Car Trouble

by Robert Rorke

  I had never been teacher’s pet.

  Ten

  Maureen and I hit the discount fabric stores on Orchard Street the next Sunday morning in search of gold lamé. There was a small budget for costumes, Brian said; he gave us fifty dollars of it, whether it meant going to some store or buying the fabric to do it ourselves. Whatever was left over from the fabric could pay for labor, Brian said. Maureen’s ears perked up at that.

  We took the F train to Delancey Street. It was freezing, a blue, big-sky morning with a thin layer of clouds that stretched to Chinatown. Maureen and I had never been to the Lower East Side. It made a bad first impression. There was trash all over the steps leading up from the subway station to the sidewalk and an empty plaid sleeping bag smeared with crud. Delancey Street looked like it hadn’t been swept in decades. The marquee for the theater showing Spanish films was cracked, with letters from the film titles missing. Behind us, the Williamsburg Bridge was a sour reminder of the night Himself had gotten us lost in the Green Hornet.

  The icy wind didn’t keep bargain hunters from mobbing Orchard Street. The street was closed to traffic and all the stores were open. The owners, Hasidic Jews, didn’t work on the Sabbath. We joined the crowd inching under displays of leather jackets, gabardine pants, jeans, and blouses, displays hung like clotheslines, extending over the sidewalk on horizontal poles, patching over the grimy tenements underneath. People were bundled in parkas, some knee length, hoods fringed with fur, cradling Styrofoam coffee cups. Salesmen with potbellies and cigars dangling from their mouths heckled us. “Dahling, I have many beautiful blouses inside the store,” one guy called to Maureen. “I am villing to give you a very good price. Sir, mebbe I can interest you in a leather jacket.”

  I didn’t see any sidewalk displays of gold lamé so when I saw a real store—Beckenstein’s—across the street, we ducked inside. With its orderly aisles and shelves bearing bolts of fabric, it was the antithesis of the chaos outside, and the sales help, mostly Hasidic women, quietly assisted customers, unrolling the fabric on plain, wide counters. A Puerto Rican stock boy pushed a dolly of giant bolts of gray flannel across the aisle that bisected the store.

  “We need something really gross but stretchy,” Maureen said, marching past the bolts of corduroy, cotton prints, velvet, wool, voile, and polyester interlock to a barrel of glittery fabrics in metallic colors wound around long cardboard tubes. I loved watching her take over. We hadn’t had fun like this in ages. The minute she finished her chores on the weekends she was out of the house; now that I was at St. Mike’s, I didn’t seek out her company as often as I should have.

  “Look at this stuff,” she said, beaming as she rubbed the selvage of a shiny gold fabric in her palm.

  “What is it?” I said.

  Maureen looked for a tag. “Some kind of polyester.”

  “We call that one liquid gold,” said a voice behind us.

  We turned and saw a young, milky-complexioned woman with a honey-blond pageboy wig. She stepped up alongside Maureen. “What are you thinking of using it for?”

  “A jumpsuit.”

  “For you, it’s fabulous,” the saleswoman said. Her voice was light and bouncy, and she had eager hazel eyes; maybe we’d be her first sale of the day. She took the bolt of liquid gold from Maureen with a soft, assured hand and held out the fabric for us. “As you see, it really shimmers. It’s a tight mesh knit that catches the light. You can use it for a jumpsuit, sure, but it’s also very sexy in a cocktail dress or full-length formal wear.”

  “Actually, it’s for me,” I said.

  The saleswoman turned to me, frowning. “Oh. I don’t know about a man. What man would wear this? Liberace, maybe, but he’s a fruit.”

  Now I was really turning red. Is that what everyone was going to say once I wore the costume?

  “He’s in a play,” Maureen said, shaking her head. She produced a Vogue/Butterick pattern for a man’s jumpsuit from her shoulder bag. It wasn’t exactly like the outfit Jesse Pearson wore in the movie—he wore pants and a shirt—but my sister thought she could make this pattern quickly. The cover illustration of the final product showed a man who looked like a Ken doll having a midlife crisis. He was wearing trinkets around his neck.

  “It has flared legs,” I said, slightly alarmed.

  “We can make them straight if you want.” Maureen showed the pattern to the saleswoman. “This fabric falls nicely and moves well. He has to dance.”

  She smiled, relieved she was finally in on the joke. “What kind of dancing are we talking about, the frug, the watusi?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “Just rock ’n’ roll stuff.”

  “Sure. By the way, do you mind my asking what play it is?”

  “Bye Bye Birdie.”

  She put a hand to her cheek; there was a sparkling rock on her finger that could have cut your jugular. “You mean the one with Ann-Margret and Bobby Rydell? Oy! I haven’t seen that in years.”

  “That’s why they’re doing it,” Maureen said, completely deadpan. “To bring back memories.”

  That was enough sarcasm for one day. I pinched her waist. “By the way, my name is Faye,” said the saleswoman, placing her palm on her chest, maybe so we could really size up her diamond. “We get a lot of showbiz people in here. We had one of the producers from Hair. He wanted to give us free tickets to see a show where people take their clothes off. Like I could go see that with my husband. Can you imagine?”

  Six and a half yards of liquid gold, one very long zipper, and thirty-six dollars later, we left Beckenstein’s. We stopped at a deli and bought knishes and Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda with the change and got back on the train, eating our lunch out of grease-stained paper bags. When we got home, Maureen cleared off the kitchen table, got out Mom’s beige, portable Singer sewing machine from the dining room, and I helped her pin and cut out the pattern pieces. The paper was so thin and crinkly, I was afraid it would rip.

  Mom was making dinner. There was a roast beef cooking in the oven; the juices spat and crackled in the pan. Two pots were on the stove, one for potatoes, the other for string beans. Himself and Mom were watching football in the living room.

  “This is going to be the best costume,” I said.

  “Anything for my brother, the star,” Maureen mumbled, stray pins sticking out of her mouth like a voodoo doll. “I’m getting hunchbacked already from pinning,” she said.

  A pair of footsteps approached. Himself. He stepped into the kitchen, barefoot, spiky-haired, and grizzled. He was wearing gray pants and one of his threadbare flannel shirts tightly buttoned over his gut. He went into the refrigerator for a Bud—two down, four to go. He took a swig of the beer and picked up the pattern envelope.

  “So this is the costume, I take it,” he said solemnly.

  It was the first time he had mentioned the play. Maureen and I looked at each other and nodded. I was waiting for him to say something, either about the play or Brian. Bet you fifty bucks that guy’s a draft dodger. The doorbell rang. “Nicky,” Mom called. “It’s for you.”

  No one ever rang the bell looking for me. I went to the kitchen doorway. Gina Martinucci was standing in the vestibule in an oversized denim jacket and black corduroy pants. She had pulled her hair back in a thick, vinelike ponytail. She had never been in my house. I don’t think she’d ever crossed the street to say hello. “Hi,” I said, unable to conceal my surprise.

  “Hi, Queenie,” Gina said, crouching down to pet the collie. Queenie licked her face.

  “Wow, instant love. I can dig it,” Gina said.

  “Come on in, Gina,” Mom said, standing behind them and smiling at me. “Let me take your coat.”

  Gina slipped off her jacket and followed me into the kitchen. “I heard the news. It’s great.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good. But what about you?”

  Himself was draining the last of the Bud, watching Maureen line up a piece of fabric to go under the needle. He crunched the can and threw it into the garbage
pail. I cringed at the rotted kitchen ceiling, the exposed beams under the missing plaster. Gina wouldn’t miss that eyesore; I hoped she wouldn’t stare.

  “Daddy, you remember Gina Martinucci, from across the street?”

  His eyes were half-open. “I recognize the hair. How ya doing? I’m going to have a beer. You want one?”

  Gina gave me a nervous look and laughed. Indoors, her bovine eyes looked larger than usual. I could see her taking a measure of Himself, as if to say, This is your father?

  “Oh, excuse me, I thought you might be of drinking age,” Himself said. I glowered at him as he went behind the kitchen table and reached into the fridge. Gina shifted her focus to Maureen and the pinned costume. “Wow, look at this fabric. This is outrageous.”

  “They call it liquid gold,” I said.

  “Liquid what?” Himself said, shutting the refrigerator door and standing next to the sewing machine. “And you’re going to wear this? In public?”

  “That’s the general idea,” I said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Does your mother know about this?”

  “Yes.” I tried to ignore him, hoping he’d go back to his stupid game, but I felt my face growing hot. Maybe that’s why I didn’t think I was good enough to be in the play; I knew Himself would disapprove.

  “You’re going to look great in this,” Gina said. “I didn’t know you sewed, Maureen.”

  “I’m still learning,” Maureen deadpanned. “Are you in the play too?”

  “Touchdown, Pat!” Mom called from the living room.

  “Goooooo, Giants!” He sprinted out of the kitchen, right past Gina, leading with the can of Bud. He sounded like he was summoning a team of dogs to cross the Bering Strait.

  Gina whipped around, touching her throat, as if she’d been smacked on the back. “Oh my god. That was like . . .”

  “It’s his favorite team,” I explained quietly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  She nodded and sat down at the table, next to Maureen, facing the wall. Now she definitely wouldn’t be distracted by the bad ceiling. I turned on the kettle and sat on the other side of the sewing machine.

  “Goddammit,” Maureen said, taking her foot off the pedal and flipping up the guard. She raised the needle and reached for her handy seam ripper, removing an uneven stitch. She adjusted the tension with a small knob over the needle, hit the reverse button on the front of the machine, and started over. Gold thread gently unwound from a spool fixed to the top of the machine and the motor hummed with muffled efficiency.

  “Where was I?” Gina said. “Well, I didn’t get the part of Kim—some girl from St. Brendan’s did—but I’ll be singing one number with her.”

  “You’re Rosie!” I said. “That’s great.” Gold fabric flowed across the table, brushing against the toaster. I checked the fabric for crumbs and began folding the sewn pant legs as they came through.

  “You have a lot of dialogue to learn,” I said. Fortunately, Birdie really didn’t speak.

  “I feel like I’m playing an old bag,” Gina said. “But my mother said it’s the mature woman’s role.”

  “You are more grown-up than the rest of us.”

  “Really?” she asked, as if she didn’t know it already. “At least I won’t have to wear a bathing suit because my skin is like, forget it. I’m going to wear one of my mother’s old Chanel suits.”

  Maureen took her foot off the pedal and looked up from the machine, as if seeing Gina for the first time. “Your mother has a Chanel suit?”

  Gina smiled and nodded. She wore a black turtleneck that was snug against her tiny frame. Her stomach bumped slightly over the top of her jeans. “It used to fit her years ago, before she had kids, but she never got rid of it. It’s red too. It should look great on stage. I think the play’s going to be great. I guess we’ll meet the rest of the cast at the first rehearsal.”

  The kettle was whistling. “We can go home from rehearsals together,” I said, getting up to make the tea. We’d been neighbors for years, but maybe now we’d become friends.

  Maureen was able to finish the pant legs and one sleeve before Mom kicked us out of the kitchen to set the table. Gina helped me carry the costume pieces into the dining room. I moved somebody’s textbooks aside to make space on the table. Then I went back into the kitchen to get the sewing machine while Maureen folded the unsewn and pinned pattern pieces. Himself was glued to the TV screen, one empty and one open beer can on the snack table, as I walked Gina to the front door.

  I got her jacket from the vestibule closet. It seemed way too big, as if she had borrowed it from her older brother, Sal. Or a boyfriend.

  “Your father has another car?” she said as we walked down the stoop. You could only walk on the right side now; the left-hand side of the third step down had crumbled. “We liked the last one. Black and white, with that old-fashioned tire in the back. You could hear it coming around the block.”

  “The Black Beauty. It sort of died at Christmas.”

  Himself had gone a little while without any wheels, but his newest toy was parked in the driveway. A four-door Mercury, sleek and fire-engine red all over. It was shocking to have a car that was only one color after the two-tone wonders of the Green Hornet and the Black Beauty. This one was modern compared to those tanks. I asked him why he picked it and he said he liked the five-spoke chrome rims and the wide front seat. But mostly he said the car called to him. “There was a thin coat of snow on the windows and the exterior and I thought, This car needs a driver,” he’d said. “And then I remembered your uncle busting my chops about having an old car, so I came forward a little bit, into the nineteen sixties.”

  I walked Gina over to the Mercury. “He hasn’t let me drive it yet,” I said. After that night in the snowstorm when I took over the wheel, Mom forbade me from driving Dad’s cars ever again. I knew the Black Beauty was headed to the junkyard so I didn’t object.

  Gina eyed me over her shoulder. “You’re driving already?”

  “He takes me around. Ask your dad to take you to Holy Cross. That’s where I started. No one’s there to watch you.”

  I was only wearing a crewneck sweater and jeans, but it wasn’t that cold. We went over to the car and looked down at the gleaming red trunk and the matching triple taillights. The car glowed in the dark.

  “It’s a Mercury Monterey, 1963.” I pointed to the rear window, tucked under the red roof. “When you press a button on the driver’s side, the window goes down and the breeze comes in, but not the sun or the rain. It’s the coolest thing.”

  I had visions of California or Mexico, the only places I knew with cities named Monterey, but Gina was not catching my drift. “You do that you’ll freeze your ass off,” she said, smiling.

  “In the summer everyone will want to sit in the backseat, though.” If the car lasted that long. When Dad brought the Mercury home, he said the rear suspension was shot. I didn’t know rear suspension from suspension bridge, but whatever the problem was, he fixed it because the Red Devil was a smooth ride. I told her the car’s nickname. “Does your car have a nickname?”

  “No,” she said, slightly miffed, as if I was asking a silly question. “My father’s an engineer.” She headed back to her house. “See you at rehearsal tomorrow.”

  Eleven

  My sisters and I were getting ready for school, ironing shirts and blouses, eating Corn Flakes and Lucky Charms at the kitchen table, when we heard Himself come in, giving the front door his usual extra push. We snapped to attention. It was the beginning of February.

  He creaked his way from the living room into the kitchen with deliberate, heavy steps, a thief in his own house. Glancing at his bloodshot eyes and splotched face, I thought it was the end of another long night at the Dew Drop. “Good morning,” he said. “And where is your mother?”

  “Basement,” Patty said. She was standing at the stove waiting for Maureen to finish washing her hair in the kitchen sink—Himself’s decree: my sisters’ long hair
clogged the bathtub drain.

  He went to the top of the basement staircase. “Mrs. Flynn? Are you home?”

  She came up the stairs, carrying a basket full of dried clothes. She wore a powder-blue quilted bathrobe and slippers. “What?”

  “We have to have a discussion—upstairs.”

  Mrs. Flynn—a dead giveaway that something was up. Patty and I exchanged glances. Mom put the basket on the dining room table and followed him to their bedroom. This time the door did not slam.

  I had my French grammar book out on the table; there was a test in second period. Patty took Maureen’s place at the sink, and Maureen wrapped a yellow towel around her wet head. “Jesus, what is it now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, finishing my cereal. “But I am not sticking around to find out. If you have any sense, you won’t either.”

  I put my cereal bowl in the sink when Patty was done and grabbed my coat.

  When I came home from school, there was one thing out of place: Himself was occupying the recliner in the living room, smoking a Lucky Strike and fixing a baleful, pent-up look at the television screen. The earliest he was ever home from work was dinnertime.

  I met my sisters upstairs in their bedroom to talk about what was going on. With four girls sleeping in one room, space was at a premium. A set of bunk beds, flush against one wall with chests of drawers on either side, faced a window bench piled with books and folded laundry. Two twin beds stuck out into the middle of the room from the opposite wall. There was almost no floor space, but at least my sisters had a rug. I didn’t have a rug.

  Maureen and Dee Dee sat on the twin beds. Patty pushed aside a stack of clean hand towels on the window bench so Mary Ellen and I could sit with her.

  “What’s he doing down there?” Dee Dee asked.

  Mary Ellen retied her ponytail. “We wanted to watch 40 Pounds of Trouble and Daddy told us not to change the channel.”