by Abbi Waxman
Lydia shook her head. She was clearly bothered. “An intelligent car is so much more fun than money.”
Nina looked at her. “It’s not really an intelligent car. It’s just a car.” She turned to Sarkassian. “Unless it comes with an actual com-link wristwatch thingy, in which case I am totally keeping it.”
“I know that,” said Lydia, her voice scornful. “But he only left the rest of us money.”
There was a pause.
“Maybe he thought you only cared about his money,” said Eliza, quietly.
“Well, he would have been wrong. But seeing as he never asked me anything at all about my life, how would he know?” Lydia looked around. “None of you ever ask me anything.”
After another awkward silence, Sarkassian coughed and said, “Well, whether Nina takes the car or not, the will makes it quite clear that she has to go drive it at least once before she chooses to sell it or give it away.”
Nina frowned at him. “What kind of legal provision is that? What is this, Brewster’s Millions?”
Clearly, the lawyer had never enjoyed that brand of Hollywood madcap legal comedy, because he looked at her with a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I don’t know what that means. I have the keys here. Please be nice to the mechanic who’s been taking excellent care of it for the last twenty years. When I told him about the will, he hoped you would be impossible to find.” He slid the keys across the table, and Nina suddenly had a terrible thought.
“I can’t drive stick.”
He raised his eyebrows, smoothing out that pesky wrinkle. “Well, here’s your chance to learn.”
As Nina sat in the Lyft heading back home, she checked her phone. Nothing. Impulsively, she sent Tom a text.
“Hi there, I just inherited a car.”
No response. Maybe he was working.
“It’s a 1982 Pontiac Firebird. Like K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider.”
Still nothing. Maybe he was busy.
“It doesn’t have William Daniels’s voice, though, so, you know …”
Silence. Maybe he was with someone else.
She looked out of the window, noticing all the couples walking along, holding hands, smiling at each other, or even simply sitting across from each other looking at their phones. She’d always loved the feeling of being separate, of being alone while everyone else clumped together like mold on the inside rim of an old coffee cup. But now she felt lonely.
She leaned forward. “Hey, can I change our destination?”
The driver met her eyes in the mirror. “Sure, but you have to do it in the app.”
“I can’t tell you? You know, verbally?”
He shook his head. “Well, sure, you can tell me, verbally, or in sign language, or on a piece of parchment carried by a pigeon, but for me to alter my course, you also have to change it in the app.” He shrugged, his eyes back on the road. “Despite the fact we’re a scant two feet apart, our relationship requires the intermediation of a computer system housed in a server farm neither of us will ever see. Thus technology further separates us, eroding our trust in one another and leading our species down a path to a future where we only know one another on a screen and can only talk to one another in characters, and where ideas are owned by companies run by algorithms.”
Nina gazed at the back of his head for a moment.
“So … on the app then?”
“Yup.”
Twenty-six
In which Nina meets a legendary
Pokémon in human form.
The garage on Cahuenga was part of a larger mechanic’s business, with classic car restoration clearly a specialty. There were several old cars parked outside, including a Mercedes, which was the only hood ornament Nina recognized. She was pretty impressed she even remembered they were called hood ornaments, honestly. Cars all looked more or less the same to her, though she sorted them into broad categories like “fancy” and “regular” or “in her way” or “going too fast in a residential neighborhood.” They all looked the same from the driver’s seat, she reasoned, unless you care about how the people outside the car are looking at you.
The mechanic was an older guy, maybe in his late fifties. Nina couldn’t tell; he was covered in a patina of wrinkles and oil that blurred the edges. She’d tracked him down in his “office,” which appeared to be the car mechanic’s version of the back room at Knight’s. Where they had piles of books, this guy had piles of manuals and little bits and pieces of machines that Nina didn’t recognize. She had introduced herself, and the temperature had gotten noticeably chillier. She felt bad for the topless garage mechanic—well, she was holding a wrench on the calendar behind him.
“Oh, you’re the new owner?” He looked her over and clearly wasn’t happy. “Do you drive a lot?”
“Hardly ever.”
“Do you know cars?”
“I know they have wheels.”
“Do you understand the inherent beauty of a well-machined engine, the throaty purr of a finely tuned timing?”
Nina frowned at him. “I understand that throaty purr is a cliché, but other than that, no. Look, Mr.…”
“Moltres.”
She looked at him. “Moltres?”
“Yes. Moltres. M-o-l-t-r-e-s.”
“Did you know your name is also the name of a legendary Pokémon?” As was so often the case, Nina immediately regretted saying this. Either he already knew, in which case, duh, or he would have no idea what she was talking about and would consider her possibly dangerous. There should be some kind of twelve-step program for people like her, she thought; Non Sequitur’s Anonymous. Then she wondered if maybe that was actually what NSA stood for; they didn’t care about national security at all. Then she realized it hadn’t, strictly speaking, been a non sequitur, it had just been a stupid question, and that her twelve-step program would more appropriately be named Stupid People Anonymous and that it would be a pretty big group and have the acronym SPA. Then she realized Moltres was still talking to her.
He spoke slowly. “Are you here to take the car?” This didn’t help, because now Nina couldn’t tell if he did know about the whole Pokémon thing or not, although he clearly realized she needed careful handling.
She shook her head. “No, if that’s OK. Do you need me to get it out of here quickly? Is the bill for the garaging … ?”
Moltres interrupted her quickly. “The bill is paid through the year, actually. Bill was like that, always paid up front. ‘In case I’m hit by a bus,’ he used to say.” Then he looked annoyed, which might have been his way of showing embarrassment. “Do you want to see it?”
Nina followed him out and through some twisty and utterly filthy corridors until they came to a surprisingly large space out back, where there were several garages with locked doors. He opened the middle one, and there she was: Nina’s car.
Nina turned to Moltres. “Did you know that David Hasselhoff holds a Guinness World Record as the most watched man on TV?”
He gazed at her. “No,” he said.
“Yes,” she continued. “He was already successful from being on a soap opera, but Knight Rider was really the beginning for him.”
“Is that so?” said Moltres. “How completely uninteresting.”
Moltres walked around and opened the driver’s side door. “Want to take it out?”
Nina shook her head. “Uh … I can’t drive stick.”
He was disappointed in her already, and that didn’t help. Nina realized it was like admitting you can’t swim or ride a bike; not really disastrous, just one of those life skills one is supposed to have acquired by nearly thirty. Oh well, she thought, for the record I can both swim and ride a bike, so two out of three isn’t bad. She could also knit and crochet, so after the apocalypse, he’d be able to drive a manual transmission but she’d have a scarf, so who’d be laughing, come winter?
Moltres sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. It was loud, really very loud, and Nina could see how throaty purr had come i
nto play. She guessed Moltres was willing to drive. She went around and got into the passenger side, and they slowly pulled out of the garage.
Moltres, unsurprisingly, turned out to be not exactly a Chatty Cathy. He did, however, have some questions.
“Your dad never taught you to drive stick?”
“I never met my dad.”
Moltres looked over at her, quickly. “Really? And yet he left you his favorite thing?”
“I thought his favorite thing was money.”
Moltres shook his head. “No.”
Nina shrugged. “Is it that rare not to know how to drive a stick? Aren’t the vast majority of cars in this country automatics?”
Moltres shrugged, weaving around a small fender bender in the middle of the intersection. Nina looked at it, as everyone does. She could tell an experienced LA driver by the speed with which she pulled out her license and proof of insurance, took photos of the mutual damage, if any, and got on her way. Soon, she thought, all you’ll have to do is wave your phones at each other, and a drone will appear to photograph everything before the lights have changed. You won’t even need to get out of your car, which, by that point, you probably won’t even be driving. Then she realized Moltres had asked her something.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question …”
He rolled his eyes. “I asked why you didn’t know your father.”
She looked at him. “Really? You jumped straight from criticizing my driving knowledge to asking me personal questions about my family?”
His mouth twitched. “You’re a fascinating mix of spacy and sassy. You totally aren’t paying attention and then you whip around and let out a zinger.”
“Well, you’re very nosy.”
He sighed. “Look, I knew your dad for over twenty years. He never mentioned you once. No offense.”
“None taken. I never mentioned him, either. Mind you, he knew I existed, and I didn’t have that advantage so, you know, reasonable excuse.” Nina looked at Moltres, “What did he talk about?”
“Cars,” Moltres said. “Always cars.” He swung the car around a corner, which it hugged like a long-lost friend. “He was good company.” He shot a glance at Nina. “Sorry.”
Nina looked at him, then out of the window. “What for?” she said. “It’s not like my life would have been better if I’d had more car-related conversation.”
Moltres said, “But maybe he would have taught you to drive stick.”
“Or maybe he would have deserted me like he did his other kids. I’m the only one he didn’t run out on, because he was never there in the first place.” She looked for a button to lower the window. “Honestly, I think I may have dodged a bullet.”
Moltres shook his head as they headed up Laurel Canyon toward the winding roads at the top of the Hollywood Hills. “He was a good guy, Bill was. I’ll miss him.”
“Story of his life,” Nina said, leaning out and letting the wind toss her hair.
Moltres was silent for a while, then abruptly turned left and pulled into a wide-open parking lot that was essentially empty. He stopped the car and turned to Nina.
“I’m going to teach you to drive stick.”
• • •
Moltres began the lesson by introducing Nina to her newest little friend, the clutch pedal.
“Do you understand how a car engine works?”
“Yes and no,” replied Nina, who was nervously sitting in the driver’s seat. “You press the pedals and the wheels go around.”
Moltres sighed. “The power of the engine is transferred to the wheels through the transmission. In order to change gear without tearing apart the transmission, the clutch momentarily disengages it. “
“Fascinating,” said Nina. Nervousness was making her mean.
Moltres ignored her. “Turn on the car.”
She did so.
“There are three pedals underneath your feet: clutch on the left, brake in the middle, accelerator on the right. In order to move in a nonautomatic, you increase the power to the transmission while slowly releasing the clutch to engage the wheels. Get it?”
Nina nodded, not getting it at all.
“As you slowly release the clutch while at the same time pressing on the gas pedal, there comes a point where the car moves, slightly. It’s called the biting point, and we’re going to practice it now.”
Nina looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Increase the gas too quickly and you flood the engine and stall the car. Let’s go.”
She did as he told her, and flooded the engine.
They waited in silence for a moment. Then Moltres said, “So, what do you do for work?”
Nina had put her head down on the steering wheel. “I work in a bookstore.”
“Yeah?” said Moltres, interested. “I love reading. I’m a mystery buff.”
“You are?” Nina wasn’t sure why she sounded surprised. Mystery readers were everywhere, voracious, highly partisan, and passionate. They were among the store’s best customers, and unfailingly polite. In private they embraced a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance and the use of arcane poisons and sneaky sleuthing, but in public they were charming and generous. Romance readers tended to be fun and have strong opinions. Nonfiction readers asked a lot of questions and were easily amused. It was the serious novel folks and poetry fans you had to watch out for.
Moltres nodded. “Yeah, since I was a kid. They’re modern fairy tales, right? Good always triumphs over evil.”
“Mostly. There are exceptions.”
“Sure, but I’m old fashioned. I don’t love the newer, edgier, meaner ones, anyway. Your dad and I used to talk about books when we weren’t talking about cars.”
“Really?” Why was her voice so squeaky?
“Yeah. His favorite thing to do was drive up the coast and find some deserted beach where he could sit and read in peace.” He looked at her, patiently. “Now try the car again.”
Nina turned the key in the ignition. She went very slowly, and sure enough, there was a moment when she felt the car move under her. She kept working the pedals, and suddenly they moved forward, whereupon she immediately hit the brake without disengaging the clutch and stalled the car again.
“Dammit. This is hard.”
Moltres nodded. “You can see why the automatic gearbox took off.”
“Why would anyone choose to drive stick?”
“It’s more fun,” he answered. “You have to concentrate more, pay more attention. You have to work with the engine. Easier isn’t always better.”
Nina turned the key again, and this time when the car moved she controlled herself and managed to drive forward without incident. “Now, how do I change gears?”
Moltres’s voice was calm. “You do the same thing again. Put pressure on the gas until you hear the engine is ready to change up.”
“I don’t hear it.” Nina’s voice was less calm.
“Stop the car,” Moltres said. “Let’s try something else. Don’t forget to disengage the clutch when you brake.”
Nina managed to stop the car without stalling, and put it in park.
“Let’s swap places,” Moltres said. He went around the front, Nina went around the back, and then they were looking at each other from the other direction.
Moltres said, “I need you to focus. I’m going to talk you through what I’m doing, and you’re going to learn how it sounds.” Nina nodded. “Listen, I’m putting it in gear, the clutch is off, I’m adding gas”—the engine note changed—“and now it’s in gear and we’re moving. More gas, more speed, and can you hear that the engine is starting to work too hard?”
Nina could, kind of. “It sounds too loud. Is that what you mean?”
“If that’s all you’ve got, go with that. Anyway, here I go, disengaging the clutch, changing the gear, reengaging the clutch, second gear.”
The engine sounded happier. They sped up again, making swoops across the parking lot. “And now again, second to third.
Clutch out, change gear, clutch in, third gear.”
Two hours later Nina cracked it.
Three hours later Moltres handed her the keys, declared himself satisfied, and let her drive away. “Keep it for a few days,” he said, “then bring it back and I’ll fix whatever you broke.”
Four hours, two stalls, and much circling later, she found a parking space and remembered why she didn’t own a car in Los Angeles.
Back-and-forthing in the space was nerve racking, and Nina kept having to slam the brakes to avoid hitting the car behind her. After one particularly hard brake, the glove box of the car flew open and a pile of envelopes and papers slid out onto the passenger seat and floor.
Nina turned off the car and reached over to pick it all up. She saw her name, then saw Becky, Rachel, Archie, Millie, Lydia, Peter … There were lots of yellow envelopes, the kind with little metal butterflies on the flap, each addressed to one of William’s kids or grandchildren.
Nina frowned; this couldn’t possibly be good. She found hers and opened it, still sitting in the car, the engine ticking as it cooled. There was a folded piece of paper, and a very ’80s-looking bankbook, with My First Savings Account written on it in gold, with an actual rainbow unicorn. Banking used to be so much cuter. She opened it up and goggled at the balance. Over two and a half million dollars. Doubtless there was some mistake. She turned to the letter.
Dear Nina,
I’m going to open this letter in the classic way: If you’re reading this, I’m already dead.
Nina made a face at the cliche, but kept reading.
My being dead probably doesn’t bother you much, seeing as you didn’t find out I was alive until I wasn’t. I’ve wanted to reach out to you many times, and I used to come and watch you get picked up from school, to make sure you were happy. Your mom was quite right to keep me out of your life; looking back, my biggest regret is how much I hurt my kids, and you were spared that. But I did love you, even if it was creepily, and from a distance.
Nina looked out of the window. It would be nice to know what her father’s voice sounded like, so she could imagine the letter in voice-over, but as she didn’t, she decided to pretend the car was talking to her in William Daniels’s voice. It had started raining, which seemed appropriately anomalous for this moment.
