join them, had not yet arrived. He'd been finishing last-minute preparations for the GM Motorama, the traditional unveiling of the "cars of tomorrow." Over oysters Rockefeller, Ginny Warren was once again turning nostalgic as a way of forgetting her husband's absence.
"Imagine the nerve he had." She lit a Pall Mall and arranged her Scotch and ashtray in front of her. "Grandpa Peterson was no pushover, you know. Your father would deliver a dozen tulips each day to my dormitory, but your grandpa had tipped off the housemother. She'd intercept the flowers and send them to the school infirmary."
"So why didn't Grandpa Peterson fire Daddy?" Lydia asked.
"He couldn't fire him. Your father was a prodigy. Others knew more about engines, but no one before Gilbert had such a knack for marrying the machine to the body. Contracts doubled when your dad was there." Ginny inhaled from her unfiltered cigarette and lifted her glass. "Yes, your father was a great romantic."
"That's a little hard to believe." Lydia pushed aside the plate of oysters that her mother had offered her.
At the time, Lydia could not understand what she knew now: that her father
was
a romantic. Besides the flowers, he sent mash notes and countless drawings of young lovers driving down country lanes in long black cars of his own design. The best of these pictures had hung in Ivan's bedroom ever since he was a boy. At Peterson Coach & Body, Gilbert had suffered the wrath of his would-be father-in-law: longer hours, subtle acts of sabotage, public criticisms about his work. Only a true romantic would have continued to believe that a short, jittery, out-of-nowhere swain could win the heart of someone so seemingly unattainable. He must have known somehow that Ginny was a dreamer, too.
Ginny liked to tell the story about their secret marriage at the Grand Rapids courthouse, a week after Gilbert received a call from Preston Tucker, a salesman and engineer who had talked Ford into financing race cars for him to build. When Tucker invited Gilbert to move to Detroit and work under his guidance, Ginny, in particular, jumped at the opportunity. She left her family, her religion, and the social circle she had come to disdain, and never turned back. Four years later, Peterson Coach & Body would shut down, one of the countless casualties of Ford's and GM's decision to manufacture their own chassis and bodies. Lydia was not surprised to learn that her grandfather, who died at the height of the war with half a million dollars in debt, never forgave his daughter for marrying the country boy who had once been his star employee.
Ginny might have explained that her husband had just as much ambition as Peterson did, and that they had gone to the motor city not to spite him but to make the best for their family. But instead she hid away in a series of houses, in Dearborn when her husband worked for Ford and Tucker, in Indian Village and Farmington Hills when he moved to GM. And she drank. And smoked. She played bridge and took on civic projects with the wives of other executives.
It was as if, Lydia thought now, her mother had been too terrified to admit that something had gone wrong. She hadn't meant to marry an executive. She had married an agnostic, the son of a dairy farmer. Out of love? Out of rebellion? It didn't matter. All that mattered was her unwillingness to make peace with her past. And when her parents died within eighteen months of each other, any opportunity to do so vanished. As a result, Lydia had always thought that her mother lived out her days in a kind of perpetual mourningâfor her parents, for the life she had imagined but never got to lead.
Lydia promised herself that night at the Amberson that she would not allow such sadness to descend upon
her
family. She would have more than one child, and those children would rally around their parents, and if they ever left home, they would go without anger or resentment. To Lydia, the past was sacred, as precious as
"Imagine the nerve he had." She lit a Pall Mall and arranged her Scotch and ashtray in front of her. "Grandpa Peterson was no pushover, you know. Your father would deliver a dozen tulips each day to my dormitory, but your grandpa had tipped off the housemother. She'd intercept the flowers and send them to the school infirmary."
"So why didn't Grandpa Peterson fire Daddy?" Lydia asked.
"He couldn't fire him. Your father was a prodigy. Others knew more about engines, but no one before Gilbert had such a knack for marrying the machine to the body. Contracts doubled when your dad was there." Ginny inhaled from her unfiltered cigarette and lifted her glass. "Yes, your father was a great romantic."
"That's a little hard to believe." Lydia pushed aside the plate of oysters that her mother had offered her.
At the time, Lydia could not understand what she knew now: that her father
was
a romantic. Besides the flowers, he sent mash notes and countless drawings of young lovers driving down country lanes in long black cars of his own design. The best of these pictures had hung in Ivan's bedroom ever since he was a boy. At Peterson Coach & Body, Gilbert had suffered the wrath of his would-be father-in-law: longer hours, subtle acts of sabotage, public criticisms about his work. Only a true romantic would have continued to believe that a short, jittery, out-of-nowhere swain could win the heart of someone so seemingly unattainable. He must have known somehow that Ginny was a dreamer, too.
Ginny liked to tell the story about their secret marriage at the Grand Rapids courthouse, a week after Gilbert received a call from Preston Tucker, a salesman and engineer who had talked Ford into financing race cars for him to build. When Tucker invited Gilbert to move to Detroit and work under his guidance, Ginny, in particular, jumped at the opportunity. She left her family, her religion, and the social circle she had come to disdain, and never turned back. Four years later, Peterson Coach & Body would shut down, one of the countless casualties of Ford's and GM's decision to manufacture their own chassis and bodies. Lydia was not surprised to learn that her grandfather, who died at the height of the war with half a million dollars in debt, never forgave his daughter for marrying the country boy who had once been his star employee.
Ginny might have explained that her husband had just as much ambition as Peterson did, and that they had gone to the motor city not to spite him but to make the best for their family. But instead she hid away in a series of houses, in Dearborn when her husband worked for Ford and Tucker, in Indian Village and Farmington Hills when he moved to GM. And she drank. And smoked. She played bridge and took on civic projects with the wives of other executives.
It was as if, Lydia thought now, her mother had been too terrified to admit that something had gone wrong. She hadn't meant to marry an executive. She had married an agnostic, the son of a dairy farmer. Out of love? Out of rebellion? It didn't matter. All that mattered was her unwillingness to make peace with her past. And when her parents died within eighteen months of each other, any opportunity to do so vanished. As a result, Lydia had always thought that her mother lived out her days in a kind of perpetual mourningâfor her parents, for the life she had imagined but never got to lead.
Lydia promised herself that night at the Amberson that she would not allow such sadness to descend upon
her
family. She would have more than one child, and those children would rally around their parents, and if they ever left home, they would go without anger or resentment. To Lydia, the past was sacred, as precious as
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