Driving Lessons

by Zoe Fishman

  “So what brings you to Farmwood?” asked Ray.

  “Husband got a job,” I replied through chattering teeth.

  “Hey, you all right? Pull over. Right here, that’s it. Now put the car in park.” I did as he instructed, suddenly freezing in the air-conditioning and longing for a sweater.

  “Sorry, Ray, I haven’t been behind the wheel in almost twenty years.”

  “Hey, hey—don’t apologize. I understand. It’s a big deal to be drivin’ again. It would be crazy if you weren’t nervous.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, it would.” I exhaled. “Okay, I feel less like a lunatic. Let’s try this again.” I put the car in drive and started back up.

  “You know, you’re not even a bad driver,” said Ray. “This woman I took out yesterday—she wouldn’t stay in her lane.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, she just couldn’t get it. Two of the longest hours of my life. Hey, make a right here. Nice. Very good.” A wave of pride washed over me, followed by immediate embarrassment that a completed right-hand turn was the highlight of my day.

  “Hey, Sarah, you have to make a complete stop at the stop signs. Don’t get cocky on me, now.”

  “Oh, of course. Sorry. I can’t even imagine how stressful this gig must be. You must have the patience of Mother Teresa.”

  “Yeah, it is what it is. Just happy to have some money coming in, you know? I got three kids to feed.”

  “You do? How old?”

  “Eleven, seven, and three. All boys.” He smiled triumphantly. “You think you know shit about life, have yourself some kids. They’ll change the game.”

  I nodded absently.

  “You got kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You want ’em?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I had never said that aloud to anyone. Not even Mona. Where the hell was Mona, anyway? Had I done something to annoy her or was it merely an “out of sight, out of mind” scenario? It was hard to believe that that was the case. Our fourteen years of friendship was bigger than that. Or so I thought.

  “Make a right here, onto the main road,” said Ray, interrupting my inner monologue.

  “The main road?” I asked, alarmed. I stopped the car. “Already?”

  “You’re doin’ great, Sarah. We’ll just get on it for a little bit. We can get right off if you need to.” I gulped. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I put my foot on the gas. “Wait, wait! Just one more time around the neighborhood. Then I’ll be ready.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  So the driving lesson went well?” asked Josh as I applied my mascara dutifully in front of a mirror that magnified my face to obscene proportions. I was practicing for my first day of work tomorrow.

  “Yeah. Ray is cool. I feel a little bit better about things.” I smoothed out a sticky black blob with my thumb and forefinger.

  “Good. I’m proud of you.” He kissed the back of my neck. “How do you stand this thing?” He stared horrifyingly at his reflection. “No wonder you’re so neurotic. I can see straight through to my cartilage, practically.” I switched off its accompanying fluorescent light.

  “So don’t look. This is not a toy for the faint of heart.”

  “You look beautiful, Sar.” He surveyed me appraisingly. I wasn’t sure if I would ever get over the fact that he truly seemed to mean it when he told me I was beautiful—no irony, no sense of begrudged obligation. I blushed.

  “Thanks, you too.”

  Josh had the uncanny ability to look cool without appearing to have tried too hard to do so. His jeans hung just so; his plaid button-down was just the right amount of crumpled; his shoes were perfectly scuffed and his hair ideally rumpled. An island of scalp was just beginning to make itself known at the back of his head, but somehow even that was okay.

  I assumed that this talent had something to do with his mathematically inclined brain—statistically, if each piece of his wardrobe was the slightest bit off, it would inevitably add up to perfection. That said, he was also a bit of a metrosexual—there were more than a few facial and hair products in his bathroom drawer—but that was not his fault. A man couldn’t live in New York for fifteen years and emerge without a compulsion to moisturize and deep-condition.

  “Thanks. You ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” I grabbed my bag and followed him down the hallway, switching lights off as I went. “What sort of bar is this again?”

  We were headed to a faculty drinks night at a bar near campus. As far as ambience went, I did not have high expectations, but I was looking forward to some human interaction. I needed some friends to add to my paltry collection, which currently began and ended with Ray, whom I technically employed. I checked my phone. Still no Mona.

  “Oh, you know, just a divey place. Think football and beer.”

  “Great.”

  “Sarah, don’t be a snob. I heard they have a good jukebox. And wings!”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Josh, you know how I feel about food that stains your fingernails.”

  “Hey, you want to drive?” He tossed me the keys with a smirk.

  “No, jerk. Not yet.” I tossed them back.

  “Why am I a jerk?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay? There’s no need to put the pressure on.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, sorry.”

  “Are Iris and Mac going to be there tonight?” I asked once we were on the road.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  I bristled, despite myself. Iris made me feel like a catty cliché. I wanted to start over—to erase my initial perception and behavior. Women who resented other women for being good-looking and able to wear white jeans were lame on principle.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can be friends.”

  “Definitely,” said Josh. “They could show us the ropes around here.”

  We pulled into the dirt parking lot of what appeared to be a large wooden outhouse. The front porch sagged under the weight of the beams holding up the roof, and Christmas lights were strung haphazardly around its perimeter. A few people, cloaked in a gray fog of nicotine, smoked outside.

  “This is it?” I asked.

  “Sarah,” pleaded Josh.

  “How is it staying upright? Chewing gum and staples?”

  “Very funny. This place has been here forever, apparently. We’re safe. And since when did you become Bob Vila?”

  “Fine, I’ll stop. Just point me toward the alcohol.” I took Josh’s hand and we made our way inside.

  “Professor Simon?” At the entrance, a cherub-faced boy-man extinguished his cigarette quickly before removing his baseball cap. His plaid button-down strained slightly at its seams. “It’s me, Randy, from your calculus class.”

  “Oh yes, of course, hi. How ya doing?” Josh gave him his best teacher salute and we continued inside.

  “Did you have any idea who he was?”

  “Not the slightest. But cut me a break. There are sixty people in that class and it’s only the second week of school.”

  “Is it weird that we’re drinking among your students?”

  Josh led the way through the crowd, which congregated along the bar like honeybees. “No, not really. Hey, Bob!” Josh dropped my hand to wave at an older, round man whose bald head gleamed like a lightbulb.

  “Hi there, Josh.” The man lifted his glass of what appeared to be bourbon. “Cheers!”

  “This is my wife, Sarah.”

  Josh nudged me forward slightly, a habit of his that I found incredibly irritating. Josh behaved like a pageant mom at his faculty events, watching my interactions with focused intensity. I was always surprised that he managed to refrain from mouthing the words he wanted me to utter.

  “Hi, Bob, nice to meet you.” We shook hands.

  “I’m gonna get a drink at the bar,” Josh said. “Sarah, the usual?”

  “Actually no, I think I’ll take a whisk
ey tonight.” Josh raised his eyebrows in surprise but knew better than to challenge my beverage selection in front of Bob, who was sipping his own tawny liquid with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Okay. Be right back.”

  “These things are a drag, huh?” he asked.

  “Oh no, not at all, I just, well—being ‘the wife of’ instead of Sarah usually requires something stronger than white wine.”

  “Touché.” He raised his eyebrows. “Notice my own wife is not here. Or still married to me, for that matter. I’m sure you two would have a lot to commiserate about.” He took another sip as I fidgeted awkwardly. “What do you do, Sarah?”

  “I’m sort of in the middle of a transition at the moment. I was in the marketing game in New York.” I wasn’t ready to admit to my Bauble Head–employee status yet. Not here, anyway. Bob nodded, looking bored.

  Josh returned with my drink, and I took a giant slug before being whisked away. I spent the rest of the evening being passed like a platter of hors d’oeuvres at a wedding cocktail hour—from this professor to that one, nodding politely and trying my best to not appear too drunk, which I was one drink away from becoming. Only when Patrick Fitzpatrick, the chair of the sociology department, appeared to have two heads did I switch to water. Or rather, a water was seamlessly slipped into my hand by a wary Josh.

  “Is it obvious?” I tried to whisper.

  “You’re swaying. Here, sit on this stool.”

  “Josh, if you squint, the whole room lights up like a Christmas tree,” I informed him.

  “Sar, you’re wasted.”

  “I’m not, I’m really not. Okay, I am. Sorry.” He lowered his forehead to mine and pressed up against it gently, his eyes just millimeters away from my own. “Can we go back to New York?” I asked.

  “What?” He stood up abruptly.

  “I don’t want to sell rhinestone jewelry at a strip mall.” All evening, as I was passed from Josh colleague to Josh colleague, my discontent had been simmering. I missed cool bars. I missed having friends. I missed me! Who was I here other than Josh’s wife? The idea of the efforts I had forced myself to make—the job and the driving lessons—exhausted me suddenly. Why had I come here again? Just as I was about to say all this, a wine-colored fingernail suddenly tapped his right shoulder. He swiveled to respond.

  “Go left, go left!” I mumbled. On cue, a head appeared there. And not just any head. Iris’s perfectly formed and naturally blond head—each wave in her hair a seemingly effortless S of bounce and shine.

  “Hey there,” she purred. “How are ya?” She gave Josh a hug and reached down to squeeze my shoulder. I felt impossibly short and toadlike—perched, or rather slumped, over on the metal stool like an afterthought. I forced myself to sit up straight.

  She and Josh launched into what appeared to be a passionate conversation, about what I could not say. I couldn’t hear a thing over the noise of the bar, which was comprised of raucous football conversation and a jukebox devoted solely to country music.

  I shouldn’t have said that to Josh about New York, I thought to myself as I watched Iris entrance him. Wait, was she not wearing a bra? Really? I narrowed my eyes and focused. A hint of nipple; a slight curve that suggested the French countryside—nope, she wasn’t. The nerve! I hated her. That was it. Immaculate white jeans and no bra? These were impossible friendship obstacles to overcome, lame or not. And where was Mac, by the way? Had he dodged Faculty Night? Lucky.

  My purse vibrated. A phone call? For me? I hadn’t had one of those in what felt like years. I plumbed its depths like a deranged sand crab.

  “Mona!” I yelled, temporarily jolting Josh and Iris out of their conversation. “Mona!” I uprooted myself from my stool, landing on wobbly feet.

  “Sarah! Where are you? The rodeo? I can’t hear a thing.”

  “I know! It’s so loud in here. Hold on a second.” I pushed through the crowd with no apologies. “Let me just get outside.”

  “Sarah! I can’t hear anything. I’m going to bed, anyway. Call me back tomorrow, okay?”

  “No, no! Please. It’ll be quiet in a second, I swear. Just give me one second.” The line went dead. Outside at last, I desperately tried to dial her, but it went straight to voice mail.

  “What the hell?” I whined. Why was she being such a hardass? I looked at the time. Midnight. Okay, fine. Bedtime. But still! Doesn’t she miss me like I miss her?

  I wove my way over to the bench and plopped down dejectedly. A girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen smoked a cigarette beside me and pouted.

  “Want one?” she asked through the haze. I nodded hungrily and lit up.

  7

  To avoid last-minute moves, look down the road ten to fifteen seconds ahead of your vehicle so you can see hazards clearly.

  I lay in bed like a dehydrated zombie, fascinated by the ceiling fan. Get up, I commanded myself for the eleventh time, to no avail. Get out of bed and get into the shower. Round and round it went.

  Josh slept soundly beside me, his body radiating heat like a well-tended fireplace. I curled toward him lazily and traced the outline of his right shoulder blade with my finger. His skin was impossibly smooth. A wave of affection washed over me, quickly followed by annoyance. Get up and get me a glass of water, I willed him silently. Nothing. Not even a stir of acknowledgment. I sighed loudly.

  Okay, here we go. One-two-three. I gingerly removed the sheet from my body and placed my feet on the floor. Already the room was spinning, and I was not yet vertical. Brown alcohol is not your friend. It is the devil. Don’t forget that again. I tried to open my mouth, but its dryness acted as a preventative lock. I stood, finally, and the room swiveled slightly beneath my feet. I shuffled to the bathroom like an octogenarian en route to a subpar early-bird buffet.

  In the shower, I reflected on the night’s events. I didn’t think I had done anything grossly inappropriate. I hadn’t said anything catty to Iris, had I? I didn’t think so. But had I had any weird conversations with Josh’s colleagues? That was a distinct possibility. Or worse yet, his students? Had my cigarette bum turned into a conversation? This was ringing a faint bell and making me queasy in the process. I squirted a mound of soap onto my loofah and scrubbed myself absently. The bathroom door opened. Clank went the toilet seat. I peeked out from behind the curtain.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I croaked.

  “Hello,” he croaked back.

  “Are you as hungover as I am?”

  “Probably not.” I noticed a distinct lack of affection in his voice. This worried me. I closed the curtain and replayed the night’s events in my head. My memory seemed to end abruptly after I had bummed that cigarette.

  The door closed as Josh left, and I turned off the water. Snapshots began to filter through the muddy waters of my brain as I squeezed the water from my hair. Oh no. I had been advising those poor girls on the harsh realities of the postcollege dating experience in my signature too-much-to-drink, Let me tell you somethin’, girllll way. It was not exactly Josh’s favorite persona of mine.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door. Josh lay on his back on the rumpled bed, like an unmotivated, boxer-brief-wearing snow angel.

  “Josh?”

  He grunted in response.

  “Josh, did I make an ass out of myself last night?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he mumbled. “If ‘myself’ means me as well.”

  “Oh no.” I sat on the bed beside him. His eyes remained closed. “What happened?”

  “All I know is that when I came looking for you, you were holding court on the front porch with a gaggle of nineteen-year-old girls surrounding you, hanging on your every word.”

  “Was I—?”

  “Yes, you were definitely milking it.”

  I rubbed my temples. “It’s coming back to me.”

  “What were you saying to them? They were transfixed.”

  “Oh, I think I was just answering some questions they had about New York.”
This was not entirely untrue. “None of them were your students, right?”

  “No, at least I don’t think so. But that doesn’t mean that they’re not friends with my students. Whatever you said to them could easily be passed on.”

  I cringed. “I don’t think I did any real damage.”

  “Okay, let’s hope not. Although, who knows, maybe this could lead to a new career for you.” I stood up too quickly and immediately sat back down. “A ‘Dear Abby’ for the college set.”

  “Yeah, right. Speaking of, I have work in an hour. What a great impression I’m going to make. I haven’t been this hungover since I was in college myself.” I massaged my temples. “Which was around four thousand years ago. By the way, where was Mac?”

  “He was on call.”

  “He’s a doctor?” I asked incredulously.

  “An orthopedic surgeon.”

  “Of course he is. They’re like a human Ken and Barbie. How long have they been married, anyway?”

  “Not sure. You can ask her yourself, though, on your coffee date today.” He yawned.

  “Say what?”

  “You asked her to coffee last night, as we were leaving.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up. You did.”

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  “Sarah, why would I fuck with you about this? You made a big to-do about it, and she agreed to meet you. I was standing right there.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Beats me. Although I think it’s a good idea.” I put my head in my hands and peeked through my fingers. I needed a pedicure desperately. Mitzi would have a heart attack if she knew these puppies lurked underneath my shoes.

  “Okay, well, do you know where I’m meeting her? Or what time?”

  “You typed it into your phone.” He grabbed it from my bedside table and dropped it on the bed next to me. I picked it up and sure enough, there it was. Coff w Ira aft work.

  “I can’t think of anything I want to do less. Great.”

  “Are you driving yourself?” he asked hopefully.

  “Josh, I’m not ready.”