The Last Cadillac (7 page)

“That's a great idea,” I said. It was a new business for him, after leaving the army behind. We both wanted it to work. He'd gone into a partnership, and his plan was to buy out the retiring owner. I wanted it to work out, not only for financial reasons, but for us, too, with all the moving around and his efforts to give up drinking behind us. Some days, I even thought it might be possible. I wanted to believe it because I had once loved him, and besides, he came with a military guarantee: Duty, Honor, Country. He would never lie or cheat.

I sat in the dark, listening to his car fade away, at an hour before birds chirped, when the traffic began to hum at the burst of day, and then I remembered an address: 1776 Fairview.

It grabbed me. It was easy to remember—our American Independence, and a familiar street. And it was written on the inside of a matchbook cover. I'd picked it up the day before among the Kleenex, wallet, and keys dumped on to the bureau, an odd thing to carry since he didn't smoke anymore. I fiddled with the cover, reading it again and
thinking about the address, while he shaved and scrubbed himself in the bathroom. He always emerged looking blister-clean and smelling of Irish Spring.

I remembered that piece of cardboard with an ad for an upscale local Italian restaurant on one side and an address on the inside. The matches—lined up like red-capped soldiers guarding an address.

That cold early morning, it hit me all at once. After everything, it would come down to a matchbook cover.

I flew straight out of bed, down the stairs past the hallway mirror. My hair was wild, the result of another failed permanent, my eyes were dark holes in my white face. I didn't even bother to stop for shoes. I needed to get this done. I ran. Afraid.

It was still dark when I put the key in the ignition, and for an instant I thought it would be better to go back to bed, put my head into my comforter, and stay in the dark and not know and not care. It was not too late to drop the whole thing. I should be calm and sensible and look at the big picture of all the years together. I should let the affair pass, if there was such a thing, and I wasn't even sure there was. Call it a bad cold. Sleep it off. But the thought of not finding out flew right out of my head, because I had to know.

I mercilessly ground the gearshift into reverse, narrowly missing the lawnmower, and the car spun out of the garage. In less than ten minutes, I was driving past the snug brick bungalow at 1776 Fairview where the windows burned yellow in the dark. They were the only lights visible down the length of identical houses on the block, but I wasn't looking for the lights. I drove along looking for his car. It wasn't parked anywhere on the block. What did I expect, that he would be standing next to it, or that I would see him in her doorway waving at me? Hear I am, honey. How are you?

I pulled to the curb in a slump. I was tired and I didn't want to deal with this. I'd been so sure, waking up, remembering the address and pieces of past conversations. The things he'd said: “Oh, I saw Pammie. You know, Pammie. She's moved back up here from Kokomo. . . ?” Pammie? It had to be a Pammie? Not a Mathilda or a Mary or a Martha? Pammie on Fairview. I couldn't even remember her last name.

Maybe I was wrong.

I relaxed my grip on the steering wheel and decided to go home and curl up in bed for what was left of the morning. I turned the corner at the end of the street to head home, and—one more time—I glanced in the direction of 1776 Fairview.

I wonder what would have become of me—of us—if I hadn't taken that one last look?

But I did. The alley opened up like it was shouting at me. And there, stuck out at an angle about halfway down the gravel stretch behind the back fences, his red Pontiac. He'd parked it out of the way of traffic, out of view.

At once, it was a triumphant moment. I had been right. But then, anger rushed through me, made me blind with fury. I yanked at the wheel and shot down the alley. I wanted to believe it was true—and at the same time, I didn't. There had to be more than one red Pontiac in the suburban Chicago area.

The tires bit the gravel and spit rock against fence rails and garbage cans and garage doors. I pulled up and hit the brakes just behind his car, and there it was: license plate ELG321. I had the presence of mind to check the numbers again. They were still the same; they belonged to him. I slammed my fist onto the horn and blasted it again and again, stopping just long enough to let each blast seep into the quiet houses of the surrounding neighborhood.

Rage is selfish. I wanted everyone around me to be as disturbed as I was, to have their lives deprived of their peace. Feel my anger. Feel the betrayal.

With the continual shriek of the horn, lights, one after another, blinked on in the other houses. But nothing changed at 1776 Fairview.

Then a shadow passed over the light inside. The door cracked open. I wanted to see his face, but darkness interfered. I imagined his confusion, and surprise, and then, the nonchalance of someone who always had his own unimpeachable reasons for everything he did. Then she came to the door. The two of them stood together, his foot propping the screen open, just a silhouette at first. He was wearing a T-shirt and unbelted pants, and she, her head like a growth sprouting from his back, peered over his shoulder. They didn't move, and all the while, I sat in the Taurus in the alley, my fury exploding. I kept up the wild assault on the horn even though it wouldn't do any good. He wouldn't answer a screeching horn. Besides, there was no answer for this.

I glared at him across the back yard of her house, over the garbage cans. I squinted through my anger; I wanted to see his face, but I couldn't make it out. All I saw was an outline of the two of them. Then, she withered away from his shoulder, and he pushed the screen door all the way open. In response, I leaned out of the car window and screamed at him, my face rock-hard, words I don't even remember. It was as effective as the horn. Up and down the alley, more lights came on, and doors opened. I didn't care. I think I yelled that I never wanted to see his face again. At least that was true. After that night, I could hardly look at him.

He stood there and listened to me scream, until finally, he stepped back into the house. The door slapped shut. The
lights went out, and by then, all the doors had closed up and down Fairview.

He let me finish my screaming, and that was the last of it. At least he gave me that. But it didn't feel good. Nor do any good. Although I sat there for minutes, or maybe an hour, I don't really remember, he didn't come back out. I didn't expect him to. I didn't want him to. I couldn't move, sitting there, clutching the steering wheel, my motor running like crazy. I didn't know where to go or what to do, but one thing I didn't do—then, or ever—I didn't cry. It just wasn't in me. I was far too angry for that.

I sat in the car in the middle of the alley. It was near sunrise, and most of the world was still. I didn't hear a bird or a garbage truck, but thoughts ricocheted through my brain. The road ahead had rolled up that morning. And now I had to figure out what direction to take to get out of this mess of a marriage. It was broken; beyond fixing. Lucy's words from one hellish Christmas past came back. “You can't go on.” I had agreed with her then, although, at the time, I was not thoroughly convinced. Now I was.

What the hell. I wanted to believe this tearing away would make me stronger. I would make myself believe it. Whatever happened next would be on me—all my own doing. No matter what, I had to make the best of it.

That day was the last day of “us” together, as a couple. But it wasn't the last and only time he was a cheat. It no longer mattered; I was finished, and I guess, he was, too, because he beat me to the finish line. In a phone call, not long after that morning, he told me, “I'm filing. On Tuesday.”

I sorted Dad's clothes. I packed boxes to ship later. I threw out fifteen garbage bags full of stuff that my parents had moved into the condo that I was not going to move again—except to the curb. The furniture had been appraised, and with Dad giving us the go ahead, we decided to divide it up among us. Fortunately, that was something we could all agree on.

In the blur of activity, however, I forgot about the Cadillac. But Dad didn't.

“The Cadillac,” he said abruptly. “We need the car down there.” He was sitting at the breakfast table, halfway into his favorite sandwich, a grilled peanut butter and ham sandwich—the treat he and Mom had shared during their college years at Purdue a lifetime ago.

I looked up from packing the soup tureen and bowls and linen placemats, and other stuff no one needed.

“OK,” I said, layering a box of knives on top of a boom box and a carton of light bulbs.

Focus.

I hadn't thought about the Cadillac. But I took out the
to-do list that propelled me through the remaining weeks in the North, and in that moment, the Cadillac went right to the top. Of course, we were going to take the Cadillac.

How are we going to do that?

His last Cadillac sat in the driveway of the condo. He couldn't drive it anymore. Age had left him too slow and uncoordinated to drive, although it hadn't done much to dim his sense of humor and love of a good story, especially the one about the black Cadillac convertible he owned in the '80s—a doozey—with white leather interior and wire wheels. A thief stole the fancy wheels off the car, and later, he tried to sell them back to Dad, as they sat side by side, in their respective cars, during a one-minute stop at a red light. No deal. Dad got a kick out of that one. He found the value of a good laugh more important than owning anything fancy. After that, he kept his wheels plain and simple.

Dad's Cadillacs rolled along in the stories: of trips and football games, of dinners, and christenings, and weddings—even parades through town—of all the places those cars took my parents after Dad's business picked up and he could afford to buy his first Cadillac in the early '60s. Now, this one, the last of Dad's Cadillacs would have a story all its own.

Dad got up from the table and hobbled over to his walker. “Come with me,” he said.

I closed the flap on the cardboard box I'd just filled and followed him. “What are you doing? Do you want some help?”

“I'll say.”

He headed to the front door, and I was right behind him. “Dad, where are you going?” But he didn't stop.

We reached the door and I opened it, hoping he didn't trip on the raised threshold.

“We don't have time to go anywhere today, Dad.” Impatience intruded, but I scurried along behind him.

He stepped down onto the front walk and pointed at the Cadillac. As he fumbled in the pocket of his khaki jacket, I had the urge to tell him to stand up straight. Here I was, in the middle of another role reversal, and another childhood memory hounded me: Stand up straight. Don't fidget. Eat your carrots.

Then, to my surprise, he pulled out a set of keys.

I thought I knew everything about Dad. His favorite sandwich. His regularly scheduled television programs. Every tie and sock and pair of pants I'd washed and packed. But, seeing him produce those keys, I was reminded—again—that I would never know everything about anybody. I hadn't even known my husband. And now, for the life of me, I didn't know how my father had come up with those keys. Unmistakably, they were to a car. Dad's Cadillac.

He handed them to me.

“Here. I want you to have these,” he said, extending the keys in a curled palm. His nails were getting long again. He needed a haircut, too. As usual, I was easily distracted.

“What's this?” I'd driven his car every now and again, to the doctor's or grocery store. But we really hadn't cruised around town in the Caddy. There'd been no time.

“The keys to the Cadillac,” he said. “My last Cadillac.” His shoulders hunched up and down, and then he stifled the weeping, looking at me with teary, smiling eyes.

“Dad, you old sweetheart.” I hugged him awkwardly as he leaned on his walker, and I stood in my bare feet, in my bathrobe, in the driveway, in the heat. “Thanks, Dad.”

I turned the keys in my hand. He was proud of that special set of keys hanging on a ring with the familiar Naval crest.
Holding them, bouncing them in my open palm, I felt the weight of them. The responsibility. The heavy responsibility.

“You don't get it,” he said.

“Yes, I get it.”

“Take the keys; take the Cadillac. I want you to drive now. You're in charge.” He straightened up, his eyes clear and blue.

“Thanks, Dad. I'll try.”

“Don't take any guff.” Then he turned to go back inside.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just keep your eye on the ball. You'll be fine.”

I dropped the keys into my pocket. Such a small thing, and so heavy. I patted them, then looped my arm through Dad's. “I hope I know what I'm doing, what we're doing,” I mumbled, as I steered him back into the house.

“Well, damn it, I hope so, too,” he said, shaking his head. He put his weight on my arm. “You can handle it. I know you will.”

His walker rattled back to the table, and he sat down again with his sandwich. He took a large bite. Then he smiled up at me. “When do we blow this pop stand?”

Later that afternoon, when Dad was napping, I went out to the driveway of the dollhouse and looked at the 1994 Mocha Deville. I didn't get the “Mocha” part, because the car was definitely a mix of silver and purple and hadn't a thing to do with any shade of coffee brown. The leather interior matched the exterior, and the whole job looked like a large, shiny boat.

I climbed in, scorching the back of my legs on the wide seat. Since I hadn't driven it much, it would take some
getting used to. I adjusted the seat forward and back, floating smoothly with each automatic surge. This would certainly be better than driving my seven-year-old Taurus—“The Shark,” the kids' nickname for it—which was on its second transmission, thanks to my brainy idea to use it to pull a U-Haul full of our belongings. The car had certainly lived up to its name for its ability to eat every last dollar in my checking account. I loved The Shark (eventually my godson Peter ended up with it), but I much preferred Dad's last Cadillac.