Drives Like a Dream (26 page)

"I'm a fugitive." He knelt to scratch the dog.

"From what, honey?" Lydia asked.

Or rather
from whom,
Jessica thought.

"You don't want to know the details," he said.

Later that night they went to see the fireworks show at the Huntington Woods municipal golf course. Having slept all afternoon, Davy now seemed willing to talk about Teresa. She'd told him she wasn't angry that Lowball had failed; it wasn't about the money. She just wanted Davy to stop and figure things out, once and for all. "But you know, all we ever do is talk, or at least that's what it feels like to me," Davy said as they sat down on a blanket in front of the clubhouse. "It's like she wants something else from me, but she won't tell me what."

A real commitment, Jessica was about to say, when an older man in a Havana shirt walked up to their mother. "Hello there," he called out. A young girl, no older than three or four, held his hand.

"Walter!" Lydia exclaimed. She got up to greet him, and Jessica remembered her mother mentioning him before; he was her friend from the library. Walter shook hands with Jessica and Davy, said he'd heard a lot about them. "And this is my granddaughter, Camille." She hid behind his leg as Jessica waved hello.

"So, what brings you to the neighborhood?" Lydia asked. She seemed almost self-conscious as she touched the back of her hair.

"I heard there's a great fireworks display here."

"It's my favorite," Lydia said. In fact, the local show had always been something of a joke when the kids were growing up.

"How's the Corolla working out?" Walter asked, then turned to Jessica and Davy. "I gave your mother my lifetime warranty. She's the star of the archives. We've got to take good care of her." Jessica liked the way he kept one hand behind his back as he spoke; he seemed shy, yet dignified.

"The car is excellent," Lydia began, but Walter's granddaughter tugged at his shirt.

"I guess I better get back to her folks," he said. "They're just down the fairway. See you later. Very nice meeting you."

When Walter had walked away Jessica said, "Nice man," then, "Is he single?"

Davy laughed. "He's a bit old for you."

Jessica gave him a little push. "He seems like a gentle soul. What do you say, Mom? Were you ever interested?"

"His wife only died a couple of years ago, and did I mention that I'm rather seriously involved?"

"Did you hear the way he emphasized
lifetime warranty?
"

But Lydia wasn't having it. "I'm happier than I've ever been," she said. She smiled as if to say
end of story,
then turned to Davy. "So, let's get back to Teresa." But the first fireworks shot into the air, bright shatters of red and gold, and Davy shook his head. He'd shared as much as he was going to, for now. Jessica wondered how her brother could be so great at easing others through their problems, but hopeless when it came to his own.

That night they returned home to find that Bedlam had knocked over a can of paint in the kitchen, covering the new floors in white paw prints. Davy grabbed the dog by the collar and yanked him outside.

"Be careful!" Jessica yelled. "He doesn't know any better." She soaped a cloth and started cleaning up the wet paint. Her mother laughed and blamed herself for not putting the cans away.

"It would be nice if Norm could finish what he started," Jessica said.

"I know what you mean." It was the first time her mother hadn't defended him.

Davy came back inside. "You've really got to do something about that dog, Jess. You can't just let him roam. His tail is a wrecking ball."

The next morning, after Jessica took Bedlam for a long run, she and Davy went down to the basement to clear out their father's hobby museum. Jessica had already begun sorting through some of his things, surprised that Norm hadn't left his mark here. She figured it would have been his first order of business.

"So, what's the plan?" Davy asked.

"Let's put all the yard sale stuff in the garage. I'm going to turn this basement into a dog pen."

"Have you asked Mom?"

"She's fine with it. She's fine with everything lately. Have you ever seen her this loose on the reins? Does she seem like a woman in love to you?"

Davy set up a record player on Cy's old workbench and began untangling the cords. "She says she's happy." He shrugged. "Who knows what a person in love looks like?" Jessica eyed him sharply and Davy, as if anticipating what she was about to say, added, "This is not about me and Teresa."

Jessica said nothing more, and together they brought the exercise equipment, fishing rods, telescope, and woodworking tools into the garage, which looked like an open cave without the Nomad.

Davy took off his glasses and glanced around. "I can't believe she just sold it without telling anybody. I guess it's good that she's moving on and everything." He seemed wistful for a moment. "I kind of wanted that car. I mean, it was an
inspiration.
Where would the world of rockabilly be without the 57 Nomads?"

Jessica was about to tell him about Lydia's odd behavior on the day she sold the car, and that business about the two checks, but Davy looked so forlorn she decided to save this information for later.

She hauled more of her father's things—including a pile of books like
Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow
and
Fire in the Belly: On Being a Man
—to the garage, while Davy organized Cy's record collection. Some of Cy's clothes dated back to the seventies, to the days before Lydia had taken over his shopping. There were lean pants and wing-collared shirts with bizarre prints that made Jessica dizzy. One was a wearable canvas of people on a fox hunt; some carried bugles, others carried guns; all were trailing a pack of dogs. The hunters wound around in a repeating line from collar to pocket to shirttail. Jessica searched the entire shirt. Only the fox was missing from the scene.

As she continued sifting through boxes for the yard sale, Jessica found her mother's wedding gown, balled up and wrinkled, stuffed among Cy's old workout tapes. On top of the dress lay the black-and-white photo of the bouquet. She could almost see her mother ripping the dress out of its airtight bag and snatching the picture off the wall, and she felt bad all over again that she'd gotten angry at her on Cy's second wedding day. She folded the gown and carefully set it aside, along with the picture, for safekeeping.

After the holiday weekend the painters returned to work—a dozen men up on ladders, blasting Van Halen into the neighborhood, taking breaks in the shade of the front porch. Jessica and Davy had finished clearing out the basement and their bedrooms, filling up the garage with items for the yard sale.

That morning Jessica climbed into the attic. It was the first thing she had thought of when Lydia suggested the yard sale, but her mother had told her they'd get to it later. "Norm and I have been working on it," she'd said. But when Jessica switched on the overhead light she gasped. There were boxes, old furniture, and crates, stacked high and reaching as far as she could see.

"Mom!" she called. "Davy!"

Her brother appeared first. "Wow," he said. "I didn't remember there being so much junk up here."

"Yes, honey?" Lydia's voice floated up. Jessica rolled her eyes.

"I thought you said you and Norm had taken care of the attic."

Lydia came partway up the stairs. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Well, that's helpful. You expect us to sort through all of this in a few days? The yard sale is this weekend."

"Goodness, no. I thought you could pick out a few things, then go through the rest later."

"It's okay, Jess." Davy put a hand on her shoulder. "We don't have to deal with it all at once."

But Jessica was annoyed. If she'd known there was this much more work to do, she wouldn't have taken such time with old photographs and notebooks, going carefully through each item. It didn't make sense that Lydia would lie about the attic. In fact, much of her behavior wasn't making any sense. Her mother had been curiously absent lately, not at all the hovering figure Jessica had always known. Normally Lydia hated to be left out. But since coming home, Jessica had found
herself
in the role of seeker, looking for answers and stories, while her mother spent long hours closed off in her office. Working, she said. Or on e-mail with Norm? Jessica wondered.

"Where is Norm?" she asked, the question that had become her refrain. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"

"It would be nice if we could get a hand," Davy agreed. "This place is a disaster. And it must be a hundred degrees up here."

Lydia explained that Norm's daughter had been "having some problems"—"depressed," Lydia whispered—and that he'd decided to stay on longer in Minneapolis than planned. "He coddles Tracy like you wouldn't believe. The slightest trouble and he rushes off to save her. She never dealt well with her father's leaving, and now that she knows about me, she's pulling out all the stops."

"So she's
pretending
to be depressed?" Jessica asked.

"Maybe. People do that kind of thing, you know. Either she's pretending or she
is
depressed, which is why she's clinging to him."

Davy wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Well, can you get him
un
clung?"

The phone rang and Lydia dashed downstairs to get it.

"That psycho could become our stepsister," Jessica said to Davy.

"Just what we need." He sighed. "What do you say we get out of this sauna?"

Jessica expected to find her mother in her office, talking to Norm. Lydia had been on the phone a lot lately, off whispering in a corner, like a schoolgirl with a secret crush. "So you're not sure how serious it is," she was saying into the receiver. "Here, why don't I put Jessica on." Her mother motioned to her from the office.

It was Cy.

"Hiya, Jess. I'm trying to figure out what happened to the Spiveys," he began. "M.J. left a cryptic message on our voice mail, and I can't get in touch with her. Apparently something happened to Casper. All she said was, 'Ellen, call back, it's about your dad.'"

"That's it? That could mean anything."

"She had a tone of gloom and doom. I've been trying their number all day, but no one answers. I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind checking on them."

"Of course," Jessica said. "I'll let you know what I find out. I'm sure they're fine." But when she hung up she was irritated at her mother for passing the duty on to her. Wasn't
she
the Spiveys' new best friend? "Dad wants me to drive to their house. What do you think happened?"

Lydia leaned in the office doorway. "I don't know."

"We've got a lot to figure out, Mom."

"What do you want to do?" She could hear the impatience creeping back into Lydia's voice.

"For starters, we'll have to change the date of the yard sale. I don't see as we have a choice. That attic is a junker's paradise. The house is a complete mess."
And,
Jessica wanted to say,
I haven't even met this elusive boyfriend of yours to make sure he's not some highway killer.

"Are you sure? I can go check on the Spiveys." Lydia folded her arms in front of her and rubbed them as if she were cold.

"No, that's all right," Jessica said. "I told Dad I'd do it."

She called the
Free Press
and pushed the yard sale date back another week, to Saturday, July 21. Jessica figured that had to be enough time to organize the attic and deal with the Spiveys, though there was no telling how long it would be before Norm's daughter would let him go.

After Lydia went downstairs, Jessica shut the office door and dialed Steve at Oasis. "I think you might have been right about my mom," she said. "It's looking more and more like early onset Alzheimer's." For some reason she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth now. A lie seemed so much easier.

"I knew it. All the symptoms were there. Look, you take care of her. We'll hold your job."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Jessica said.

No one was home at the Spiveys' condo, but several newspapers, in varying shades of discoloration, were scattered near the door. This looked worse than she'd thought. Had Casper died? Were they both in the hospital? Was M.J. inconsolable and shut away in the apartment? Jessica rang the doorbell and waited. She tried to look through the windows, but the shades were drawn. She checked the reserved space for the black Town Car—empty—and combed the parking lot, to no avail.

When she got home and reported the news, Lydia called the police. None of the precincts had a report on Casper. Jessica phoned local hospitals, with a growing sense of dread, but turned up nothing.

That night Lydia seemed unusually pensive as she brought out a large bowl of tomato and basil pasta to the patio for a late dinner. Davy tried to assure them that if something were terribly wrong, M.J. would have said so. Then again, Jessica pointed out, Casper was in his mid-seventies; he looked good but could have had a heart attack or a stroke.

Their mother spoke up. "All those years working for Ford might have finally caught up to him." The patio floodlight cast an odd half-moon on Lydia's face. "My father died of overwork, you know. He was only a year older than I am now."

An awkward silence hung over the table.

"Well," Davy said, and began to serve the dinner. "I think there's nothing to worry about."

O
N THE SAME AFTERNOON
that the painters finished the kitchen, the central air conditioning gave out. It was a Friday, one of the hottest days of the year, and past business hours, so Lydia knew she would have to call in emergency service. She should have expected something else to go wrong on top of the complications with Norm and her worries about the Spiveys. A day and a half had gone by since M.J.'s ominous message, and still no one had heard from them.

At first Lydia hadn't taken the news seriously. It occurred to her that M.J. might be trying to make her daughter nervous, much in the way that Lydia had done with Jessica a few weeks ago. She wondered how much she and M.J. had influenced each other without realizing it. M.J. had impelled Lydia to set up a date with Norm, and perhaps Lydia had given her an idea for how to get Ellen's attention. And the truth was, Lydia was still upset at M.J. for dropping that news about Gilbert Warren. She had been so casual yet deliberate, as if it had been a play for control.