been saying to the old man and you can tell she’s decided to like you.
“We can all use a little luck,” the old man says.
“Luck is good,” you say.
“Take it for a spin, see what you think.”
“Are you sure?”
“You want to try it, don’t you? That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Jackie O. drove that car, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hers was green.”
“It’s a beautiful car,” you say.
Flora walks you to the door. “Le gusta usted,” she says, gesturing to the old man. “No como los demás.”
You shrug, you don’t understand.
“The others.” She shakes her head. “He don’t like. Pero usted. He like you.”
Now you nod and smile.
“Usted puede conducir alrededor del vecindario.” With her hand, she draws a circle in the air to explain, then hands you the keys. “Take your time.”
The rain has stopped, but the sky has a greenish tint and you know it will rain some more. The wind is strong. It gusts at your skirt, your hair, deconstructing the image you so carefully assembled this morning and that has now become completely irrelevant. You yank out your shirt, loosen your collar. You’d like to remove your stockings and heels and just be barefoot, but you suppose it’s not a good idea under the circumstances. The car waits for you in the driveway. There is a gust of wind and a splattering of rain and then something strange happens—the sun beams through the clouds, so bright that for several seconds you are blinded by it—and then just as abruptly it vanishes, leaving you cold. Another gust of wind sweeps the For Sale sign off the windshield and into the air. You watch the piece of paper sail through the air to the ground, rest a moment, then resume its flight down the grassy incline, into the road where it is swiftly trampled by a passing car.
The car is not locked. You climb into it, laughing a little, feeling like a movie star. For a moment you just sit there, smelling the old leather, the faintest scent of roses. Inside the glove compartment—what a strange old term it is— glove compartment —you find a pair of gloves. They are white calf and luxurious. You try them on, but they are too small. You do not have thin, elegant hands like the magician’s dead wife. Your hands are square, simply manicured, the nails cut short. You examine the paperwork. The old man’s wife was named Inez. In the photo he’d shown you she was wearing heavy beads and a white blouse and long dangling earrings with stones. You say her name aloud, Inez . You put the key into the ignition and the engine fires up. You laugh out loud like a child. As Flora suggested, you drive around the neighborhood, passing large elegant homes with empty yards. You never see people outside. It’s the strangest thing about L.A.—beautiful lawns with no one on them. It makes you feel as though you are the last woman on earth after some apocalypse. It is one of the reasons you took the house in your neighborhood; you like the street, the crooked sidewalks, the eclectic collection of neighbors. It reminds you of where you grew up, in the “poor” section of Short Hills, near Millburn Village. At night, from your bedroom window overlooking the backyard, you’d watch the trains fly past full of sleepy commuters on their way home from the city. The modified ranch had a separate section where your parents saw their patients, totally removed from the rest of the house. On your days off from school, you’d see them—the patients—pulling up in their cars, trying not to look conspicuous, walking up the short driveway and slipping through the side entrance, a door with a small rectangular window of shaded glass. As a kid, your parents’ profession embarrassed you. You rarely had friends over after school; if you did, you’d spy on the patients and make fun of them, but you never really thought it was funny. In high school, a brilliant student, you retreated into your studies.
“We can all use a little luck,” the old man says.
“Luck is good,” you say.
“Take it for a spin, see what you think.”
“Are you sure?”
“You want to try it, don’t you? That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Jackie O. drove that car, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hers was green.”
“It’s a beautiful car,” you say.
Flora walks you to the door. “Le gusta usted,” she says, gesturing to the old man. “No como los demás.”
You shrug, you don’t understand.
“The others.” She shakes her head. “He don’t like. Pero usted. He like you.”
Now you nod and smile.
“Usted puede conducir alrededor del vecindario.” With her hand, she draws a circle in the air to explain, then hands you the keys. “Take your time.”
The rain has stopped, but the sky has a greenish tint and you know it will rain some more. The wind is strong. It gusts at your skirt, your hair, deconstructing the image you so carefully assembled this morning and that has now become completely irrelevant. You yank out your shirt, loosen your collar. You’d like to remove your stockings and heels and just be barefoot, but you suppose it’s not a good idea under the circumstances. The car waits for you in the driveway. There is a gust of wind and a splattering of rain and then something strange happens—the sun beams through the clouds, so bright that for several seconds you are blinded by it—and then just as abruptly it vanishes, leaving you cold. Another gust of wind sweeps the For Sale sign off the windshield and into the air. You watch the piece of paper sail through the air to the ground, rest a moment, then resume its flight down the grassy incline, into the road where it is swiftly trampled by a passing car.
The car is not locked. You climb into it, laughing a little, feeling like a movie star. For a moment you just sit there, smelling the old leather, the faintest scent of roses. Inside the glove compartment—what a strange old term it is— glove compartment —you find a pair of gloves. They are white calf and luxurious. You try them on, but they are too small. You do not have thin, elegant hands like the magician’s dead wife. Your hands are square, simply manicured, the nails cut short. You examine the paperwork. The old man’s wife was named Inez. In the photo he’d shown you she was wearing heavy beads and a white blouse and long dangling earrings with stones. You say her name aloud, Inez . You put the key into the ignition and the engine fires up. You laugh out loud like a child. As Flora suggested, you drive around the neighborhood, passing large elegant homes with empty yards. You never see people outside. It’s the strangest thing about L.A.—beautiful lawns with no one on them. It makes you feel as though you are the last woman on earth after some apocalypse. It is one of the reasons you took the house in your neighborhood; you like the street, the crooked sidewalks, the eclectic collection of neighbors. It reminds you of where you grew up, in the “poor” section of Short Hills, near Millburn Village. At night, from your bedroom window overlooking the backyard, you’d watch the trains fly past full of sleepy commuters on their way home from the city. The modified ranch had a separate section where your parents saw their patients, totally removed from the rest of the house. On your days off from school, you’d see them—the patients—pulling up in their cars, trying not to look conspicuous, walking up the short driveway and slipping through the side entrance, a door with a small rectangular window of shaded glass. As a kid, your parents’ profession embarrassed you. You rarely had friends over after school; if you did, you’d spy on the patients and make fun of them, but you never really thought it was funny. In high school, a brilliant student, you retreated into your studies.
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