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part 2 of the story
Car Trouble

Denise McCabe

    Thanksgiving comes and we show up with a pumpkin pie, an apple pie, and two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau, slightly chilled. It is still early in the day but the sky is overcast and I notice that the outdoor Christmas lights are lit up.
    “Starting the season early,” Leo says.
    I’m about to answer with some quip when I realize that mom hasn’t put up the outdoor lights at all since dad died. It shouldn’t bother me but it does; somehow, it feels disloyal to my father. Of course I know that’s ridiculous which is why I keep it to myself.
    There is a car in the driveway, probably Mordechai’s, but there is still room for Leo’s Mini to park next to it. We collect the packages and ring the bell. Mordechai answers. I give him a hug and introduce him to Leo.
    “Let me help with those,” he says, and takes the pies from Leo. I carry the wine into the kitchen. Mom is busy at the stove.
    “It smells great,” I tell her, and open the fridge to put the wine in. There’s no room.
    “There’s a cooler in the den. You can put it in there.”
    I do as I’m told. I feel like a character in a novel, someone who’s been on a long trip finally coming home or someone who’s been suffering from amnesia and is finally starting to get her memory back. Everything is familiar and yet strange. When I was young, my parents used to entertain a lot. There was always music playing softly in the background and plenty of food and liquor. My dad taught me to mix simple drinks and believed that the best way to keep me from experimenting and possibly getting in over my head with booze was to make it available under supervised conditions. He was right. I never felt the need to drink with my friends, and still only occasionally have a drink in social situations. Today I knew would be one of those situations.
    We have some appetizers and sit around the kitchen table to keep mom company as she finishes up the cooking. After a while, she banishes us to the dining room and asks Leo to open the wine. I ask if she wants any help and she says no, she can handle it. I feel like I’m twelve years old again, a happy memory surfacing of family dinners from long ago. She brings out the side dishes first and then the turkey, a huge, golden brown beauty on a wooden platter. I am surprised when she hands Mordechai a carving knife and fork and he begins slicing. This is odd. Very odd. My father never sliced a turkey; he could barely slice a bagel. And here’s his best friend playing like top chef at his table, in his seat no less. It’s been five years, I tell myself. Mom’s getting older. Mordechai is just helping out. I don’t believe a word of it. I try and catch mom’s eye but she seems to be looking everywhere but in my direction, all smiles and girlish charm.
    Leo and I offer to do the dishes and we can hear laughter coming from the living room, and Frank Sinatra playing on the stereo. I’m ready to go home but we have to stick it out a little longer, at least for coffee and pie. Mom asks if there’s any music we want to hear and I use this as my opening to say it’s time for us to go. She doesn’t try to talk me out of it. Leo looks at me, surprised, but knows enough not to say anything. Mom and Mordechai walk us to the door (are they joined at the hip?) Hugs all around, drive safely, blah blah blah. I’m exhausted by the time I buckle my seat belt.
    “What’s going on with you? You’re acting weird,” Leo says.
    “I’m acting weird? Didn’t you notice my mother and Mordechai? They were acting like teenagers. He’s young enough to be her son practically.”
    “I like him. They seem happy. Why does it bother you?”
    There really is no way I can answer that without coming across as a spoiled brat, so I keep it to a simple truth.
    “I miss my father.”
    Leo glances at me for a second then reaches out to pat my leg.
    “Of course you do. But even if your mom was to spend the rest of her life alone, it wouldn’t bring him back. Do you think that’s fair?”
    “She could have at least told me so I wouldn’t be blindsided. I was just there for that ridiculous card reading, and she didn’t even mention Mordechai’s name.”
    “Maybe she knew you’d react this way.”
    “Thanks for backing me up.”
    I am furious, even more so knowing that Leo is technically right. But being right has nothing to do with feelings. Leo flips the radio on, Sirius XM, the Sinatra station, which somehow rarely plays any Sinatra music. Tonight, it’s Tony Bennett, Rags to Riches, one of his really early songs and in my opinion one of his best. Leo starts to sing to me, using his fist as a microphone. I can’t help but smile.
    “You’re an idiot,” I tell him.
    “My fate is up to yooooou,” he croons.
    Mordechai is forgotten for the time being.
*****
    I keep looking for a used car that suits me but everything I want is too expensive and everything I can afford is not something I want. Meanwhile, the almost brand new tires are taking up space in the garage. I consider selling them but with the way my luck has been running, the moment I sell them, I will probably find a great deal on a BMW that the tires would fit perfectly. Leo says he’s fine with driving me to work and picking me up but I am starting to feel like a teenager being taken to and from school. I have never lived in New York or San Francisco or any walkable urban city but I am beginning to see the appeal, the freedom of not having to drive or park or worry about gas prices. There are people who manage to navigate their way around Los Angeles without a car. I know one actor (from New York of course) who goes to auditions by bus when he can’t find someone to give him a lift. That’s insanity. I can sort of understand if you’re working a regular job and can take a single bus or train to and from work but even then, what do you do about grocery shopping or entertainment? I make myself crazy thinking of this, especially now as I have become another statistic.
    I have to get a car. Soon.
    My mother calls me a couple of days after Thanksgiving to check in. I know what she really wants is to see if I mention anything about Mordechai. I refuse to do so. If she wants to bring up the subject fine but I’m not making it easy for her. Eventually she does, but as usual she sidesteps the real issue.
    “Mordechai says you look just like your father,” she says.
    “That’s not news. I’ve always looked like him.”
    “Well, he seems to think the older you get, the stronger the resemblance.”
    “Um hm.”
    Pause.
    “Leo looks good.”
    “Yes mom. We all look good. When were you going to tell me about Mordechi?”
    “We’ve only been seeing each other a little while. I thought it would be better for you to find out in person. We’re just close friends, not sleeping together.”
    “Mom, please ! Too much information!”
    “Well I wanted you to know. We wanted to take things more slowly. Relationships are about more than sex.”
    “I’m aware of that, thank you.”
    Enough said on that topic, she pivots to my situation.
    “So what are you doing about a car?”
    “Still looking.”
    “Mordechai might be selling his if you’re interested. He’s looking to get an SUV.”
    “I don’t understand why anyone still drives SUVs. They reached their peak in the 90s. All they do is take up space and guzzle gas.”
    “He likes to ski. He needs the room and the four wheel drive.”
    “Good for him.”
    “You sound like a two year old. You always liked Mordechai but now you’ve changed your tune since he and I have become close?”
    As usual, she speaks in euphemisms. And for the record, I don’t believe the bit about them not sleeping together. I just don’t want to dwell on it.
    “I like him, not that it should matter. I was just taken by surprise. Let’s move on.”
    “Give him a call about the car. It’s only three years old and doesn’t have much mileage.”
    “I’ll think about it. I really wanted another BMW.”
    “Audis are good cars too. German engineering. The best, from what I’ve heard.”
    I promise to call him about the car and ring off before we get into another argument. I tell Leo about Mordechai’s car and ask him what he thinks. He says I should at least look into it and that he’ll go with me to check it out. I put aside my childish hesitation and make the call to Mordechai to set up a meeting. The days are short since we turned back the clocks and I want to see and drive the car during the day so I set it up for Saturday morning when Leo and I can both go together. His house is not far from my mother’s. It’s a split level that almost screams 1950s, aluminum siding and all.
    “Remember the movie Tin Men?” I ask Leo.
    “Danny De Vito and Richard Dreyfuss. Sure. It was a good movie. What made you think of it?”
    I point to the house.
    “Aluminum siding.”
    “Don’t start,” he says.
    Leo parks on the street in front of the house . I don’t see the Audi anywhere; it must be in the garage. We go up to ring the bell. Mordechai answers right away and greets us as if we are his best friends in the universe.
    “Come on in! I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in years and now two weeks in a row. Hi Leo.”
    They shake hands; I smile and try to meet his level of enthusiasm.
    “Coffee?” he says.
    It smells great. I usually find that coffee smells better than it tastes, but that’s just me.
    “Sure.”
    I sneak a peek in the living room and am surprised to see how contemporary and minimalist it is. Hardwood floors, light Scandinavian style furniture, a few pillows and throws but not too many. I’m impressed, until I realize it was probably his soon to be ex-wife who was in charge of the decorating.
    The kitchen is near and tidy, functional and sunny. At least he’s neat, I think to myself. He pours coffee from a carafe he’s been keeping warm and puts out sugar and cream. We make small talk for a bit and then he takes us out to the garage to look at his car. It is nice, I have to admit; shiny silver with cream colored leather upholstery.
    “Want to take her for a spin?”
    I sit in the driver’s seat, Leo in the passenger seat, and carefully back out of the driveway. With the way my luck has been running, I’m paranoid about damaging his car. I manage to go around the block without incident. It rides nicely, maybe not as sporty as my BMW (may she rest in peace) but fine. I pull into the driveway and Mordechai is smiling, waiting for my reaction.
    “How much?” I say.
    He gives me a price; it seems fair, more than fair. One benefit of the budding romance with my mother. I look at Leo for confirmation and he gives me his thumbs up look.
    I’ve got myself a new car.
    We make a plan: Leo will drive his car home, Mordechai will ride with me in the Audi to the DMV to change the title. I haven’t even paid him yet, but he says not to worry, he trusts me and will wait until I get the insurance payment. He’s making it hard to dislike him. I let him drive; I’m much too nervous to drive her myself with him sitting there. I feel like I should say something but can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound like I’m trying too hard. I finally ask him if the car has a name.
    “Ingrid,” he says.
    “Why Ingrid?”
    “I don’t know, sounds sort of German I guess. You can change it if you want.”
    “No, it’s fine.”
    We sit in silence for a minute or so.
    “You know, when Evelyn and I bought our house, this whole area was practically farmland. It went from rural to suburban to practically city in a generation.”
    “Sorry to hear about your divorce,” I say.
    “Thanks. We’re okay now, we talk. Friendly as we can be. Funny how that works.”
    “If you don’t mind me asking, what went wrong?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. The old cliche I guess, we just grew in separate directions. Once I retired, we realized we had nothing in common anymore. So she found someone more to her liking.”
    “Wow, that must have been rough.”
    He shrugs.
    “Life goes on. She was gracious enough to let me stay in the house. I bought her out of course.”
    “What about the kids? It must have been a shock to them.”
    “Not really. They have their own lives. They were disappointed I guess, but it really doesn’t affect them.We have no grandchildren so there’s that I guess.”
    I don’t have an answer for that so I just nod and look out the window. All this does is reinforce my reluctance to get married. When we get to my place, Leo is waiting out front, ready to give Mordechai a ride back to the Valley. Mordechai says he’ll take an Uber, but Leo tells him don’t be silly; of course I’ll drive you. Before they leave, I insist on giving Mordechai a check, which he agrees to hold until my insurance payment comes through. He seemed reluctant to take the check, even a little hurt that I would offer. When Leo gets home, he tells me I should have just waited, that sometimes you have to allow a person to be generous. Now I feel like crap, and it puts a damper on the rest of the evening.
    Ironically, the check arrives the next day. I immediately deposit it and text Mordechai to let him know. He calls me back almost immediately.
    “I don’t do so well with texts. All thumbs hitting the wrong keys,” he says.
    “I can relate.”
    “So, I’ll just hold on to this for a couple of days to make sure. I’m not in any rush.”
    I thank him, again, and then try to come up with something else to say. He beats me to it.
    “Your mom is coming with me to look at a hybrid SUV this afternoon. We’re planning a trip to Yosemite. I guess she told you?”
    “She may have mentioned it.”
    She didn’t. I feel a knife of betrayal go through my innards. He must sense from my tone that he shouldn’t have mentioned the Yosemite trip.
    “Listen, Rachel, I realize this is a bit awkward. I have great respect for your mother, and you know how close your father and I were. I’m not trying to take his place, or fill any gaps. Your mom and I are good friends, having fun, and I don’t want things between us, you and me I mean, to be uncomfortable.”
    I think about this a lot throughout the next few days, trying to isolate exactly what it is about the dynamic that is so troubling to me. Leo has been working most evenings for several weeks; his schedule fluctuates and this is his busy time. I take my box of photographs from the closet, all mixed up in no logical order. I keep promising myself to organize them but it’s an overwhelming task and pretty much a lost cause. How did we ever survive before every hand held device had a camera and everyone became a de facto photographer? There is still a lot to be said for looking at actual photos rather than scrolling through them on an iPhone screen. There is also something to be missed about dropping off a roll of film at FotoMat (remember?) and the anticipation of waiting to see how they came out. More often than not, there were more duds that successes, but those few successes meant something.
    I find one that I was particularly looking for: My parents, Mordechai and Evelyn, my boyfriend at the time, Neil, and me, all wearing our versions of the ugly Christmas sweater. I must have been about sixteen, all sultry and sulky in my desperate need to be grown up. Of the six people in the photo, one (my father) is dead, one (Evelyn) is living her life with someone new, one (Neil) has moved to Florida the last time I heard. I look closely at the photo for signs of what was to come, but all I see is six people captured in a moment with no vision of how their lives might change. I find myself tearing up, like an old woman yearning for her youth. That day will come soon enough. Maybe that’s what scares me.
    I put the box away and wait for Leo to come home. He looks tired, and is surprised to see me still awake. He takes off his shoes and stretches out on the couch, leaving room for me, and holds me close.
    “Maybe we should invite Mom and Mordechai over for Christmas Eve,” I say.
    “Good idea,” he says.

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