"I think I'll stay up here in the kitchen," Cy said as Lydia stopped in the middle of the basement stairs.
"You're sure you don't want to take anything else?"
"I shouldn't." His voice had a slant of humility, as if staying upstairs was the honorable thing to do.
Lydia couldn't tell if he was trying to be generous by allowing her to keep his discarded projects or if he just didn't care enough to take them off her hands.
She fetched the lens off the shelf and brought it up to the kitchen. Cy took it out of its case and looked it over, twisted off the 3 5-millimeter lens and fitted the zoom in its place, then tested it out. He panned around the kitchen, moved up to the large window at the back, aimed the camera at the garden outside. He looked out onto the patio. "I forgot how nice the lilacs are here."
"Yes, they're my favorite." It was strange to be carrying on a conversation like this, and Lydia wondered what Cy was doing here.
"You have tulips, too."
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.
"Maybe some water."
She filled a glass with tap water and placed it on the kitchen table, then sat down. "You know, the Nomad's still in the garage. Do you want me to give that away, too?"
"It's your car, Lydia. You could probably get a pretty penny if you sold it." He came back to the table. "Thanks." He sat down and sipped the water. For the first time, Lydia noticed his wedding ring. For thirty-three years he had worn a plain gold band, and she wondered what he had done with it. His new ring was large and platinum, etched with a faintly Celtic design. He fiddled with the camera's shutter release. "I've been thinking about getting into nature photography. All those desert flowers and cacti. It should be amazing."
"What do you mean?"
"The place we bought is about fifty miles northwest of the city, near El Mirage—an easy trip to the mountains. The light out there is supposed to be spectacular."
Lydia leaned back in her chair and looked directly at Cy for the first time that day, into his unfocusing eyes. "You're moving?" she asked.
"The kids didn't tell you?"
"No, the kids didn't tell me."
"Huh. I assumed they would." Cy looked genuinely surprised.
She crossed her arms and held her elbows, as if they were wings she was trying to bind.
"Yes, we're moving to Arizona. Right after the honeymoon. Most of our stuff is already tagged or in boxes. We should be settled there by June." He slipped the camera into its case. "I thought you already knew."
"Well, I didn't."
"Ellen and I both got jobs at the phone company. It just made more sense. Except for college she's lived in Detroit her whole life, and so have I, pretty much. We thought we'd try a new adventure."
Lydia could feel the blood rush to her face. So this explained Jessica's sweetness, her courtesy in the final hours of her visit. Better take care of Mother. Boy, is Mom going to take this hard—all alone now, no reliable help for miles. Lydia hated nothing more than being pitied. And now she felt foolish that no one had told her about this. Foolish and furious with her children, Jessica most of all. Did they think that she couldn't handle the news? Then why did they leave her to find out on her own?
Cy checked his watch. "About that favor." Lydia tensed. What next, she wondered. "I'm not sure if the kids told you about Ellen's parents, Casper and M.J.? They're delightful people—Casper worked his whole career at Ford, might have known your dad, as a matter of fact. Anyway, they're taking all this very hard—the move, I mean—much harder than we thought. Ellen's an only child. You know how that goes. They live in Royal Oak, and I wondered if we couldn't get you all together."
"What do you mean, exactly?" Lydia asked.
"You know, I thought you could meet them, check in on them every once in a while."
"You're joking, right?"
Cy looked a little sheepish. "Well, no."
"They must have friends in the area."
"Of course they do. This is for me. I feel responsible, that's all. It would mean a lot."
Here was a new twist, Lydia thought. Cy felt responsible for once in his life, so he was calling upon his ex-wife to soften the blow for his new wife's parents. What a fine arrangement! He wanted her to take care of his in-laws. "Well, this is something, all right," she managed to say. "Sure. Go ahead. I'll give them a call."
"Great. That's wonderful. I really appreciate it." Cy took out a pen and wrote the Spiveys' number on the back of one of his Michitel business cards, then stood up from the table. "I should go." He handed her the card, then rubbed his hands together. "We have a million things to do before tomorrow."
"Of course." Lydia followed him to the door, where he stopped and held his arms out. "You've been a great support." He hugged her, his loose shirt soft against her arms.
"So this is it?" she said.
"Hardly. This is our city. We'll be back all the time."
"Well, enjoy Phoenix."
But he was out the door without another word—not even we'll be in touch. He probably believed that she wished him well. Down the steps he went, into his shiny car. And with a wave out the window, he was gone.
Upstairs, Lydia lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She thought of Phoenix, that ready-made city, thought of her kids now torn between there and here. Where would they go for Christmas? How often would she see them now? Half as much? One time a year? Already she saw them so seldom. She wondered what enticements Cy and Ellen would lay before the children. Free flights. Sunshine and swimming pools.
From Lydia's office, the phone rang and Jessica's voice floated over from the answering machine. "Mom? Are you there? Hello. Hello. If you're there, come talk to me."
Lydia got up and hurried to the phone. "Hello."
"Hi, Mom. What's wrong? You sound weird."
"It's been one of those afternoons. Guess who I ran into today."
"Who?"
"Your father, as a matter of fact."
Jessica paused, then said, "I've been meaning to tell you—"
"No, let me finish," Lydia interrupted.
"We were going to tell you after the wedding. It just wasn't right. We were shocked."
"I don't think so." Lydia was starting to feel hysterical.
"We were. We had no idea how you would react. We hardly had time to react ourselves."
"Isn't that the problem? It's always us and you. We had no idea how you would react. Why does it have to be that way? Why the separation? When I created this family I expected us to be great, which meant we had to bond together. What kind of a family is this, all stretched out to the far points of the globe? You wanted to leave me out, didn't you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You always leave me out. Don't you think you've isolated me enough, Jessica?"
"We weren't isolating you."
Lydia was thinking two could play at this game. If you're going to isolate me, I can isolate you as well. Walter was right: everyone needs a secret life. Perhaps that had been the problem all along.
"A family that goes around whispering, keeping others in the dark, is not a family," she said. "How would you like it if I had news that I kept to myself? That's called betrayal. Plain and simple."
"We were trying to protect you."
"Well, I don't need protecting," Lydia said, and in spite of how hard she was trying to hold herself together, she hung up.
Jessica called back right away, but Lydia let the machine answer. She walked away from the phone, glimpsed the photograph of her wedding bouquet, and grabbed it off the wall. She went to the back of her closet and gathered up her old wedding dress, which for some crazy reason she'd brought down from the attic the week before. Jessica was still pleading for her to answer the phone.
Down in the basement, Lydia found a half-empty box in Cy's shop of discarded projects, and stuffed the picture and her wedding dress inside. Grabbing the packing tape from the shelf, she felt an odd rush, almost as if she needed to have
that secret she'd been thinking about—and right away. She sealed the box, and considered mailing the whole package to Cy, a housewarming gift. She wondered whether her children had enjoyed keeping their secret from her.
She went back upstairs to her office, where she signed on to her e-mail.
Dear [email protected],
We met the other day at the museum in Ypsilanti. You might recall that we talked about Preston Tucker. I was interested in what you had to say, so I signed on to your web site this afternoon, which led me to the chat room of drive.com. That was quite a lively discussion! As an industry-watcher, I'd be interested to hear more about your plans.
Yours sincerely,
Lydia Modine
She read her note over and deleted her last name. He had looked like a perfectly gentle aging hippie, though, and he might prove useful for her research. She typed out her last name again, read the message over. What could be the harm? And with that, she pressed "Send."
Later that afternoon, sitting on the living room couch, she looked through the Tucker papers that Walter had copied for her. The top article, from the Detroit Free Press, covered an early appearance of the Tucker prototype at a parade in Detroit in early 1948. Under the headline COULD THIS BE THE CAR OF TOMORROW? Tucker waved from the window of his car, his bow tie slightly askew. Over his shoulder, his wife flashed her best Jane Wyatt smile. Vera Tucker, the article went on to say, couldn't wait to see her husband's car available for every American, especially in her favorite color: waltz gown blue.
Beneath the first article were advertisements and newspaper clippings, a random sampling of Tucker history. Though Lydia had come across much of this material before, it seemed worth reading again. Here was the same ad that hung on her office wall of her father's early design—"more like a Buck Rogers special than the automobiles we know today"—plus other ads for the '47 and '48 proposed models. Each looked less and less like a "torpedo" and more like a streamlined family sedan. Lydia remembered her father's frustrations with Tucker, who couldn't decide whether the focus should be on speed or safety.
She looked through the articles: a couple of early briefs mentioning her dad when the design was still "shrouded in mystery"; a big story in the Chicago Tribune covering the launch of the first actual prototype in late 1947, not long after Gilbert had left for GM; another in the New York Times about Tucker's approved purchase of an assembly plant in Chicago, the biggest one in the world, where he planned to build his car once the financing came through. Underneath all this was a transcript of the famous broadcast announcing that an investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission "would blow the new Chicago auto firm higher than a kite."
Lydia knew that this broadcast, by the respected newsman Drew Pearson, in June 1948, had been the first and most devastating setback for Tucker. It had been known within the company that the government was looking into its books and records, but SEC officers had promised that the investigation would remain secret so long as Tucker complied. But someone had apparently leaked the information to the press, and immediately after the broadcast, public confidence in Tucker collapsed. Lydia checked the articles for any indication of the source of the leak. But she found nothing, certainly no proof that anyone in the Big Three had been involved.
She got up from the couch and put the clippings into a new folder marked Tucker/Dad, then filed it in her office with her latest research. She thought of what her father had said, that those theories were "nothing but applesauce." If there had been anything to them, surely Lydia would have known by now.
Toward dusk Lydia sat outside at the patio table, sipping a glass of red wine. Surrounded by the sounds of zoo birds and crickets, she let her mind wander from conspiracy theories to Norm himself. There had been something exciting about sending him an e-mail this afternoon. Sure, Norm was a rabble-rouser and not exactly her type, but she had this rare feeling that here she was, waiting for a man to pursue her. There'd been no waiting with Cy. The very day they'd reunited at the Brown Jug, he had called to ask if she would like to see Butterfield 8 at the Michigan Theater that evening. He admitted to having a crush on Elizabeth Taylor—"Meow," he'd said. In the days that followed, they saw each other again and again, falling into a comfortable routine, as if the whole affair had been prearranged. Theirs was less a romance than a pairing, and it had remained that way throughout their marriage.
But on this particular spring evening, Lydia let herself imagine Norm as that companion who steadily burned the days with his work, came into the kitchen to cut vegetables, pour wine, and sit kitty-corner at the table, where they'd talk until late.
She picked up her glass and went inside, sliding the door behind her. Upstairs, she checked her e-mail again, and, on her screen, as if she had wished it there, was a message:
Dear Lydia Modine,
Imagine my surprise to open my e-mail and find a note from you. You hardly have to be so formal. I know who you are. I've read your books. If I'd known you were the Lydia of Together on the Line and The Magic Motorway I would have talked your ear off at the museum. I do have a bone to pick with you, though: I could have used a little help on that message board. Next time I crash a party will you be my date?
I'd love to hear what you're working on next. Nobody has handled such important subjects with as much grace. You truly showed why "I" is the first letter in "Interstate." The most massive public works project in human history proved just how destructive the myth of American individualism has always been.
But I won't step up to the pulpit now. My recently ex-wife used to tell me that I never know when to stop preaching. A couple of questions: are you still living in the same place? It says here under the picture that you live in Detroit with your three children. What do you think of the city these days? Is the latest renaissance showing any promise?
Would love to chat.
With admiration,
Norm
Lydia stood up and leaned over her chair, wondering about the words will you be my date? Her ex-husband was about to fly away to Phoenix, and now, out of the noplace of the Internet, here was a note from a stranger suggesting—friendship? Company? I know who you are. I've read your books.
Lydia had received her share of letters, mostly praise and the occasional critique, but never something like this. Would love to chat.
She looked out the window toward her front yard. The dogwood wavered in the breeze. Reading back over the e-mail, and seeing the invitation half buried in his words—my recently ex-wife—Lydia. felt a flutter of possibility.
She found the number for Uncle Ed's in her wallet, picked up the phone and dialed.
The manager answered, "Hello, sweetheart."
Lydia paused. Had a love bomb detonated over southeast Michigan, and she was the last to know about it? "I was wondering if Marty was there?" she asked. "I'm the one whose car broke down in your parking lot."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Thought you were my wife. We closed a couple of hours ago. I'm doing the books, running late for dinner."
"So Marty has left?"
"Yeah, he's long gone. Can I leave him a message?"
"I've been thinking about it," Lydia said. "And I'd like to sell him my car."
"You sure? That beautiful Escort? It's just sitting out there saying 'Take me home.'"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Well, I'll pass on the message."
"I appreciate that."
"And sorry about answering the phone that way. I could have sworn you were my wife. That woman is like clockwork. As soon as we hang up, I'll bet you she calls."
"I don't mind," Lydia said, which was true. It had been a long time since a man had called her sweetheart. "If you could tell Marty I'm sending him the title, I think we have a deal."
She got the address for Uncle Ed's plus Marty's last name, which was none other than Rose. She hung up the phone and dug out the Escort file, wrote a quick note, and signed a letter passing ownership of the car from herself to Marty Rose. She wouldn't even bother to
wait for the check.
She went outside and walked down to the end of the block, where her neighborhood met the fence line of the zoo. A mailbox sat there, and beyond it Lydia could see the shelf of rocks and man-made caves where the sea lions often gathered to sun themselves, though none were there now in the day's disappearing light. She opened the creaky mouth of the mailbox, slipped the letter in, and listened to make sure that it slid to the bottom.
11
LYDIA WAS SURPRISED by how much willpower it took not to write Norm back immediately. She drafted a letter and revised it over the course of the evening, tinkering with every word:
Dear Norm,
Many thanks for your note. How nice it is to know that community does still exist—at least the community of ideas. In the motor city, as you might imagine, I have to proceed with caution when expressing my views.
Yes, I'm a Detroiter, born and raised. Little has changed—this is still the city of tomorrow. But I love it and have lived here all my life. I'm no longer married, only to my work. I'm more or less the same person in the photograph, only the bio has changed. My three kids have scattered east and west. I wish it were temporary.
Where do you live? Do you have children? Are you on the design or the engineering side of car-building? And why the interest in Preston Tucker? Might you be the next incarnation?
Always nice to find an ally in this world.
Sincerely,
Lydia
After debating whether to send the message, Lydia decided to wait until the morning. She saved the letter in her draft file in a new folder called Norm. Crawling into bed, she wondered if he lived in Ypsilanti. Tucker himself had lived there in the early 1940s, and though it was hard to merge the two characters in her mind—one a bow-tied salesman, the other a ponytailed activist—that's what Lydia was inclined to do. Maybe Norm was a scientist or an architect, an environmentalist or a designer. She pictured him hunched over a drafting table, working out the details of his own prototype. She lay there imagining what it would be like to have Norm living here in her house, setting up his shop out back, filling the empty space of her bed.
Drives Like a Dream Page 11
