The Red Car (15 page)

Until today, I had never heard Margaret curse.

“I am sorry,” I said. “That is a lot of money.”

There was something about the way her voice caught. In college, Margaret had worked as a maid off campus. Haverford was set in an affluent area and house cleaning paid more than double the student jobs, but I remember being surprised she had been willing to do that kind of work. Summers, she had been a waitress at the International House of Pancakes, a wretched job according to her. Margaret paid her way. She worked hard. It was easy to forget this, living in a fancy house, even if it wasn't properly furnished. She had her Stanford job, her future seemingly assured.

“This was not your fault,” Margaret said.

Of course, it was my fault. I was the one who had brought the red car into her life.

“I could pay it,” I said. “Your ticket.”

Judy had said that she had left me money in that letter she wrote. Eventually, I would have to go back to the office where I once worked, talk to Beverly. There was an envelope waiting for me. A painting. Regardless, I had money of my own, in a joint account with Hans. But it was mainly my money. I realized that I would have to pick the news soon. And then I remembered that I had taken time off.

“Of course, you won't,” Margaret said. “I was the one behind the wheel.”

“We could split it,” I said.

“I want something to eat,” Yannick said. “I will be right back.”

“There's cheese,” Margaret said. “And olives.”

“That is not what I am in the mood for,” Yannick said. “I'll come back with something.”

We watched him disappear into the kitchen.

Wouldn't it be funny, I thought, if he never came back. “He hates conversations about money,” Margaret said, as if reading my mind. “It's childish. He can talk about sex. He can talk about any anthropological concept, or Derrida, feminist theory, but when we discuss expenses, he gets downright fidgety.”

There was a back door to the house in the kitchen. Yannick could simply open it and disappear. That would also be my fault. I imagined myself apologizing to Margaret, but what was there that I could say? Instead, he returned with a tray of brownies. I was so happy to see Yannick. The relief I felt was enormous. It didn't even matter that he had somehow brought out the very brownies I had eaten that morning.

“I thought I finished them,” I said. “While you were sleeping. I was going to tell you.”

“I noticed that,” Margaret said, wagging her finger at me.

“These came from the freezer,” Yannick said.

“I always keep a back-up tray,” Margaret said.

“In case of emergencies,” Yannick said.

They were rock hard, too hard to cut.

“The microwave, sweetheart,” Margaret said.

Yannick got right up and went back into the kitchen. I heard the beep beep beep of the microwave. Of course he didn't disappear. I wondered why I would think that.

“It is amazing how much he's changed,” I said.

“I know,” Margaret said. “After we slept together, this was about six months ago, I thought it was going to be like the last time. Remember?” I remembered. This was many years ago, when she had first started at Stanford. She had pretended it did not mean anything, but really she was heartbroken. “And this time, I wasn't okay with it, and I told him that. I told him I wanted to be in a committed relationship and I wouldn't have sex with him ever again unless he agreed. I never thought he would say okay.”

“From what I can see,” I said, “he seems completely committed to you.”

Margaret smiled. “Doesn't he? This is just a speeding ticket.” Margaret sighed. “It could have been much worse.”

I told Margaret, then, finally, about how I had gotten the red car, how Judy had died in the car, how she may or may have not committed suicide in it, how the car had magically restored itself.

“I shouldn't have let you drive it,” I said.

“It is such a beautiful car,” Margaret said. “I would have wanted to drive it anyway.”

“You seem so different,” I said.

“I know. I feel different. I feel good. I am not the same person you met at college. I used to be such a mouse. I look at pictures of myself from back then and I wince.”

“I wish I could change like that.”

“Of course you can,” Margaret said. “Why couldn't you? Haven't you already? You are always doing something interesting. Here you are. What is going on with you? We haven't talked in ages. I haven't asked you about Gerhardt.”

“Hans,” I said.

“Hans,” Margaret repeated. “I can't believe I said that. I have this German student in my class. He sits in the front row in these perfectly pressed clothes and takes notes. I find him unnerving. How is Hans?”

I hugged my knees. Why did it feel like my life had stopped once I had gotten married? Earlier that same day, it felt like a very long time ago, I had sat on that same couch and read my novel. Even though I was editing, deleting sentences, adding commas, removing commas, it felt like I was reading a book someone else had written. Sitting in the backseat of Judy's red car, as Margaret drove faster and faster, I realized that I was afraid of dying. It would not have surprised me if Margaret had driven straight into the back of a truck and that would have been it, for all of us. I did not want to die.

It was a good thing to know.

I did not want to talk about Gerhardt. Or Hans. I did not want to think about going home. I liked Margaret's couch. It was purple. It was comfortable. I wondered if Margaret had bought this couch or if Stella had left it behind. It felt familiar.

Yannick came back with the brownies and a bottle of
whiskey and three glasses; it was a well-done balancing act. “I think this goes better with the chocolate,” he said. We had not touched the wine.

“Absolutely.” Margaret smiled.

“I was afraid we were going to die,” I said.

“Me, too,” Margaret said.

“I can't believe the police drove us home like that,” Yannick said. “It absolutely ruins my sense of righteous indignation about police brutality.”

“Thank god,” Margaret said.

“I do go to Stanford,” Yannick said.

“That doesn't always make a difference.”

“And I am light skinned.”

“It would have been my fault,” I said.

“Like you had your foot on the gas petal,” Yannick said. “Did I hear that the car is haunted?”

“I don't ordinarily believe in such things,” I said. “But yes. Maybe. I think so.”

“Margaret seemed possessed.”

“I don't know,” Margaret said. “I just wanted to drive faster and faster and then, when I realized I should slow down, I didn't know how. It was like the car wouldn't let me. Like there was an invisible force field on my foot.”

Yannick burst out laughing. But I listened seriously, wondering what it meant, knowing it was true. Judy wrote that she loved me. If she loved me, that had to further imply that she didn't want to kill me. That she didn't want to kill my friends. Did she have control of her car? Maybe her car had knowingly killed her, acting upon her wishes. What if Judy had wanted to change her mind? I remembered what the mechanic had told me: The car had fixed itself.

I felt cold, an unnatural chill. I ate a bite of partially frozen brownie. It melted in my mouth. It seemed like the right way to live, having an emergency tray of brownies in the freezer. It also felt right to be in this living room, with these friends. I felt lucky.

“Can I keep my kitten shirt?” I asked.

“Duh,” Yannick said.

He poured a glass of whiskey to go with my brownie. He filled three glasses.

“You have to get rid of that car,” Margaret said.

“Maybe you should write a paper about it first,” Yannick said.

Margaret nodded.

“I have to get serious about writing again,” she said.

That sounded more like the Margaret I knew. The subject had changed and I never had to answer a question about myself, my marriage. I was glad about that. I held my glass of whiskey with both hands, admiring the refection of the gold liquid in the light.

W
E WERE DRUNK WHEN THE
doorbell rang.

“Wrong number,” Yannick said.

This made sense. Except it was not the telephone.

“I am not expecting anybody,” Margaret said.

“Don't answer,” Yannick said.

We didn't. Immediately, it was quiet again. It was quiet in Palo Alto.

“We totally imagined it,” Margaret said, laughing.

“All of us,” Yannick said, “had a simultaneous sensory impression.”

“What did you put in the whiskey?” Margaret asked.

“Margaret was so straight when we were in college,” I told Yannick.

“Everyone was,” Margaret said.

“Not me,” I said.

“You were a mystery,” Margaret said.

“I made sure I threw up before my freshman year.”

“Ahead of the curve,” Yannick said.

The doorbell rang again.

“What time is it?” Margaret said.

I expected it to be the middle of the night. I looked down at my wrist. I was wearing a watch. It was an expensive
watch, a man's watch with a rectangular face and roman numerals, a leather band. It had been a wedding gift from my mother to Hans. She had given us matching watches. I had lost mine but Hans never wore his. It turned out I liked his better anyway and so I wore it. I stared at the watch. I loved this watch. The doorbell rang again. I realized I was looking at the watch because I wanted to know what time it was. I focused on the roman numerals. It was only ten o'clock.

I wondered how Hans had found me here. I had not told him I was going to Palo Alto. I had not returned any of his most recent emails. I knew that I should, but I could not think of what to say. Of course, he would be worried about me, but he could not actually be here. That was impossible. He would have had to get on an airplane.

“People take airplanes all the time,” Judy said.

“Shit,” I said.

It happened again, the doorbell. I started to cry.

“It's just the doorbell,” Yannick said. He scooted over to me on the couch and held my hand. “You don't have to cry.”

“I will get the door,” Margaret said, looking at me, worry on her face.

“I wouldn't do that,” Yannick said.

“You barely answer the phone,” Margaret said.

“I have enough trouble with my email,” Yannick said.

“Me, too,” I said.

The doorbell rang again.

It was the fifth time.

“Coming,” Margaret said, heading to the door.

“Who do you think it is?” I asked Yannick.

“Jehovah's Witness?” he said. “Neighbors complaining about the noise.”

But the music was turned on low.

It wasn't possible that Hans could be there, even if people did take airplanes. He did not like to make decisions without consulting with me first. He did not know that I was in Palo Alto. I sat up straight, wiped the tears from my face with the bottom of my kitten T-shirt. I would want to wash it in the morning. I had a tendency to ruin my clothes. I did not want to ruin this shirt. I wondered if I could take another one. There was a whole box.

I closed my eyes, expecting a snide comment from Judy. But there was nothing. I felt good with my eyes closed. I could hear Margaret talking to someone in the front of the house. Another graduate student, I thought, no big mystery, maybe the person who provided the psychedelic mushrooms the night before. Someone who came for the brownies. Probably she was notorious in the department, not just for her intellect but her baking. Maybe this is what made the difference for Yannick, made him think,
Yes, I will commit to this woman
.
Brownies
. I kept my eyes shut tight, the way I used to when I was a kid, when I used to rub them so hard that I could see a show of fireworks beneath my eyelids, purples and pinks and yellows. I prayed that it wasn't Hans. Please don't be Hans.

The room was much too quiet.

I opened my eyes and Jonathan Beene was standing in front of me. So I had been partially right. It was a man, looking for me.

“Leah,” he said. He actually sank down on his knees so that we were eye level. “Do you know how often I think about you?”

I shook my head.

“I don't know,” I said. There were still tears in my eyes. It did not make sense, how afraid I was. “I have no idea how often you think about me.”

“All the time. Several times a week. Maybe once a day. Before I go to sleep.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

Jonathan Beene blushed.

He did not answer.

“You don't actually think about me,” I said.

But of course he did. He had just said so. Why would he say it if wasn't true? And there he was in Margaret's living room.

I remembered now. We had planned on going to his reception after the lecture. Or Margaret and Yannick were going to go to the reception. Then Margaret had gotten pulled over for speeding and we had forgotten all about it.

“Can I have a drink, please?” Jonathan asked.

It was funny having him there on his knees in front of me. Like a marriage proposal. I could not remember how Hans and I decided to get married. There wasn't a moment. There was a realization. He would have to leave the country if we did not marry. His student visa was expiring. Honestly, I had never been a big fan of marriage. I had my parents' marriage as an example, my mother bitter and unfulfilled, my father uncomprehending of my mother, bored. He wanted to drive to Atlantic City and play blackjack. My mother loathed Atlantic City. They were not the right people for each other. They had been married forty years.

It had been such a long time since I had last seen Jonathan Beene. I hadn't actually been kicked out of college. I probably
wouldn't have been. There had been some kind of joint mediation scheduled, an appointment with a counselor. It was much easier to leave. I had packed my two suitcases and walked to the train station. I had not said good-bye to anyone. I walked down the long driveway that led me away from the college, past the idyllic duck pond, past the Wawa, to the train station. I took the train home. I had let myself in the front door of my parents' house. My timing had been good. My mother had made meatballs and spaghetti for dinner.