conspicuous, too. Out here, its own provenance might follow it—that old man with the accent in the expensive Mercedes. He is tempted to simply leave it in the lot of a bed-and-breakfast one morning—check out at the front desk, come out into the sunshine, call a cab to take them to a car dealership, simply pretend the Mercedes isn’t there. But that would attract undue attention, too:
a man just left his Mercedes one morning
.
West of Pierre, they drive along the strip of car dealerships, flags and banners waving in the Western breeze in a proud and antic display of local spirit, standing firm against the windswept barren plains.
Peke pulls into a Ford dealership, parks the Mercedes right at the door. He and Rose enter politely, respectfully, as if into the hushed foyer of a funeral home.
“It’s starting to give me trouble,” he explains to the salesman. “I’m seventy-two. I’m too old for car trouble. I want to drive out of here in a Ford.”
There’s an American sentiment for you, Rose
, he thinks with some amusement.
Is that American enough for you?
“You want to go from that Mercedes to a Ford?” A prairie frankness. The salesman doesn’t bother to hide his confusion. His bland startlement and obvious disapproval.
“A used Ford,” adds Peke, even less comprehensibly. The salesman nods, not knowing what else to do. “A used but reliable Taurus, for example,” Peke explains. “Except we don’t like the new body style.” Pretending some forethought to this seeming impulsiveness.
They check the Blue Book for a price on the Mercedes. While the salesman and the manager test-drive the Mercedes down the dealership strip and back, Peke and Rose stand out front, watching them, wordless, hands shielding eyes from the bright sun in a Western pose, as if counting cattle. The manager returns, jots a credit for the Blue Book amount on a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, hands it to Peke. It all happens quickly—with the wordless, unspoken efficiency of what Peke imagines as an American frontier transaction. A settler’s quick trade with the Indians. They are clearly afraid of Peke changing his mind.
With the salesman’s help, Peke picks out a gray gunboat of a Ford Fairlane.
The salesman moves their luggage into the Ford for them, and they thank him. The manager scribbles out a check for thedifference. Mercedes minus Fairlane. There is more tight-lipped, nearly wordless outpost trading, until there is a handshake. Peke will deposit the check quickly, hoping they will speculate only briefly, conclude Peke’s reversal of fortune, and think nothing more about it after that.
“We have millions of dollars in the market, don’t we?” she queries him calmly, staring out the window, the scenery of the American West rushing at them, running down the side panels of the strange car like liquid.
Millions in CDs in the bank
, she thinks, holding her gaze steady, almost haughtily.
Our homeowners’ policies have never had a claim before this. We could replace almost everything in a blink, without batting an eye, without missing a beat. Get anything we need or want.
She knows he knows it. Saying it aloud won’t make the point any more obvious or compelling to him. So she shifts her thoughts away, addresses something higher.
“You’re not putting us at risk, I hope.”
Because it’s not worth risk. We still have time ahead of us, years to be happy, to enjoy our children, the tribe of our grandchildren that grows as steadily as those enumerated Bible tribes.
But I can’t tell if you care about any of that at all.
I’m your last possession. Your last chattel. Even if I am just chattel to you, don’t risk losing me.
This unsaid, too.
“I won’t put us at risk,” he says. As if he has calmly and accurately read every thought in her staunchly expressionless face. “I promise. If it comes down to that, I’ll back away. We’ll just go on to Santa Barbara.”
At any moment, of course, any moment he
a man just left his Mercedes one morning
.
West of Pierre, they drive along the strip of car dealerships, flags and banners waving in the Western breeze in a proud and antic display of local spirit, standing firm against the windswept barren plains.
Peke pulls into a Ford dealership, parks the Mercedes right at the door. He and Rose enter politely, respectfully, as if into the hushed foyer of a funeral home.
“It’s starting to give me trouble,” he explains to the salesman. “I’m seventy-two. I’m too old for car trouble. I want to drive out of here in a Ford.”
There’s an American sentiment for you, Rose
, he thinks with some amusement.
Is that American enough for you?
“You want to go from that Mercedes to a Ford?” A prairie frankness. The salesman doesn’t bother to hide his confusion. His bland startlement and obvious disapproval.
“A used Ford,” adds Peke, even less comprehensibly. The salesman nods, not knowing what else to do. “A used but reliable Taurus, for example,” Peke explains. “Except we don’t like the new body style.” Pretending some forethought to this seeming impulsiveness.
They check the Blue Book for a price on the Mercedes. While the salesman and the manager test-drive the Mercedes down the dealership strip and back, Peke and Rose stand out front, watching them, wordless, hands shielding eyes from the bright sun in a Western pose, as if counting cattle. The manager returns, jots a credit for the Blue Book amount on a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, hands it to Peke. It all happens quickly—with the wordless, unspoken efficiency of what Peke imagines as an American frontier transaction. A settler’s quick trade with the Indians. They are clearly afraid of Peke changing his mind.
With the salesman’s help, Peke picks out a gray gunboat of a Ford Fairlane.
The salesman moves their luggage into the Ford for them, and they thank him. The manager scribbles out a check for thedifference. Mercedes minus Fairlane. There is more tight-lipped, nearly wordless outpost trading, until there is a handshake. Peke will deposit the check quickly, hoping they will speculate only briefly, conclude Peke’s reversal of fortune, and think nothing more about it after that.
“We have millions of dollars in the market, don’t we?” she queries him calmly, staring out the window, the scenery of the American West rushing at them, running down the side panels of the strange car like liquid.
Millions in CDs in the bank
, she thinks, holding her gaze steady, almost haughtily.
Our homeowners’ policies have never had a claim before this. We could replace almost everything in a blink, without batting an eye, without missing a beat. Get anything we need or want.
She knows he knows it. Saying it aloud won’t make the point any more obvious or compelling to him. So she shifts her thoughts away, addresses something higher.
“You’re not putting us at risk, I hope.”
Because it’s not worth risk. We still have time ahead of us, years to be happy, to enjoy our children, the tribe of our grandchildren that grows as steadily as those enumerated Bible tribes.
But I can’t tell if you care about any of that at all.
I’m your last possession. Your last chattel. Even if I am just chattel to you, don’t risk losing me.
This unsaid, too.
“I won’t put us at risk,” he says. As if he has calmly and accurately read every thought in her staunchly expressionless face. “I promise. If it comes down to that, I’ll back away. We’ll just go on to Santa Barbara.”
At any moment, of course, any moment he
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