Drives Like a Dream

by Porter Shreve

  Norm was the biggest obstacle, of course. The kids would want to meet him. Lydia could say he was out of town or busy with work in Windsor; she was sure she could hold them at bay for a while. She could even invite Norm on another date, have him show up at the house, wave hello and quickly depart.

  Meanwhile she would go to a pharmacy and pick up a dopp kit, shaving cream, razors, an extra toothbrush for her bathroom. At a secondhand store, she would buy men's outfits to hang in her closet, socks and boxer shorts to stuff in one of her bureau drawers. She would get a couple of pairs of shoes in size 11—wingtips and work boots, extra-large work shirts to drape over chairs in the kitchen, in the garage, to hang on the doorknob in her bedroom. She would go to a hardware store and buy work gloves and deftly splatter paint on the clothes and boots.

  She would need to drop hints about marriage so the kids wouldn't think she'd simply acquired a roommate. Occasionally she'd mention the word "elope," just as a possibility. She'd have a yard sale, and later she'd put the house on the market. She would buy A FOR SALE BY OWNER sign at a hardware store and when the time came, she'd take it out of the closet and plant it on the lawn. She wouldn't list the house—if she had any takers she'd quote a price well above its value to make sure that it wouldn't sell. She'd maintain complete control.

  There was nothing like a long walk to stir the imagination. By the time Lydia reached home, she had mapped out the next few months. Gradually, as the kids settled in, she would scatter seeds of discontent, hint that she and Norm were having difficulties. These would turn to doubts until finally the marriage and the move would have to be put on hold. Lydia would announce that she and Norm were breaking up. She'd take the house off the market, and by then the place would look better than ever. Shiny floors, fresh paint on the walls, renovated rooms, the old American foursquare looking brand-new. The kids would be relieved. All she needed to do was to get them back to see for themselves. Why leave such a lovely place? All our memories are here. And by that time, who knew, maybe one or more of them would stay.

  "You were gone a while," Lydia said when Jessica returned.

  "Bedlam needs a lot of exercise." He was one of the most hyperactive creatures Lydia had ever seen. His whole body wagged with his tail, and his long fur stood on end.

  "Well, I guess I should unpack." Jessica's bags were still in the front hallway.

  Lydia grabbed one and followed her daughter upstairs. "Just a warning," she said. "Your room is a bit of a mess, but we've also made some changes." Bedlam shot ahead of them on the steps and pawed at the door.

  "You're not kidding," Jessica said when they walked into the bedroom.

  Lydia had organized the drawers and closet, putting the shabby clothes into green bags set aside for the yard sale.

  "You could have waited for me, you know. I'll just have to go through all of it again."

  "Notice anything different?" Lydia persisted.

  Jessica sat down on her bed. "It's hard to tell with these boxes lying around. I see you've gotten a new canopy for the bed." She picked up the yarn-haired dolls from the pillow and handed them to Lydia. "I wouldn't want you to lose these."

  Lydia tucked the dolls under her arm. "What about the rug? The duvet? See this art deco lamp? I found it at a great antique shop in Royal Oak. It matches the new slipper shade and wall brackets that Norm installed."

  "Where are you finding the money?"

  "Don't you like them?"

  "Sure, but you're going to end up in debtors' prison."

  It was true that Lydia hadn't calculated how much money she had spent. She hated to think of the charges she'd run up in the past month. When the bank statement and credit card bills had arrived the other day, she'd slid them to the bottom of her desk drawer. The cost of the Corolla, even with the great deal she'd gotten on it, was steep enough. She figured she had spent at least ten thousand dollars on the house alone, even more since she'd had to pay premium rates. She hadn't planned to spend this much, but then she hadn't counted on Jessica's reacting the way she did. She had assumed that Jessica would be the last one to come home, and probably not for a couple of months. But Lydia's message about Norm's wanting to elope had clearly turned everything up a few notches.

  "It's been much less expensive than you'd think. Norm has done so much work. Cheap labor, you know."

  "Not the exterior. Not the floors. Not your station wagon."

  "No, but he's done everything else. I'm telling you, he's a cyclone, especially since school ended. He's been going nonstop."

  "He must be in quite a hurry to get married and get you out of here." Jessica's eyebrow went up.

  Lydia talked right over this, pretending to ignore the implications. "I've told him to take it easy," she said. "He's back in Minnesota for the week."

  Which was actually true. He'd gone to Minneapolis to see his daughter. Lydia knew this from Norm's reply to her apology:

  Lydia,

  That was a first. I've never been ditched on a train before. I had thought that you, of all people, would be a sympathetic audience. Perhaps I misread your books. Or maybe you're the type who only knows how to find fault. I'd expected more, Lydia. At the very least I thought that if we disagreed you wouldn't run away.

  Norman

  Lydia wrote back, trying to put a balm on Norm's wounded pride, even though his refusal to take any responsibility was infuriating. At least she had apologized for her part in the lousy date. It was only when Jessica announced suddenly that she had bought a plane ticket that Lydia realized she would have to scramble to make her way back into Norm's good graces. So, she gritted her teeth and wrote:

  Dear Norm,

  I discovered yesterday that your web site is back up. Congratulations ! I spent much of last night reading through your various articles on Nuplan about sustainable growth, renewable energy, nutrient flows, and yes, green roofs. I hadn't realized when you were talking about Detroit that these roofs would not only cool the city but also provide solar energy, attractive gardens, and even food. I was too quick with my criticisms. These ideas are visionary. Is there somewhere that I might find your collected articles? Are they available on the web site?

  Yours,

  Lydia

  Norm waited until the end of the weekend to write back, and then only offered a single question: "What did *you* have for breakfast this morning?"

  It was not exactly an olive branch, but Lydia did think the door was open for a return to civility. With Jessica due to arrive at the end of the week, Lydia had no choice but to keep the flattery coming:

  Dear Norm,

  Grapefruit.

  But if you want to know the truth, I was overwhelmed when we went to lunch. Seeing you in person again after those weeks of (much friendlier!) e-mails, I'd expected something different. I would be embarrassed to tell you exactly what I was hoping for, but suffice it to say that I was in no mood to discuss ecology. So the more you said about your work, the more confused I became. But now everything is different—at least for me. Your ideas make a lot of sense, and the fact is we agree on so much.

  Can we pretend that the month of June never happened and make a new start in July? I'd love to have lunch again if you'll consider it. We can discuss renewable energy.

  Yours,

  Lydia

  But despite her throwing herself at him, Norm wasn't budging.

  Lydia,

  I'm spending the upcoming holiday in Minneapolis. I plan to see my daughter and a number of old colleagues at the Center of Urban Design. I'm not sure when I will be getting back to Windsor. But I do thank you for your message. I'm glad you're enjoying the web site.

  Norm

  She worried that maybe she had scared Norm off for good. Maybe she had overcompensated and seemed fawning or disingenuous. Was he turning her down? Playing hard to get? How long would he continue to act wounded? She had to think of a way to keep him around.

  "He should be here next week," Lydia said now to Jessica, who was sorting through the fi
rst of half a dozen yard sale bags. In fact, Lydia was not sure when Norm would return.

  With Norm on her mind and workers in the house, Lydia had found it impossible to return to her book. Every time she opened a section of Dream Machines she remembered what M.J. had told her. She couldn't give an honest portrayal of her father or any of the GM designers now, knowing what they might have done to Preston Tucker.

  The day after her conversation with M.J., Lydia had gone to the car archives. At first she was too upset and embarrassed to tell Walter precisely what she'd heard, so instead they talked about the rented Corsica that was costing her twenty-five dollars a day. Walter said that his daughter was selling her Toyota wagon. "Only fifty thousand miles on it. A fair bet more dependable than that Escort you used to drive."

  It seemed a good deal, and Lydia returned to buy the car a couple of days later, sight unseen. This time she asked Walter if he'd show her the rest of the Tucker materials. "I'm telling you, all the highlights were in that stack of papers I gave you," he said. But nevertheless Lydia spent the afternoon looking in the library's files for her father's resignation letter, any proof that he had not been fired. By the end of the day she'd found only a scattering of her father's early drawings and interoffice memos from Tucker suggesting that Gilbert smooth out the racing lines and make the car more family-friendly. All of it only supported the Spiveys' theory.

  As Walter walked Lydia to her new Toyota she got up the nerve to tell him some of what M.J. had said. "She gave me the name of the mole, but I swore on my life that I wouldn't tell anyone."

  Walter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Whoa. You have a name? You're telling me there was a Big Three conspiracy? That's a pretty major claim, Lydia."

  "I do have a name, but I can't say who it is, not yet."

  "So you're just tantalizing me?"

  "I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I got the information from Casper Spivey. You trust him, don't you?"

  Walter didn't hesitate. "He's about the only ad man in Detroit I'd trust."

  "Well, I just have one question for you, then," Lydia said. "It's entirely theoretical, okay? Is it possible that the mole, if there was one, could have been a disgruntled Tucker employee, someone fairly high up who knew all the books, who was fired and then moved to one of the Big Three?"

  Walter considered this for what seemed a long minute—too long, Lydia thought. She began to worry that he was putting the puzzle together himself. Only a handful of people had left Tucker in '47. And why else would Lydia be so interested when she was supposed to be writing about GM? Finally, he said, "Yes, it's possible. If there was a conspiracy, even likely, I'd say. Maybe you'll tell me his name sometime?"

  She forced a smile. "I want to be certain it's true first."

  They stopped at the car—a '97 Corolla wagon—and Walter gave her the keys. "I think you're going to be happy with this. You know my daughter's a nurse, so she's taken great care of it, and I checked it over just to make sure. If you have any trouble at all, Lydia, please call me. This car comes with my exclusive Walter Hill warranty. Won't cost you a dime. Guaranteed long life."

  Lydia admired the silver wagon, which looked as if it had been detailed that morning. Even the hubcaps gleamed. Though she'd spent a good part of her career studying theories of car design, she had never paid much attention to what she drove. It hadn't crossed her mind that Cy might long for a luxury car, something sleek and showy.

  "Oh, and I have another thing for you, too." Walter reached into his pocket and handed her a gold coin with the number 7 embossed on one side and a horseshoe on the other. He must have picked it up from his weekly trip to the casino. "It's your lucky chip," he said. "Hang on to that, Lydia."

  She put the lucky chip in her purse and hugged him. "I will." She went over to the driver's side and opened the car door. "Thanks for everything, Walter. You've been a godsend."

  In the days that had followed, Lydia tried to dismiss M.J.'s account, but the more she went back over the pieces, the more she saw how they fit. Gilbert Warren may have been loyal to some, like Harley Earl, but he had turned his back on his father-in-law. Time and again he'd chosen GM over his own family, something she didn't like to remind herself. In fact, her dad was plenty capable of betrayal. M.J.'s theory only confirmed once more that Lydia had never really known her father.

  On the afternoon before the Fourth of July, Lydia had her first close call. While Jessica was taking Bedlam for a walk, the handyman showed up at the door unannounced. The sign on his van, parked at the curb, read MIKE "CHICKIE" PATERAKIS, GENERAL CONTRACTOR. Lydia liked him well enough, but she was convinced that he could have gotten a lot more done by now if he weren't such a talker. He had degrees in English and Religion from Wayne State and was back in school again, this time at General Motors Technical College. He had hollow cheekbones, gray streaks in his hair and beard, and the look of someone who rarely ate or slept, HONK IF YOU THINK I'M JESUS, read the bumper sticker on his van. Lydia guessed he'd had more than a few takers.

  She worried about Jessica's returning too soon as Chickie walked into the foyer, his utility belt hula-hooping around his bony hips. He'd fashioned an extra compartment on the belt for a paperback and liked to go on at length about whatever he was reading.

  "Chickie," Lydia said. "I thought you were all finished. I mailed the check a couple days ago."

  "I got it." He grabbed his paperback out of its holster, removed the check from between its pages, and set it on the hallway table. It was for four thousand dollars, materials included. "Have you read this one, by the way?" It was his usual opening line. He held up the paperback—1957 Chevrolet Parts & Accessories—thesame book that Cy had used when he was fixing up the Nomad. "I want to propose a deal," Chickie said. "I need a restoration project."

  A week ago, working near the garage, he had first noticed the Nomad through the window and asked Lydia if she wouldn't mind if he took it for a spin. The car hadn't been driven more than a handful of times since Cy had rebuilt the engine. He had bought new tires for it and taken the car up and down Woodward. Lydia had passed on going along for the ride; "I'll wait until you're finished," she said. But Cy never did get around to the chassis, the trim, the console, the rest of the car. The old body remained.

  Chickie had driven his van up the driveway that day to jump-start the Nomad. He asked Lydia how often the car was driven. She told him that her sons sometimes warmed it up when they came home for holidays. "But that's never more than two or three times a year." Chickie looked under the hood and checked the fluids and tires. He was surprised at how well the engine idled.

  Lydia watched him steer the Nomad down the street.

  "You were certainly gone a long time," she had said when he returned from his test drive.

  "I went up Woodward, all the way out to Waterford, gassed it up in Birmingham."

  "So how was it?" she asked.

  "Like they always tell you," he said with a grin. "Drives like a dream."

  Now he put a second check down on the table, this one for six thousand dollars. "I love that car. I want to make it my first big job. What would you say if I took it off your hands for ten thousand dollars? It's a classic, but you know the body needs a lot of work."

  Lydia was speechless. She had rim up huge bills in the last month, and the money would be a great help. She thought of the people she associated with the car—Cy, who had moved to Phoenix; her father, a different man, possibly, than the one she thought she knew. Lydia couldn't remember the last time she had been in the Nomad. What was she keeping it for, anyway? It was a relic from a world that no longer existed.

  Jessica would be back any minute. How could Lydia explain a handyman when all this time she'd told the kids that Norm was doing the fix-it work around the house?

  "The car is yours," she said.

  Chickie slapped his book against his thigh. "Hot damn. Just like that?"

  "The keys are under the seat. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm expecting someone."


  He put the 1951 Chevrolet Parts & Accessories back in its holster and shook Lydia's hand. "So we have a deal." He smiled. "I'll pick up the van later, if that's all right by you. I want to drive my new car off the lot."

  Lydia followed him outside to the garage. She didn't want Jessica to see the car. Knowing that her daughter usually walked toward the zoo, Lydia said, "I do have one odd request: if you could take a right-hand turn out of the driveway, I'd be grateful."

  "I understand superstition," Chickie said conspiratorially.

  Lydia watched as he started the car, pulled onto the driveway, got out and shut the garage door behind him. He gave her a thumbs up, and, just like that, "the beauty queen of all station wagons" was gone.

  18

  AS SOON AS Jessica removed Bedlam's leash, he dashed for the water bowl. She put her keys on the front table and picked up a couple of checks that were sitting there: one from someone named Mike "Chickie" Paterakis written out to her mother and another from Lydia to Paterakis General Contracting. Same name as on the van parked in front of the house. "What's all this money for?" Jessica asked.

  Her mother came into the foyer looking surprised. "Oh, you just missed the guy who bought the Nomad. He came by to pick it up."

  "The Nomad? You sold it?" That was awfully fast, Jessica thought. She bet Norm had found out about Cy's restoration project. He'd probably gotten jealous and wanted nothing more to do with the car. It didn't seem like Lydia to sell one of Grandpa Warren's designs so suddenly. "Did you tell Ivan and Davy?"