Drives Like a Dream

by Porter Shreve

  Lydia looked for an escape. The policeman and the young couple were staring at them now.

  "I see indoor stages and amphitheaters," Norm went on. "Detroit would become more than just a stop for the major acts. It would be a northern home for long-run shows."

  "People live in Detroit," she said now. "Have you considered that in your crazy scheme?" And right away she regretted asking another question.

  "I'm talking about jobs here. The Emerald City would lower unemployment dramatically. The people of Detroit would make decent salaries at the restaurants and stores, work on grounds crews tending all the greenery, and I guarantee that when a critical mass occurs, other businesses would open up downtown: a coffee bar in place of that old wig shop, an organic clothier over there at Jefferson and Woodward. The trickle-out theory at work. Tell me, how is that not a benefit?"

  Once again the People Mover pulled up to the Renaissance Center. "Excuse me," Lydia said. She couldn't go another loop or stand another minute. The train felt like an airless capsule, and Norm's voice positively boomed. How in the world had he turned out this way? Nostalgia is chic. Everyone loves a ruin. She wondered if he'd even noticed her, or if he saw her as nothing more than an audience.

  "Where are you going?" he called out. But Lydia had already stepped onto the platform. She moved briskly in the slit skirt that she had bought for her own humiliation. Her heart raced as she hurried into the tunnel, then rounded the corner.

  At the darkened window, Lydia stopped and looked back toward the train. Norm was still standing at the open doors, a confused look on his face. From a distance, with his odd Prince Valiant haircut, he looked less the mad scholar than the lost boy. As the doors began to close, he stepped off the train, and Lydia rushed into the labyrinth of the Renaissance Center.

  15

  THE CAB DROPPED Lydia off at the tapas restaurant, where she picked up her rental car and drove home. She had walked inside the house and put her keys on the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. For a moment she worried that Norm had followed her, but when she opened the door, there was M.J. "I was in the neighborhood," she explained, stepping into the foyer.

  Lydia was not surprised to see her. She wondered how long M.J. had been staking her out, awaiting a full report. "Well, it could not have been worse," Lydia began. "He's just awful. I can't tell you how angry he made me. He wants to bring earth movers into Detroit and turn the city into an ecological Disneyworld."

  "What exactly are you wearing?" M.J. asked.

  "I can't explain it. I just had to get out of there. I left him on the People Mover."

  "Running away isn't the worst strategy." M.J. followed Lydia into the living room, and sat on the couch.

  Lydia sat down on an ottoman. "It wasn't a strategy."

  M.J. offered a butterscotch candy to Lydia, who shook her head. "Let's talk about your outfit," M.J. said. "Do I see a Peter Pan collar and flats? What happened to that beautiful scarf?"

  "I couldn't tie it."

  "You should have called me."

  "I panicked. It hardly matters now."

  "You look like an airline stewardess, Lydia. And no offense, but the old kind that sues for age discrimination."

  Lydia ignored this comment. "You should have heard him go on. He was practically yelling inside the train, insulting the city, dismissing self-government."

  "He's an academic. Isn't that his job, to come up with schemes that never amount to anything?"

  "He was completely ignoring me, lost in his own stupid fantasies."

  "It's your life," M.J. said. She seemed irritable, and not in her characteristic bantering way. Was she upset that Lydia had ditched the Parisian clothes? "I don't need to tell you how difficult it is for a woman in late middle age, even one as smart and attractive as you, to find a suitable man," M.J. continued. "I know a number of such women, professionals mostly. Intelligent, independent mothers of grown children. In a couple of years they'll be at retirement age, so they're looking at a future with no company at all. These women try, Lydia. They go on dates and stick it out for a while with men a lot worse than your urban planner. You can't imagine the aging Lotharios some of my friends put up with. Players and obsessives, the kind that fancy themselves potbellied sex objects or, worse yet, the ones that label their socks, wash their hands forty-five times a day and make a great fuss in the checkout line."

  M.J. recalled one older man, the owner of a Ferndale photography studio, whom a friend of hers had been dating for a few months. One evening, after a romantic dinner at his apartment, he unveiled his life's great project. He had taken more than a thousand photographs of people's feet—eleven by seventeen close-ups, nearly always without shoes. The feet of the famous, like Aretha Franklin, Lee Iacocca, and Detroit Tiger legend Mickey Lolich. The feet of the infamous, like Jack Kevorkian and Leonard Tyburski, the one-time dean of students at Mackenzie High School in Detroit who hid his wife's body in a freezer for three years. Most of the subjects were unaware they were being photographed; a few had consented. Over the course of thirty years the man had taken pictures of celebrities, civic leaders, ordinary citizens, the old and the young, strangers, friends, and former lovers. "After showing the woman a series of toe-tag photographs that he had shot at the Dearborn morgue," M.J. said, "the creep asked my friend if she wouldn't mind removing her shoes."

  "Why are you telling me this story?" Lydia asked. "First you say I have to make an effort, and now you seem to be scaring me off men for life. Some decent ones must still be out there." But as soon as she said this she had her doubts.

  "I don't know." M.J. sat back in the couch. "I'm flummoxed by the math. Every divorce involves one man and one woman. Why, then, is the ratio of middle-aged singles one lonely man for every ten lonely women? Where do the worthwhile men go, the ones who have no feet in their closets? Do they walk into some river and disappear?"

  Lydia knew where they all went, and she nearly said so. They had married younger women. They'd all gone, not into the Detroit River but to the altar with thirty-five-year-olds, to the suburbs of Phoenix to start new lives. Lydia considered for the first time the real possibility that Ellen and Cy would have children. She would be thirty-six soon, and he would be sixty-two, pushing eighty by the time the first child—who knew how many Ellen wanted?—would go off to college. Suddenly she felt a chill sitting in the living room with M.J., the mother of her ex-husband's wife, an only child. Of course M.J. would want grandchildren. She was in her seventies, and deserved grandchildren. Cy and Ellen were her only chance.

  Lydia stood up and went to the window. "Did they happen to buy a big house?" she asked without thinking.

  M.J. sounded confused. "Who are you talking about, dear?"

  "Cy and Ellen," she said, and then unconvincingly, "I'm trying to figure out how many rooms were flooded."

  "It's only the downstairs. They have three bedrooms upstairs. What an odd question to ask."

  "Well, I appreciate your stopping by. You really didn't have to."

  M.J. seemed to get the hint, standing up from the couch. "I'd love to take a look around," she said. "You've never shown me your house."

  Lydia resisted. "Oh, I don't want to keep you."

  "You're not keeping me. I'd love to see where you live."

  Reluctantly, Lydia gave her a tour of the downstairs. M.J. complimented her garden, the daffodils and magnolia, the crabapple tree, the potted pansies on the back patio, and the scattered blue hydrangeas.

  "I miss having a garden," M.J. said. "I used to love the endless projects around the house. I imagine it must be difficult without someone around to help."

  Lydia would not allow herself to be provoked. "I manage."

  At the foyer she went to open the front door, but M.J. insisted on looking upstairs. "I'm sure it's a mess," Lydia said.

  "I doubt that." M.J. already had one foot on the steps.

  They went into every room, even the bathrooms. Lydia found herself standing in front of closets, worried that this
nosy woman would open them and start pulling out her clothes and shoes. In Jessica's room, M.J. picked up one of the floppy dolls now lined up on the bed. "Adorable." She stroked its orange hair.

  "My daughter calls them my substitute children," Lydia said automatically.

  "I don't know. I think we're the dolls, all ragged and diminished. I remember when Ellen was a girl she was my mirror. I saw myself in her eyes. When she was proud of me, I was proud of me. When she looked at me as larger than life, I was larger than life. But over time, I guess I've realized I'm not quite the figure I'd thought myself to be. And now with Ellen gone it feels as if she's taken part of me with her. So I want her back, though I know it's not right. I want myself back because I'm too old to start over. Do you know what I'm talking about?" M.J. returned the doll to the bed.

  Lydia couldn't help wondering how much of this was meant for her. "You don't seem diminished to me."

  On their way downstairs, M.J. insisted on looking into Lydia's office, even though the door was closed. Lydia knew she should just refuse, but the hostess in her had to be polite. She apologized for the scattered papers as M.J. studied every picture on her office wall—of the children, of Lydia's grandparents, of the old house in Indian Village—her eyes wide, as if absorbing it all. "When did you live in that lovely Tudor?" "Oh, look at Jessica. What a stunner," she said, and with each question and comment Lydia tightened up, spoke more tersely. What was M.J. looking for? She seemed to be scouring the house for clues. "Who's this?" she asked, finally, pointing to a photograph of Gilbert Warren standing next to a dapper Harley Earl.

  "My father," Lydia said.

  "So that's what he looks like."

  "What do you mean?"

  M.J. brought her finger to her lips, as if she'd said something by mistake. She turned to the framed ad on the wall of the Tucker Torpedo, Gilbert Warren's original design: More like a Buck Rogers special than the automobiles we know today.

  "Did you know my father?" Lydia asked. "Or did Casper know him?"

  "Oh, I really shouldn't say."

  "What is it? Tell me."

  "Well." M.J. crossed her arms. "As a matter of fact." She looked down at the floor, not meeting Lydia's eyes. "I didn't exactly know your father—I just know about him. Casper told me not to tell you this, and I realize it's none of my business. But as a historian—as anyone, frankly—you might as well know the truth."

  Lydia didn't like the sound of this. The office suddenly felt stifling.

  "You've heard the talk about moles at the Big Three who helped bring Preston Tucker down," M.J. continued. "Even I know those stories, and I've never cared much for cars. Well, Casper's old boss Mickey Gibson told him something that he made him swear he wouldn't tell anyone else—the people at Ford don't like generating controversy if they can help it. He said he knew the mole, in fact used to work with him; he was a designer who had been at Tucker, then later GM. Gilbert Warren was his name. He ruined Tucker out of revenge because Tucker fired him."

  Stepping back, Lydia bumped into the doorknob. "You're wrong," she said. She felt faint. "My father did no such thing. I should know, for God's sake. I've only been studying this my entire career. And anyway—" She gathered herself. "My father wasn't fired. I know for a fact that he quit."

  "Are you sure?"

  "He told me."

  "What does it say in the history books?"

  "It says my father left. There's no mention of the circumstances. But I've never seen anywhere that he was fired. That's ridiculous."

  "Is there any record that he quit?"

  "I'm sure there's a resignation letter somewhere."

  "That's because he was asked to resign."

  "Look, M.J. You're right about one thing: this isn't your business. But about all the rest, you're wrong." Lydia heard her voice rising.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Sometimes I talk too much." M.J. backed off. "Maybe we should go downstairs and sit down."

  "I don't need to sit down! I'm fine. Why should I defend my father in my own house? I don't know where Casper got these ideas, but I shouldn't have to listen to this. My father quit the Tucker Corporation. He handpicked his successor."

  "I'm only the messenger, Lydia. Mickey Gibson had no reason to slander your father, and Casper trusted him completely. He said that Tucker asked for Gilbert's resignation because he wasn't happy with his work. I don't know the first thing about car design, but Mickey said that your father was pushing for speed and Tucker wanted safety. He brought in Alex Tremulus to make it more of a family car."

  "I know what Tremulus did," Lydia said. "But my dad had already put much of the design in place."

  "I'm no expert. I'm just telling you what I heard. Your father was furious about being fired, so he went to GM and said he knew all the details about Tucker's business methods and if they wanted to stop the Tucker '48' before it took the country by storm, they ought to hire him right away."

  "My father was a great designer. There's no secret about that," Lydia said, but she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She thought of the papers that Walter had copied for her, with all the assorted history minus the smoking gun; she thought of Tucker's "Open Letter" complaining about certain people trying to bribe his employees. She remembered the edge of guilt in her father's voice that morning after Tucker died. She'd been struck then by what had seemed like unusual wistfulness for a man who tended never to look back. Reading the obituary pages, he had seemed almost angry that his old boss had passed away. Now Lydia wondered if her father might have regretted something far worse than parting ways with Tucker. But even if he had been fired, she could not believe he would have been that vindictive or helped destroy the man who had given him his start. "Harley Earl brought my father on for his talent, not for espionage," she said, but with less certainty than before.

  "You don't have to believe me, Lydia. I understand and I'm sorry. I guess I couldn't help telling you what I'd heard, that's all."

  "If you were looking to make a bad day worse, you've succeeded."

  At the front door M.J. tried to change the subject. "I know your date was disappointing. Still, I hope you'll consider giving Norman another chance."

  "We'll see." But Lydia had no intention of meeting Norm again, and she was thinking, too, that after today she would spend no more time with the Spiveys. As she said goodbye and watched M.J. descend the steps one at a time, carefully, a little sideways, she couldn't help feeling that something was deeply wrong with this friendship. She didn't understand M.J.'s motives. It occurred to her now that the shopping, the matchmaking, all the big-sisterly advice, couldn't be simple generosity. Maybe she wanted to annoy Ellen by befriending her husband's ex-wife. Or perhaps she hoped to learn some unpleasant secrets about Cy. Lydia wondered if M.J. took satisfaction in telling people's secrets, regardless of their veracity.

  But Lydia did not want to think about this now. She would go to the car archives first thing tomorrow and find her father's resignation letter—or something from Tucker himself that proved M.J. wrong.

  Lydia fixed a potato in the microwave and poured herself a glass of water. Once again, she thought of Cy in the desert, wondered what kind of a place it was. His Infiniti would sit in the garage, beside the rakes, tools, and weed trimmer, the chemicals and console for the sprinkler system that snaked under the yard. He'd have a high adobe wall and an iron gate blocking out his neighbors and a rock garden with flowering cacti. Inside, the track-lit rooms would have wall-to-wall carpeting, the pale kind that he'd always wanted. He would ask visitors to take off their shoes upon entering the house.

  Ellen and Cy would file a homeowners' claim to cover the flood. Out to the curb would go the too-dark sofas and heavy wood tables, into the living room a teal leather couch, glass table and a Navajo rug. On the walls they would hang black-and-white photographs of Hopi women from the end of last century and close-ups of Georgia O'Keeffe's hands. They'd buy knickknacks from Robert Redford's catalogue and play CDs of wol
ves and coyotes, night sounds of the desert.

  Upstairs, the master bedroom would be more or less complete—a king-size bed spilling with overstuffed pillows, and, Lydia imagined, a fat white teddy bear with a big red heart that read "Love me" in bubbly letters. In the guestroom they'd have a daybed and wicker furniture and a television and VCR where Cy could watch sentimental movies about aging baseball players and conflicted lieutenants, dramas of initiation into the world of men. And the third room, the one at the end of the hall—at the moment Cy would keep his treadmill there, and perhaps a radio, where he would play what the locals listened to, easy-listening country tunes for commuting professionals. Some day soon the exercise equipment would go down to the basement, and Cy would take a health club membership, because with a baby on the way they'd convert the room to a nursery.

  A baby, Lydia thought now. Cy and Ellen were going to have children.

  Lydia cut open the potato, salted it, and took the plate upstairs. Her office desk was stacked with papers, many of them Norm's e-mails, which she'd printed out and collected, as if she were an eighteen-year-old courted by an eager paramour. She gathered them up and tossed them in the wastebasket.

  When the phone rang, she hesitated to answer it, thinking it might be Norm.

  "Morning, Mom," Jessica said.

  "Afternoon." Lydia sat down at her desk, relieved to hear her daughter's voice. She thumbed through the color copies of Harley Earl's dream cars, her manuscript pages covered with notes.

  "It's still morning in Eugene." Jess seemed in a good mood. "I figured you'd be at the library."

  Lydia shuddered as if she'd been found out. She wondered if Norm had driven to the library to look for her. She'd said that she did research there, had even told him about the car archives. Would he have tried to find her, or given up by now and gone home? "I'm often at the library." She considered for a moment mentioning Norm. "But today I'm not."