Seeing Things, page 10
“You worry about driving. I’ll worry about the la-tee-dah interior of your father’s truck.”
“You don’t know how Dad—”
“Any man who buys a Cadillac and calls the thing a truck . . . well, never mind. Let’s see what you can do.”
Fletcher pushed a button, and the seat hummed away from the dashboard, toggled a switch to adjust the mirrors, and laid his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Do you want to pray?”
“I’m gonna spew. If anything happens to Dad’s truck, I’m toast.”
“To learn how to drive, you have to actually drive a car. True, this is more like an ocean liner, but it all works the same—gas pedal, brake, steering wheel.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. His shirt was damp. “You can do this, Fletcher. If I didn’t think so, I surely wouldn’t be sitting here or let Bee go along for the ride.”
“Once a guy tapped the truck’s bumper on Speer. You should have seen Dad. I thought he was going to kill that guy.”
Fletcher needed historical perspective. “Your dad ripped the bumper off our truck, pulling five of his friends along a snowy road in an inner tube.”
“Really?”
“Trucks are meant to work, and anything that works is bound to get tapped a time or two.”
Fletcher paused with his hand on the ignition key. “Grandma, I don’t mean to be rude, but you do have a driver’s license, don’t you? I mean, how much can you see, exactly? If you’re going to be teaching me . . .”
I missed most traffic lights, and stop signs flitted in and out of my field of vision. Other than that, a stream of houses and trees and lights floated by. “I think you’re stalling. Put your seat belt on and let’s go.” As for the driver’s license, what the Department of Motor Vehicles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
“I don’t wanna go too far,” he said, his voice pinched like an air hose.
“How far is the park?”
“Pretty far, Grandma.”
“More than a couple blocks?”
“Maybe five . . . or six. I think five.”
“Since this is our first lesson, let’s go around the block, shall we?”
Lupe directed Fletcher as he backed the behemoth truck out of the garage. Fletcher pointed to the rearview mirror. “Grandma, Bee’s drooling.”
I put my hand over his. He gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. “Fletcher, you’re a smart boy, nearly a man. You’re going to be the best driver on the streets today. Just step on the gas nice and easy and off we go.”
Fletcher nearly touched the windshield with his nose.
“Relax,” I said. “Imagine there’s an egg under the pedal. Press down nice and easy.”
Fletcher followed my instructions perfectly, only I’d forgotten to tell him to shift into drive. We backed toward the house. He stomped the brake pedal, which sent Bee onto the floor, a good test of Fletcher’s reflexes.
“Happens all the time,” I said. “That’s why you always start out nice and easy. Besides, you knew exactly what to do. Slide her into drive and don’t forget the egg under the gas pedal.”
It took us half an hour to drive around the block. We never topped fifteen miles per hour. The narrow streets, lined with parked cars on both sides, intimidated Fletcher terribly. Driving the Titanic down Broadway, quite frankly, would have been roomier.
“Someone might open a door or something,” he said when I told him to press the accelerator.
Teaching my children to drive on service roads inside Yellowstone had been very different. Our biggest concern was watching for deer and potholes, although Diane delayed getting her license a whole year after she’d hit a marmot.
“Sweetie, car doors don’t just fly open. Someone has to be sitting in the car for that to happen, so let your gaze glide from the street to the parked cars occasionally,” I said in my best flight-attendant voice.
“And steer too?”
“That may overwhelm you now, but with practice, driving will become one smooth movement.”
Once we were back at the house, safe and sound, Lupe served us pie and milk. “What happened?” she asked Fletcher. “You look like you seen a big ol’ ugly ghost.”
“I did. My own.” Fletcher pushed the pie away. “I can’t eat anything, not now.”
“Every day will get easier,” I said, rubbing the ridge of spine between his shoulder blades. That boy needed some meat on his bones.
“I’m never driving again,” he mumbled.
“You’ll thank me someday. You can drive to Ouray for a visit. Bee would love that.”
“I’ll take the bus.”
“Buses are filled with bums and drug addicts. You want to arrive in style, don’t you?”
Fletcher pushed away from the counter. “I want to arrive alive, Grandma.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We’ll listen to Huck later. I have a quiz on the assigned chapters tomorrow, plus I have a project proposal to write.” He recited baseball stats for Frank Selee as he climbed the stairs: “Boston Beaneaters. Field Manager 1890 to 1905. Died in Denver, just like me.” His door slammed shut.
“Lupe, I need an ice pack,” I said, heading for the bedroom.
“What’s a Boston Beaneater? Is that some kind of dog?”
I OPENED THE DOOR just enough to scan the living area. It was long past midnight and no light shone at the top of the stairs. I pulled the door closed, climbed back into bed, and stared into the darkness.
“I heard you, darling boy. There’s not a doubt in my mind. You said something. Not much of something, that’s true, but something.”
A siren droned in the distance.
“The house is asleep, Huck. Come on out.” I threw back the covers and worked myself off the bed to stand behind the walker. “Jump on the bed all you like.”
A truck rumbled past the house.
“I listened to more of your story tonight. Buck gave you those pants and the shirt. He’s a fine friend for you, from such a nice family. A regular woodsman he is, catching that young rabbit and the blue jay. I like the idea of you eating proper and having a family to look after you. Yes, the Shepherdsons turned out to be a lucky find. Now come on out here. You have to tell me what a ‘roundabout’ is.”
The darkness was silent as a grave. I crawled back into bed, pulled the covers to my chin, and waited. My snores woke me around five.
Chapter 15
Fletcher stopped the truck a good thirty feet from the intersection.
“You can’t see a thing from back here. Inch your way on up to the white line.”
The idle of the engine propelled the truck to the intersection. Fletcher flipped on his blinker to turn right, our usual route around the block.
“Is that restaurant with the shu mai near here?”
He looked up and down the street repeatedly for approaching traffic. “Why?”
“I’m feeling a little hungry.”
Bee pressed her head between the seat and the window to drool on my arm. Not wanting to distract Fletcher, I used a tissue from my bra to dry my arm and pushed Bee away from the window. In a wink, she was back, resting her muzzle on my shoulder.
“Grandma, I’m perfectly happy going around the block.”
“That may have been true yesterday, but today you have a destination, and nothing sweetens a journey like a destination.”
Fletcher kneaded the steering wheel. “You want to go to the Snappy Dragon? Now? I don’t know . . . and what will we do with Bee? She can’t stay in the truck.”
“How far?”
Fletcher rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “Straight ahead five blocks with nothing but parallel parking along Glaser Street.”
“You’re excellent at straight ahead. I say we go for it.”
“And the parking?”
“Have a little faith. I’ve prayed myself into more than one parking space in my time.”
Fletcher fell back against the seat. “Grandma.”
Looking back now, I realize I shouldn’t have pushed the boy, but I longed to hear Huck’s voice again, see the tilt of his head when I asked him a question and the way his face contorted over issues of Providence. Heartburn from the shu mai seemed to open one door for him to appear. “You have a suggestion?” I said, my voice laced with annoyance.
“There are diagonal parking spaces on 14th Street but just a few. You’ll have to walk over a block. But I say, no diagonal parking, no Snappy Dragon. Are you cool with that?”
“Is there a loading zone in front of the restaurant?”
“No.”
Surely he would have changed his tune if he knew our snack ushered me into the presence of a literary character the likes of Huckleberry Finn. Who was I kidding? My fickle appetite and questionable company would end our driving lessons forever or worse. “Fletcher, honey, courage doesn’t mean we aren’t afraid. It means we choose not to let our fear control us.”
Not one car was visible in either direction when Fletcher finally pressed the gas pedal with a tad too much enthusiasm. He stomped on the brake. I fought the urge to yell at him for stopping in the middle of the intersection. “Sweetie, let’s ease on out of the intersection before you take a break. Remember that egg under the gas pedal.”
In the middle of the next block, a horn sounded behind us. I turned to see a splash of brilliant red, low to the ground, rumbling. Bee barked a reply.
“What should I do?” Fletcher asked, his voice climbing an octave.
“How fast are you going?”
“Almost twenty.”
“If you’re comfortable, increase your speed. If not, you’re well within range. Stay the course.”
The horn sounded again, only more heavy-handed this time. Bee enjoyed the game and answered the horn enthusiastically. Fletcher eased up on the gas.
“Keep your speed up. You’ll have to deal with distractions when driving. Consistency means safety.” Bless his heart, Fletcher got the truck moving. “There will always be people trying to tell you how to drive, and they won’t be saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”
“He’s shaking his fist out the window.”
“Ignore him. Keep your eyes on what’s ahead of you. If he wants to go faster, he can pass.”
“Maybe I should pull over.”
“Bad idea. Keep going. You have as much right to the street as anyone.” Cross traffic whizzed by at the next intersection. “But since we don’t want Mr. Ants-in-His-Pants to go ballistic, you must cross the intersection even if you can see cars in the distance. I’m not saying take a crazy chance. Don’t floor the pedal, but don’t dillydally either.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You’re a smart boy. You can do this.”
“I’m happy waiting.”
“Do you want to meet the man in the red car?”
The truck’s acceleration pushed me into the upholstery. Bee whimpered. I waited for the sound of crunching metal.
“Open your eyes, Grandma. We made it.”
A SMALL-TOWN SHOPPING DISTRICT was the last thing I’d expected in the middle of Denver. The Snappy Dragon stood between an antique shop and a bike store. Although I couldn’t be sure, I think we passed an art gallery or two. A quilt shop set my heart racing, but my piecing days were long over. I figured that out when a sewing machine needle punched through my thumbnail. Besides the Snappy Dragon, a fancy eatery they called a brew haus sat on one corner, and a coffee shop lined the sidewalk with tables and rainbow umbrellas. Emory would definitely like the coffee shop.
I bit into the shu mai and chewed the doughy shell adoringly to release the heat inside my mouth. “Should we get a pastry from the coffee shop for Lupe?”
“We should go home.”
“Not so soon. It’s lovely to be out of the house, Fletcher. Thanks for driving me.”
Bee, leashed to a light pole, whined for attention and a handout. A couple dressed in Colorado chic—sleeveless vests, river pants, and sandals—indulged her with a scratch under her chin. She rolled onto her back to offer her pink belly. They walked on. True dog lovers understood a fuzzy belly offered friendship. Imposters. Completely unperturbed by their aloofness, Bee stretched in the sun. How I envied her lack of self-consciousness.
“So, Fletcher, did you see your friend from church in school today?”
He leaned back and wiped his mouth with a deliberation I’d not seen in him. I didn’t raise a son through puberty without learning a thing or two. Fletcher’s friend was definitely female.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“What makes you think she’s a girl?”
“Well?”
“Grandma . . .”
“She has a name.”
“We’re only friends.”
“I thought you were laying low until graduation.”
“This isn’t anything like that.”
“She has a name?”
He took a long swig off his soda.
“Fletcher!”
“Mi Sun.”
“She’s Chinese?”
“Korean. Her family adopted her.”
“You’re going to think I’m daft, but I’d once dreamed of being Korean. One of the boys who attended my high school, Gene was his name, he lied about his age to join the army and headed off to Korea. His brashness made him incredibly romantic, although I couldn’t say I’d ever noticed him before he enlisted. I was as dumb as a turtle. I had no idea what those boys faced over there. They didn’t talk much when they got home, always changed the subject when someone asked them a question, but Gene came back with an exotic Korean bride. He called her Honey. I’d never seen anyone more beautiful.”
Fletcher rested his head on his folded arms, and if I could have seen his face, no doubt he rolled his eyes. Once you have seven decades under your belt, you have something to say about everything. I needed to learn how to keep my mouth shut. But not yet.
“Have you learned about the Korean War in school?”
“American History is next year.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about . . .”
“Mi Sun?”
“Tell me about her.”
“What?” he said with exasperation in his voice.
I marched on. “You left your beloved box scores to attend a church service with your grandmother. Something tells me there’s more to this story.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Of course. What else?”
“I guess she’s smart.”
“How smart?”
“She gets good grades, and she has common sense. She doesn’t go for all the stupid stuff other girls do.”
I didn’t want to know what he meant by that. “And?”
“She plays first-chair flute, a position usually held by a senior. She’s a junior.”
“An older woman?”
Fletcher sucked in a sharp breath.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. Mum’s the word.”
“Huh?”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The fortitude required to milk information out of an adolescent male wearied me. However, once I got warmed up, the thrill of the hunt propelled me on. To let him think the hounds had been rested, I slipped in an unrelated question. “We should go see the Rockies play. When’s the next home game?”
Fletcher crushed his soda can. Did he sigh? “The Rockies suck. Besides, Dad’s too busy.”
“They need a rooting section. If your dad can’t go, we’ll go. Invite a friend.” Mi Sun?
“I’m not driving.”
“We’ll take a taxi.”
“I appreciate your asking, but their pitching stinks. It’s hardly worth watching a game.”
The conversational diversion proved more turbulent than expected. Oh well, I was the grandma. Old women were expected to stir the waters. Onward. “Do you see Mi Sun outside of class?”
“Her locker’s near mine.”
“How about lunch?”
“She sits with her friends outside the library.”
“Who do you sit with?”
“I read in the library.”
“You don’t eat?”
“The cafeteria is brutal. The food sucks, and . . . there’s no place to sit. It’s better to grab something when I get home.”
That explained his mad dash for the refrigerator every afternoon. “If I fixed you breakfast, would you eat it?”
He shrugged.
Later, at the house, Fletcher taught me how to order groceries on the Internet, not so different than calling in my order to the It’s-All-Here Market in Ouray, except they didn’t carry grits at the newfangled grocery store. Once Fletcher showed me how to log in to the Wainwright account and enlarge the font to megasize, I excused him to do his studies.
His tennis shoes squeaked to a stop on the hardwood floors. “Are you up for a few chapters of Huck tonight? It’ll be pretty late.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Chapter 16
I poured out a dose of Mylanta and waited for Huck to appear. It had been several days since his last visit, and I was counting on a mild case of heartburn to invite him back. The clock announced midnight had come and gone.
“Phooey on you, Huck Finn. An old woman has no business staying up half the night to yammer at a boy.” I downed the Mylanta, aiming for the back of my throat to avoid the nauseating sweetness of the concoction. Emory would just be getting home from a night of dancing at the Moose Lodge. I called him.
“Who’d you dance with?” I asked.
“Every woman in the room. You’ve spoiled me rotten, Birdie. Leading some of those gals was like dancing with a sheet of plywood in the wind.” He groaned. “What are you doing up so late?”
I hadn’t thought this through. If I told him I had heartburn again, he may have hopped in his car to deliver an antacid to Denver personally. On the other hand, telling him I was waiting for Huckleberry Finn to show up—well, I couldn’t do that, either.
“Thinking of you,” I said. “I know you’re tired, and you have work early tomorrow, so good night. I’ll talk to you soon.” And I hung up. I lay in bed, my hand over my pounding heart. Once the rhythm eased to an easy fox-trot, I adjusted the bed for sleep and said my prayers, remembering to lower everyone in my family—including Emory—through the roof and into Jesus’ presence.
