Streetlights Like Fireworks

by Pandolfe, David

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she says.

  “Come on, just tell me.”

  I try to see her phone but she switches it to her other hand. “Only if you promise to remain calm.”

  “I’m calm,” I say. “Really. So, where now?”

  “Well, let me put it this way. What road trip would be complete if it didn’t involve two coasts?”

  17

  Driving Lessons

  Two days later, we approach Seattle. The same city that gave the world Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, Postal Service and the Fleet Foxes, to name a few. And, of course, the Foo Fighters. As we drive toward the skyline from the east with the snowcapped mass of Mount Rainier calling for attention from the south, I keep thinking about how we’ve just driven across the entire country together. It seems impossible, like I have to be dreaming. But the towering spire of the Space Needle, gleaming in the sunlight, offers a vivid reminder that this is no dream.

  We play the radio loud, confirming that the music scene is alive and well here. We flip through stations, lots of them good, but finally land on one called KEXP. An actual DJ keeps playing amazing music, mostly current stuff, some of which I’ve never heard before, but also sneaking in songs from the Smiths, the Cure and even older tunes from the Beatles and Bob Dylan. I’ve never heard a station like it before.

  The GPS lady continues prattling away in the background, which reminds me to see how Lauren’s dealing with the roads splitting off all over the place and the zillions of cars whizzing past. I never realized just how huge Seattle is, but compared to Richmond or the other cities we’ve passed through, this city is enormous, spreading out in every direction.

  “How’s it going?”

  Lauren frowns, her eyes locked on the road. “Awesome, you?”

  “Sorry, but it’s just so perfect, right? This is totally the kind of city I would have imagined her living in. But how the hell has she kept from being noticed here?”

  Lauren glances at me, then turns down the radio. “Look at the GPS. Take note of the estimated arrival time, in particular.”

  I check to see that we still have over an hour to go. The map also shows islands. “What’s up with that?”

  “Well, I’m just taking an educated guess but I have the distinct feeling she lives at least an hour away. On an island. Have I mentioned that I’m getting sick of driving?”

  Understandable, definitely. So, I don’t remind her that she was the one, technically, to launch this road trip in the first place. “I guess I owe you one?”

  “You owe it to yourself,” Lauren says.

  I’m not sure what she means by that but I really want to turn the radio back up. You just don’t hear Passion Pit on the radio all that often back home.

  ~~~

  Before long, the city I’d only just fallen in love with keeps shrinking into the distance behind us. It definitely doesn’t help that the music also gets more fuzzy and starts to fade. I check the GPS map again. “Hang on, wasn’t the island just on the other side of the city?”

  Lauren shakes her head. “That was the first island. She’s on the second one, north of here. Way north.”

  “But don’t we have to get to the first island to get to the second?”

  Lauren changes lanes and accelerates to keep pace with traffic. “Just another educated guess, but unless the islands are moving there’s probably a more direct route once we’re farther north.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “In that case, I guess we never get there.”

  “I’m starting to hate you,” I say.

  “Which I’d believe if you didn’t totally adore me,” Lauren says.

  I crack a smile. “I don’t adore you. I just sort of endure you.” A total lie, obviously, and it isn’t like Lauren to let me get away with it.

  “Adore, endure, they go together. Just a matter of time. With any luck, it all comes full circle again.”

  “Based on experience?”

  “How freaking old do I look? So, listen, are you ready to drive?”

  “I don’t have my license,” I remind her.

  Lauren raises an eyebrow. “A fair point but you do have a permit. And driving is basically ninety-nine percent observation. You seem pretty observant to me lately.”

  I don’t feel the least bit sure. Still, it seems only fair to try driving for a while. “Should I have maybe offered days ago?”

  Lauren shrugs and changes lanes again. She really has the whole lane-changing thing down, come to think of it. I’ve been totally taking her driving skills for granted.

  “You needed time,” she says. “It’s all good. Think you can you handle it?”

  And the thing is, it makes as much sense as anything else. Which means it makes no sense at all. Which, I guess, is the entire point of everything we’ve done together so far. We’ve basically blown past anything making sense long ago.

  “Let’s do this,” I say.

  “Awesome, because there’s a rest area coming up right…” Lauren points at the giant sign. “Here!”

  As soon as we take the exit, the GPS lady says, “Recalculating. Make a U-Turn as soon as possible.”

  Which would have made sense days ago. Now, it’s way too late to consider her advice.

  ~~~

  I get to know the VW bus in the rest area parking lot first, testing the acceleration, brakes and steering. During my few practice sessions with my father, we used my mother’s Volvo, so this is a totally different experience sitting up high, steering wheel angled like a large platter at forty-five degrees. But driving is driving, I tell myself, and this won’t be too different from when I navigated the streets of Edmonds. Still, I’m not exactly prepared as I tentatively merge onto the highway. All the same, here I am, suddenly driving illegally on the other side of the country.

  “Check your mirror,” Lauren says. “Anything coming?”

  I check the driver’s side mirror. “Looks good.”

  “Cool. Use your blinker, then change lanes.”

  I do as instructed, merging another lane over.

  “You’re doing great,” Lauren says, even as a car buzzes past, the driver leaning on his horn. “Don’t worry about that asshole.”

  I grip the wheel tight and hit the gas, gaining speed to keep up with cars that suddenly seem to be going insanely fast.

  “Take it easy,” Lauren says. “Speed up gradually. You know what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, I know what I’m doing,” I say, a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead. “Driving illegally. On a highway. In a hippie van.”

  It makes me feel so much better when Lauren laughs, then says, “Look at it this way. Even if you had a Virginia driver’s license, at our age we’re still driving illegally in Washington state. Feel better?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on, you’re doing fine. I don’t know why most people don’t just start out on highways. Pretty much, it’s a straight line until you have to get off.”

  That much is true, other than the fact that I’m going sixty miles an hour. Has the van always vibrated like this? Still, I lock my eyes on the road and do my best to make sure I’m not either passing other cars or falling behind. Having played a million video games in the past does come in handy. It feels kind of like the same thing other than the fact that if I mess up our smoldering corpses will be pulled from a fiery wreck.

  “I’m still going the speed limit, right?” I say.

  “Just a little under, which is fine. Definitely better than over. I mean, what cop isn’t going to pull over someone dumb enough to break the speed limit in a 1967 VW bus with out of state plates?”

  “Hey, thanks for that.”

  Lauren snorts.

  Why the hell did I sign on for this again? Oh, right. The part Lauren said while I’d practiced in the parking lot, about this being my journey, that I need to take “ownership” of it so I don’t look back at it as a
passive experience later in life. Where the hell had all that come from at this stage of the game? Does she have some secret habit of reading self-help books she hasn’t mentioned before? My guess is that she’s just finally too burnt out on driving and made the whole motivational speech up.

  The next hour feels like a century even though I manage not to crash, don’t get pulled over and don’t have a heart attack. But the hour does pass, as Lauren keeps telling me to slow down or speed up, that I’m doing fine. Of course, she can’t resist making a few cracks at my expense since I’m basically helpless. Still, when it’s finally time to exit the highway (something I’ve been quietly freaking out about the entire time), Lauren tells me to just take it slow and plays wingman so I don’t have to worry too much about the rearview or side mirrors.

  From there, the worst part is over and I continue following Lauren’s directions as we slowly drive through a few towns, eventually crest a ridge and roll toward a body of water, rippling in the sunlight as ferries drifted toward islands. Before long, I pull into a line of cars waiting for the ferry although it takes a few moments to unclench my hands from the steering wheel.

  “Bravo,” Lauren says, clapping lightly. And it doesn’t sound like she’s making fun of me.

  I nod, feeling proud of myself after all. But all I say is, “So, yeah, I managed to drive without getting us killed or arrested. Pretty cool.”

  “Very cool,” Lauren says. “Hey.”

  I turn to see and she kisses me, her eyes smiling. I didn’t see it coming but definitely don’t mind. Then, she looks me up and down in an exaggerated way. “Yeah, definitely in charge of your own destiny. You’re sexy when you drive, by the way.”

  I can’t help laugh at the way she keeps nodding and checking me out, as if seeing something new in me. “Yeah, how’s that?”

  “The frowning thing. You do it even more when you’re stressed. It’s kind of your signature look, but it’s enhanced when you’re behind the wheel.”

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  “Think you’re ready to drive this puppy onto that boat over there?”

  Just as she says it, a startling blast from the ferry’s horn sounds against the sky. The white hull of the boat looms toward the pier. “That might be pushing it,” I say.

  “That’s what I’m thinking too,” Lauren says. “We don’t want you to get too sexy.”

  18

  Port Gamble

  We sit idling at the end of Jessica Malcom’s driveway, her house barely visible through the trees. If we didn’t know where to look, we probably wouldn’t even notice the house back there. It’s hard to believe we’re this close now, yards away from the woman who somehow flashed into my mind when I first picked up her guitar on the other side of the country.

  “So, this is where she lives.”

  Lauren peers through the woods. “According to the GPS lady, this is it.”

  Jessica could hardly have found a more remote place to live than outside Port Gamble, a speck of a town on the edge of an island in the Pacific Northwest. As we drove through the small town center—a quiet street with just a few restaurants and shops—I wondered what could have possibly brought her here. On top of that, Jessica’s house isn’t even in town. It took another half hour to get to where we are now.

  “Ready?” Lauren says.

  “I guess so.”

  In that moment, my stomach does a little somersault, like when a roller coaster takes that first plunge. You’re strapped in, there’s definitely no turning back and whatever is going to happen is now totally out of your control. Even as we rode the ferry across Puget Sound, drove onto the island and then toward Port Gamble, I still kept thinking something would happen to stop us. That we couldn’t possibly finish this journey by finding Jessica Malcom. But nothing stopped us and we’re about to knock on her door.

  “Hang on,” Lauren says. “You should drive.”

  “What? It’s a driveway.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s a long driveway. And it took us a really long time to get to this driveway. Add to that, all of this started with you. Take us home, captain.”

  Sure, it’s silly, but why not? Somehow it does seem right. I get out and cross paths with Lauren in front of the bus. I climb into the driver’s seat and wait while she gets in again.

  “Don’t forget to use your directional,” she says.

  “Funny.”

  “No, seriously, you need to use your blinkers just in case—”

  I slip my Bono glasses on and stare at her until she bursts out laughing. Then I drive forward, slowly, the van lurching and shuddering, until Lauren tells me about the emergency brake. Then she starts laughing again.

  ~~~

  When I expect Jessica Malcom to be watchful and waiting, as Michelle Carter had been, that isn’t the case. As we draw closer to the house, no one stands observing our arrival at the front door or peers out from the windows. And while I’m not sure what to expect to find hidden back there behind all those trees, it’s just a house. Not a particularly large house either. Just a light blue house with dark blue shutters, dorm windows, a front porch with a couple of Adirondacks and a two-seat swinging chair moving a little from the wind blowing in from the water. The house itself might not be overly impressive but the setting is, definitely. That long driveway has taken us to an elevated plot of land overlooking the water and mountains beyond.

  We get out and stand there staring at the view. The air is so much cooler here, the breeze blowing through my hair.

  “Wow,” Lauren says.

  “Yeah, wow.” I gaze past the house at mountains and light shimmering on the bay. At that moment, something large cuts through the surf and disappears again but not before blowing a jet of mist into the air.

  “Was that a whale?”

  I remain transfixed for a few more moments. “I think it was.”

  Then I become aware of music coming from somewhere behind the house, muffled but definitely live. The thumping of drums, the low vibration of someone playing bass. A band knocking out some sort of blues progression. I imagine Jessica Malcom jamming with some new band but then the front door opens and a woman gazes out at the two of us.

  She looks at me, then Lauren, then at me again. Our eyes meet and it feels like the world stops. In that moment, silence, the band in the background forgotten. I see two things at the same time—two people at the same time—the young, impassioned rock star with flaming red hair and a thin woman somewhere in her forties, her hair still red but lightly streaked with gray. The same eyes, definitely—sparkling green. She cocks her head, narrows her gaze and keeps it directed at me. I hold on as long as I can, then break off eye contact and squint out at the water. The whale is gone but the ripples left by its wake are still spreading.

  I become conscious of the music again, a flourish of cymbals and the bass player trailing off. I hear laughter in the distance, followed by a meandering guitar riff that soon fades. The woman descends the porch steps and walks toward us. She gestures in the direction behind her house. “My husband and some friends. Good thing we have a detached garage or I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think.” She smiles, but the smile seems a little forced. “So, I guess you must be Jack and Lauren.”

  “Hi,” Lauren says, extending her hand.

  “Jessica Foster. Nice to meet you.”

  It seems strange to hear the legendary Jessica Malcom identify herself that way but it makes sense, of course. Obviously, she got married at some point and went with his last name. But while I expect a guarded, wary woman, Jessica seems more hesitant, almost as if she’s nervous about the two of us being here.

  Jessica turns to me, I offer my hand and she takes hold of it. Again, she looks into my eyes much longer than she did Lauren’s, long enough that I glance toward the house this time. “Is your husband in a band?” I ask, not sure what else to say.

  “Just on two Saturdays each month. One of his hobbies. As you might have guessed, it’d not a bad idea to find
ways of keeping yourself occupied around here. There’s not a whole lot going on. Anyway, Michelle told me you came a really long way to find me.”

  “All the way across the country,” I say.

  Jessica nods. “That’s what she said.”

  “We’re pretty sure we found your guitar. At least, it—”

  “Are you two hungry? Thirsty? You must be. Please, come inside.”

  Jessica turns and walks back up the steps. As we follow, Lauren shoots me a look reflecting exactly what I’m thinking. Did she not hear the part about the guitar? Didn’t she care? But we only have a second before Jessica holds the door open for us.

  Despite the house looking like any other from the outside, it’s somehow reassuring that the inside isn’t typical at all. The living room is more a painter’s studio, with easels and stacks of canvases resting against the walls. We pass the dining room, which looks like a study with a desk against one wall and a leather chair and ottoman in the corner. A bookcase crammed full of books covers the middle of another wall. The back of the house holds the kitchen and family room, which flow into each other. While those rooms are pretty much what you’d expect—a table and chairs in the kitchen, couches and a TV in the family room—the entire back of the house offers windows overlooking the water and the mountains. French doors open onto a screened porch allowing another place to see that amazing view. So, kind of like “normal” life, just improved upon a million times.

  “Have a seat,” Jessica says, as she goes to the sink and fills a kettle with water. “Would you like some tea? I think we have soda too, if you’d prefer.”

  Lauren takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Tea works for me. Thanks.”

  I pull out a seat too. “Sure, that sounds great,” I say, even though I don’t drink tea all that often.

  Jessica puts the kettle on, then opens a cabinet holding an array of colorful boxes. “Mint? Chamomile? Irish Breakfast? Pretty much whatever you’d like. As you can see, I’m kind of into tea.” She glances at us over her shoulder and I can’t help notice that her hand trembles as it hovers in front of the boxes.