly can't believe you sometimes."

  "Jessica, I swear to God—"

  "Maybe you'd like us to send Dad out there to fetch you."

  "That's not funny."

  "And you're calling from Ann Arbor. Taking a little drive down memory lane?"

  "Forget it. You just go ahead and shower your father with all the affection in the world on his special day." She heard her voice crack. "Why am I always expected to make the world perfect for those who can't help themselves?"

  "Those who can't help themselves? Look at you. Pulling a stunt like this?"

  With that, Lydia slammed down the phone.

  Why did her daughter hate her for caring? This morning had been fine. When had things gotten off track? Suit yourself, she thought. She would find her own way home. She had waited for eighteen months to see her kids. For this?

  Just then the phone rang. Lydia picked up without thinking.

  "Mom?"

  "Davy, how did you get this number?"

  "Caller ID. Listen, I'm sorry about Jess." He was whispering. "She was nearly in an accident on the way over. Her nerves are frayed."

  "Is she okay?"

  "She's fine."

  "What happened?"

  "I'll tell you later," he said.

  "Davy?" She could hear the panic in her voice, hoped he wouldn't notice.

  "I'm telling you she's fine, Mom. Has someone come to tow the car?"

  "I'm having a terrible time with that."

  "Why don't you not worry about the car for now. We'll be at the reception until six at the latest. Then we can come and get you."

  "I'll be okay," Lydia said. She was feeling better already. She hadn't meant to get upset with Jessica. It wasn't her fault that her father was remarrying.

  "No, we'll pick you up. I'm so sorry this happened." Davy's phone was breaking up. "You'll have to take a cab to a coffee shop or have a glass of wine at the Earle."

  Lydia knew that the last thing she wanted to do today was return to Arm Arbor. "I'll be at the car museum in Ypsi," she decided all of a sudden. It pleased her to think that she might actually be able to salvage this day.

  "If you go anywhere else, I'll leave the cell phone on buzz." And with that, Davy hung up.

  So her kids were going to pull through, after all. Cheered by this thought, Lydia retrieved her laptop, called a cab, and got the okay from the manager at Uncle Ed's to leave her car overnight. "We'll deal with it by the beginning of the week, I promise," she told him.

  "Don't forget Marty's standing offer," the manager reminded her. "Four hundred bucks—no fuss, no muss."

  Lydia remembered how, a few weeks after Cy had taken the job with Bobby Szoradi Ford more than fifteen years ago, Cy had surprised her with the Escort. "It's about time you switched from Chevy to Ford," he'd said. "I know it's not an LTD or a Lincoln, but I got a great deal and it's a fine little car."

  Lydia had never been sentimental about the Escort. It was a lousy old tin can, as her kids were quick to remind her. But perhaps, she thought now, holding on to the car had meant more to her than she'd realized.

  "Thanks for everything," Lydia said to the manager as the cab pulled up. "I'll think about that offer."

  It was in the cab, riding to Ypsilanti, that Lydia finally admitted it to herself: Cy was never coming back. Even if he wanted to return, she realized, there would no longer be a place for him. They had given what they could to each other. And now Lydia had to focus on getting back on track. Her children were coming to pick her up, and she had a few hours to work, to lose herself in something she knew well—her research, after all.

  Her history with Cy may have already been written. But she had another story—a hundred years of the car in America—that she knew she could study and, unlike the other, neatly revise.

  6

  THE CASUAL CACTUS was a Southwestern restaurant with dream catchers, Navajo blankets, and commercial art prints of desert monuments hanging on the walls. Jessica stood just inside the reception room, cross-examining her brother about his phone call. "You were talking to Mom, weren't you? I hope you didn't promise to drive out to get her. I wouldn't be surprised if she put peanut butter in the gas tank."

  "Don't be so harsh, Jess. How is she going to get home?"

  "I don't know. It's her problem. We've been telling her to junk that car for years." A waitress walked by, offering them a platter of grilled shrimp and red pepper skewers. Jessica helped herself to one. "You probably apologized for me, didn't you? What did you tell her? That I was having a terrible time at the wedding and not to take it personally? You always make up excuses so she feels better."

  "I said it didn't help your nerves that you've been driving with the Spiveys."

  Jessica pointed the skewer at her brother. "Don't blame the Spiveys. That last trip was a model in precision tandem driving. Mom is really going for it this time. She's probably wearing her wedding dress from 1965, expecting Dad to swoop into town, take her home, and start the whole dream over again."

  Davy gave a tired sigh. "Come on, Jess. You've got to stop projecting everything on Mom. We see her about twice a year."

  "Projecting? Don't get pop-psychy on me." Jessica folded the shrimp tail into a chili-pepper-printed napkin.

  "I'm going to get a drink, and I'd highly recommend that you do the same."

  While Davy went off to the bar, Jessica dropped the napkin into an empty wineglass on a side table and retreated to a quiet corner where she could scan the room. The wedding crowd seemed right at home in this Love Boat version of a Santa Fe restaurant. The wine, champagne, and margaritas were going around, and as people began to find their seats, the clubby atmosphere of the night before descended once again. A whoop went up as Ellen and Cy entered the room under a faux-adobe arch, then took their places at the front table alongside Gisele and the bridesmaids.

  Jessica joined Davy at the next table over with Ivan and the Spiveys, just to the side of the evening's entertainment, a one-man-karaoke show called the Rick Stoker Experience. When Jessica sat down, Rick Stoker reached over, flashed a smile, and handed her his business card: When a Band's Too Big and a DJ's Just Too Small.

  Davy leaned toward Jessica and whispered, "Somebody likes you."

  "Just what I need. A swinging, singing DJ."

  Rick introduced Mr. and Mrs. Spivey-Modine and cued up the first dance, which Jessica recognized with a cringe as Phil Collins's cover of "Groovy Kind of Love." As the couple swayed, Ellen pulled her husband toward her—no doubt to tie up his feet and hands, his knees and elbows. Cy had a habit of snapping his fingers when he danced, and at more than one party, Jessica had seen him trotting out strange moves as well—hands on hips, karate chop, wrist over wrist. Ellen was no fool, Jessica thought as she watched them dance close and slow. The song moved into its last bars, and the guests streamed onto the floor. Ellen helped her father to his feet, and Casper led her in a series of steps. No doubt sensing his audience, Rick sang Dean Martin's "Memories Are Made of This," Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight," then closed with Air Supply's "Two Less Lonely People in the World."

  Casper bowed to the crowd's applause, then followed M.J. around the room to greet their friends.

  After the Rick Stoker Experience turned off his microphone and left a CD of dinner music playing, Ivan said, "That was pure Velveeta."

  "Are you disrespecting my man?" Jessica asked. "He's got a velvety voice, and that's not all."

  A waiter brought their dinner plates: rolled chicken breast and a square of salmon; Mexican rice garnished with pico de gallo. "He's the perfect singer for Dad—a mimic, a follower, someone who buys the whole package, then claims that he invented it." Ivan took a fork and punctured the top of his chicken. A stuffing of pepper-jack cheese oozed from either si
de.

  "That sounds like the ideal consumer." Davy ran his finger over an ear of dried corn, part of the table's centerpiece. "Make the consumer believe that the product was designed especially for him—so much so that he feels like he created it."

  "Right," Jessica egged him on. She could tell that Davy was looking for a way to steer their brother off the subject of Cy.

  "Bring the consumer into the fold—that's the trick," Davy continued. "Teresa and I were just arguing about that. Did I tell you she's come to work for us?"

  "I thought she had been." Jessica took a bite of the salmon. Overcooked, of course.

  "She's full-time now."

  "That's great," Jessica said, though she was thinking it was a terrible idea.

  "I wouldn't say great, exactly. We were cramped before—five hundred square feet in Lakeview. Now Sanjay's put us in the same office at work. We're on each other like sweat." He paused to pick at his meal. "Every day I wonder what I've gotten myself into."

  "What are you talking about?" Ivan said. "You're a change insurgent. They'll be writing about you in fifty years."

  "What's a change insurgent?" Jessica asked.

  "Ask Davy—he's the dot-com survivor. I'm just the man in the gray flannel suit. Actually, I have no idea what a change insurgent is," Ivan said, then suddenly got up. "I have to go work on my speech."

  After Ivan left, Jessica turned to Davy, whose fork was raised. "He must be freaking out about that toast."

  "Well, anyway," Davy said. "About Lowball—basically, Teresa's freaking out, and I can't do anything right. Seems like yesterday we were flush, but today we can't cover payroll. I get quiet and she gets desperate. It's a bad combination."

  "But what happened to that buyer? I thought you almost cut a deal."

  "We did, too, but the guy was a flake. The fact is we're not selling a product, just information and research. Plus, we've made big promises as the 'lowest of the low.' People expect more than we can give them, which should be the truth right up to the minute. But at the moment we can't even offer that."