Drives Like a Dream

by Porter Shreve

She remembered it was Void's day off, too. He worked part-time at a head shop and hung around cafés and a comic-book store near the University. He'd once mentioned that he'd gone to Stanford for a while but had found Palo Alto so bourgeois that he'd dropped out and moved to Alaska to work on a trawler for a couple of years. He talked nostalgically about the ocean. "Let's go to the coast," Jessica said when he answered the phone. "I've got my day bag packed."

  Void sounded as if he had just woken up, but within an hour there he was below her balcony, waving from the window of his old red Civic. Jessica filled Bedlam's food bowl, kissed the dog goodbye, and locked up her apartment.

  She and Void had been seeing less of each other lately, which was fine with her. The mystery of Void, which had drawn her to him in the first place, had been steadily eroding over the past month. Now he seemed less the inscrutable rebel and more the self-obscuring lost soul, and her patience was wearing thin. Recently, without any prompting, he'd said that his real name was Kevin and that he'd borrowed his moniker from a Seattle alt-radio DJ named Void Oblivion. "But don't tell anyone. I need to be able to trust you," he'd said. "There are people who don't like me, you know. I've got reasons for keeping things under wraps."

  "So where are we going?" Void asked as Jessica climbed into the car.

  "It's a surprise. You just do the driving."

  "Look at the adventuress," he said.

  They drove on 126 west from Eugene, into the countryside of old farms, trout ponds, and bright green fields. Outside Noti, the road began to wind; the terrain turned rugged. Void pointed to a general store with a red gas pump out front and said he'd stopped in there once. "I got into a long conversation with a fourth-generation logger. He told me people don't neighbor like they used to. What do you think, Jess? Do you still neighbor?"

  "I called you, didn't I?" She looked over at him, and he gave her a little pout. She hadn't seen him in more than a week, since before her father's wedding and hadn't even bothered to call him when she got back. He looked even younger than usual today, reedy, with pale, almost bluish skin and deep red lips. From the first time they'd met, Jessica had felt old around him, and she wondered now if he weren't making everything up, from his name to his age to the Alaskan trawler story. He'd probably dropped out of high school and come to Eugene, like others she knew, to blend in with the scenery. She didn't know how old he might actually be. Certainly not twenty-eight, as he'd claimed.

  She was waiting for him to ask about her weekend, was all prepared to tell him what had happened at the wedding. But Void was saying something about old-growth forest, pointing out the wild blackberries growing along the side of the road. Jessica realized that she had barely mentioned her family to Void in the four months since they'd met. So why begin now?

  Their relationship was marked by a desire for company, not necessarily companionship. They tended to meet in busy places where they didn't have to pay close attention to each other. They went to art films and danced at the Workers of the World meeting hall, once a hotbed of labor activism, now boasting "the best hardwood dance floor in the Pacific Northwest." They had cheap drinks and free food at happy hour in noisy bars and after dancing would go back to her place, always her place. Unlike Blane, whose three hundred daily prostrations to Buddha made him sinewy and pliant, Void felt fragile when she held his narrow shoulders. Looking into his face in the murky light some evenings, she had the odd feeling that she could have been seeing her own face, a bit unsure, searching for approval. Bedlam would come up and nudge them with his nose, wanting to go outside. Later, Void would drive back to his own apartment, a place that Jessica wondered if she'd ever see.

  "Up or down?" Void asked at the intersection of 126 and the Oregon coastal highway, and Jessica said north. She breathed in the salt air, watched the gulls and cormorants swoop and dive, and thought for a moment that she might like to live here, in the seaside town of Florence. They drove past the marina and chowder joints, Mo's and Captain Jack's, and started up the coast, which was more breathtaking on this cloudless day than the one time Jessica had driven the same stretch with Blane.

  Void looked as if he'd seen it all before. He had an annoying habit of weighing every experience against one that he'd had in the past, and always the present paled in comparison. Jessica could almost feel him getting ready to gush about the scenery in Alaska. Anticipating this, she said, "So I've been thinking about applying to graduate school." In fact, she had only really considered the possibility over the past few days. Something about her father's leaving made her realize that time was slipping by. She'd come back to a quiet town, a more suburban city than she wanted to admit. Eugene was no nirvana, no perfect solution, and with her friends gone and the campus mostly deserted, she'd found herself, to her surprise, actually thinking a year ahead.

  "Grad school?" Void sounded disapproving. "In what?"

  Yesterday she'd gone to the library after work to look into some programs. In the back of her mind she'd always figured she would do something similar to her mother. But she knew she couldn't be a historian; she had no desire to trespass on that territory. For all Lydia's speeches about politics and groupthink, Jessica still believed in that unfairly tormented idea: "making a difference." She had looked up programs in Urban and Regional Planning, vaguely recalling that her mother had taken a similar degree but hadn't pursued a career in the field. "Urban planning," she said now, as if she had given it real thought.

  "What are you doing living in Eugene if you want to be an urban planner?" he asked.

  "I did grow up around Detroit. And my mom went to grad school in regional planning. There was a lot of talk about cities around the house."

  "I don't know." Void hesitated. "They'll brainwash you in grad school. You'll think you're working for the greater good. But follow the paper trail, and some oil company is paying for your research."

  "These are public universities," Jessica said.

  "Public, private. It's all the same these days. Everyone's getting paid off." Void seemed about to cook up one of his diatribes when Jessica saw the sign she'd been looking for.

  "Turn here," she said.

  ***

  Atop a high cliff sat a small building overlooking the Pacific. "So is this your big surprise?" he asked as they reached the entrance.

  "You'll see." She opened the door and hurried him in.

  When she and Blane had driven the coast on a rainy weekend in late fall, the sea lion caves had been closed, and she'd regretted missing out ever since. At the admission desk she bought two tickets.

  "Seven dollars a pop! What do you get for it?" Void asked, loud enough for the woman at the desk to hear him.

  "My treat, okay?" Jessica said sharply and took Void's hand, leading the way out of the building. They followed a path to an elevator, which they shared with a father and son who wore matching Seattle Mariners jerseys. The son, clearly excited, read from a brochure as they slowly dropped two hundred feet toward the water. A recording announced that they were entering the largest sea cave in the world. "The length of a football field and twelve stories high," Void repeated in a faux radio announcer's voice.

  The elevator doors opened to an observation area surrounded in chain-link fence. The boy shot ahead, his father trailing.

  Void held his shirt over his nose. "More like the largest natural toilet in the world. Help, we're trapped."

  "It's not that bad," Jessica said. "Look," and pointed to a sea lion pup slapping its way onto a basalt rock ledge. A green translucent light poured in from the mouth of the cave, brushing the walls and playing on the water's surface. She and Void took a path along the edge of the vast grotto, a good distance from the herd of sea lions, all necks and noses, splashing and diving, sitting high and queenly on the rocks. Void nuzzled up next to Jessica, kissed her on the temple. "Aaarf, aaarf," he said loudly in her ear, but she shrugged him away.

  The few people gathered behind the fence, even the boy in the Mariners jersey, spoke in whispers. The tinny whistle of
the wind, with the surf, the bird cries, and the guttural moos, had an otherworldly sound.

  "I can't tell which is worse." Void stepped away from Jessica and crossed his arms. "This place or the zoo. At least in the zoo everyone knows it's artificial. But here we are, in their natural environment, and we turn them into entertainment. Seven bucks a show." His voice echoed off the walls.

  Ordinarily Jessica might have agreed or even gone one further. Void was always expressing his outrage over some new offense, but it occurred to her now that he exhausted her. He spent all of his energy reacting. "This is what sea lions do," she said. "They eat fish and sit on the rocks and couldn't care less if we're watching them."

  "How do you know what they think?" Void asked, and caught the attention of the boy in the baseball jersey. The kid had probably heard similar logic on the playground.

  Jessica didn't want to get into this. "Look, we're the ones behind the fences, not them. This is nothing like a zoo."

  Void continued to pontificate—on whale watching, safaris, the circus, petting zoos. He stopped and leaned against the chain-link fence, the green light throwing a lattice over his face.

  "How about we just go back to the cliffs? Would that be better?" Jessica asked.

  "If that's what you want." Void seemed to miss the disillusionment in her voice.

  They took the elevator back up to the surface, went out to a scenic point overlooking the steel-blue ocean. Tourists fed quarters to coin-op binoculars and watched as more sea lions sunned themselves on the rock shelves outside the caves. Void stood with his hands in his pockets, the wind pasting his hair to his forehead. Jessica wondered what it meant that she was standing at the edge of the United States, as far as she could possibly go to get away, yet the only words that came to mind were What now?

  When Void pulled up to the curb outside her apartment, he leaned over to kiss her. Jessica turned away. It was six in the evening and they'd spent half the day together.

  "So? Do you still neighbor?" Void gave her his best puppy dog eyes.

  "I don't think so," she said.

  He put his hand on her leg. "Oh, come on."

  She unlocked the car door.

  "Let's go out and get some dinner. It's still early," he said. "Don't you want to dance?" But his voice had already trailed off. On the quiet drive home, he must have lost what nerve he had.

  "Maybe I'll see you at the checkout." She got out of the car.

  "Well, I'll call you," she heard him say as she reached for her keys.

  Inside, Jessica lay down on the couch. She had taken Bedlam for a quick walk, and now he trundled up to her and licked her face, then rested his head on her lap. He looked into her eyes, as if no one else in the world mattered.

  She must have drifted off to sleep when Davy called. "Well, the inevitable has happened," he announced. "We had a meeting last night and Lowball's shutting down." He told her about their unsuccessful scramble for more investors and their last, depressing meeting.

  Jessica put aside her own lousy day with Void. "I'm sorry, Davy. How's Teresa taking it?"

  "We aren't talking. I can't imagine packing up is going to be much fun."

  "But she decided to give you that money. She took that chance."

  "I don't know, Jess. I can be really persuasive when I believe in something. And I was sure at the time about Lowball. She lost forty thousand dollars. Half of what her mother left her. I don't know if we can ever get over that."

  "So what are you going to do?" she asked.

  "An Oregon vacation sounds like a nice idea. I've got frequent flier miles if you've got room on the couch. I clean. I do dishes."

  "Are you serious?" She got up and looked out the window. The streetlights had winked on.

  "Just for a few days? A long weekend? I need a break, Jess. For now, anyway, I haven't told anyone but you."

  She couldn't imagine a worse time. But what else could she say to her little brother but "Of course"?

  Later that night, though, she started to get excited about the idea of having Davy visit. As awful as it was for him to face the end of Lowball and, perhaps, of his relationship with Teresa, at least he'd be free to start over, do something new. Jessica wondered what she was waiting for. She had come out here to begin her own life. But something was holding her back. It was as if she had never gotten away. She and Davy could rent a car, go places she'd been meaning to see. Together they could talk about What now.

  13

  LYDIA WAS FEELING tipsy by the time she and the Spiveys entered the library's computer lab. Walter happened to be working the desk and she worried that he would notice. But his attention was entirely on Casper. "I'm a great admirer of yours," Walter said, introducing himself to the Spiveys. He mentioned some of the ad campaigns Casper had shepherded through at Ford. "My favorite, 'Quality Is Job One,"' Walter explained to Lydia, "turned the focus from cars to the people who built them. Mr. Spivey is the guy who brought Ford out of that long slump."

  "That's very nice of you," M.J. said before Casper could get in a word. "But take care with my husband's ego. It's already overtaxed."

  Walter looked unsure about how to take this. "So what brings you here?" he asked Lydia.

  "Our friend is showing us the wonders of the Internet," Casper answered.

  "Well, not exactly," Lydia said. "We're just doing e-mail, that's all. Thank you, by the way, for the Tucker information." She turned to the Spiveys. "Walter put together some Preston Tucker clippings for me."

  "Not much of a conspiracy, is there?" Walter added. "Not until you can show me a smoking gun."

  Casper gave a little smile. M.J. put her arm around him.

  Walter found an open computer terminal and pulled up extra chairs. "So you're all fine here?" he asked. "I'm doing double duty. I've got to rim upstairs in a minute."

  Lydia thanked him and signed on to her e-mail account. When she saw that a message from Norm was waiting, her pulse quickened. M.J. pulled her chair up closer. It might have been the wine or her own newfound desire to shake up her life, but Lydia didn't mind M.J. leaning over and reading the note out loud.

  "'Dear Lydia,' it says. 'I know all about Detroit's latest plans, and as usual they're going for the temporary fix. The only way they'll pull themselves out of this moribund state is to aim for a sustainable economy rather than the exhaustive one they've been so committed to for the past hundred years. And you can't have a sustainable economy unless you create a physical environment that supports and nourishes it.' My, my," M.J. said. "This is some racy stuff. Are you sure you want us to read this sizzling billet-doux?"

  "It gets better," Lydia said. "Look at the next paragraph."

  '"The city is pawn to the highway,'" M.J. continued. "Something about casinos. Baseball. The Renaissance Center. Etcetera. Aha, here it gets interesting: 'So you're married to your work?'" he writes. '"That's a line I'm all too familiar with, one I used to hear at home on a regular basis. I've often wondered what might have happened had I married someone else who was married to her work. If two people are married to their work, it wouldn't be so bad, would it? They could come together at the end of the day and have an affair.'"

  Lydia stopped on that line. "That's something," she said. "You know when my ex-husband—"

  "Our son-in-law," Casper put in.

  "When I met Cy for the first time he used a line much like this one."

  "So it's auspicious," Casper said.

  "I don't know about auspicious. We are divorced, after all."

  "But your marriage lasted a long time. Thirty-some years is a good ride in this day and age. What else does the letter say?" Casper asked.

  "He talks about his children," M.J. said. "A son and a daughter. Both in college."

  "Do you think he's younger than I am? Two kids in college. I bet he's not yet fifty."

  "I thought you saw him."

  "I couldn't tell. Honestly," Lydia said.

  "Men always start late. I'm sure you're contemporaries."

&
nbsp; "How does he close the letter?" Casper asked.

  "'Warm regards.'"

  "So let's hop to that reply," M.J. said, and soon, with the Spiveys' help, Lydia had written a follow-up:

  Dear Norm,

  I once had a professor in graduate school who used to keep her married life interesting by giving her husband a new name every few months.

  You'd think after a while this might get confusing, particularly when they went out in public. I remember meeting her husband on several occasions and under a variety of noms de guerre. It was hard for the rest of the world to keep up with the many names. But it worked for them, and who needs the rest of the world when life at home is never dull?

  So, where are your children in school? You forgot to tell me, also, where you live.

  Enjoying the distraction from work,

  Lydia

  Norm replied within five minutes, generating a cackle of glee from M.J. He lived in Windsor, where he had just joined the faculty in Urban and Environmental Planning at the University of Windsor. Both of his children went to the University of Minnesota, where he used to teach.

  "So, he's just across the bridge." M.J. rubbed her hands together.

  "I don't know," Casper said. "You've got to watch out for those Canadians. They'll eat you alive. Look at me. A shell of the man I was when I met this woman."

  "I don't think he's a Canadian." Lydia turned serious. "He just moved to Windsor. I wonder why. Minnesota's a better school and closer to his kids." But she was pleased that they both had a background in planning. And Windsor was less than a half hour's drive away.

  "So let's ask him more questions," M.J. said. And Lydia began typing.

  The day, like the Internet itself, had an unreal quality. She felt safe sitting behind the hard glass of the computer screen, sending out her queries to Norm, safe also in the company of Casper and M.J. To think that she had dreaded calling them at all.

  If Jessica had been witnessing this, she might have called it desperation. But in fact here was a man interested in Lydia—waiting on her every signal. Norman Crawford, professor of urban and environmental planning. At fifty-four, a touch on the young side, but as M.J. said, definitely in range. Lydia had never liked Windsor, but the place seemed almost exotic now: Ontario. Canada. Another country.