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Authors: Alison McGhee
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right of way?’”
“Jesus. Ask me something I don’t know.”
“‘What’s the hand signal for right turn?’”
William T. frowns. He raises his left hand straight up in the air and studies it, then drops it by his side, then holds it straight out.
“Goddamn. I think you’ve got me, Younger.”
“Didn’t take much. Quarter, please.”
“What’s the answer?”
I wave the manual at him. “Study up on the rules of the road. You might learn something.”
William T. laughs. “You’re a tough customer, Younger.”
“‘Solid line with broken line,’” I read. “‘If you’re on the side with the solid line, you may not pass other vehicles or cross the line except to make a left turn into a driveway. If you’re on the side with the broken line, you may pass if it is safe to do so and your driving will not interfere with traffic.’”
“Duh,” William T. says.
“‘Single solid line,’” I read. “‘You may pass other vehicles or change lanes, but you should do so only if obstructions in the road make it necessary or traffic conditions require it. With regard to a left turn from a one-way road onto another one-way road, prepare to turn by getting into the left lane, or the left side of a single lane, as close as possible to the left curb or edge of the road. If the road you enter has two lanes, you must turn into its left lane.’”
“Jesus, there’s a lot of rules in that thing,” William T. says.
“You should know. You must have studied it when you were getting your license.”
“If I did, I have no memory of it.”
I look at Ivy, sister with hands folded in front of her heart as if she is keeping them warm, as if she is praying, as if she is pleading, as if she is holding her own self together. Ivy and I had an accident. It was dusk in the Adirondacks that night, and we were coming around a curve.
“I don’t want to drive,” I say.
“To live in this world you must drive,” William T. says.
“I’ll live in another world, then.”
I shut the driver’s manual and pick up my Pompeii book again.
“Imagine it,” I pretend-read. “All those ordinary people, living their ordinary lives. Maybe the baby had just gone to sleep in his basket of rushes in the corner.”
“Basket of rushes?” William T. says. “I thought that was Moses.”
“The baby is asleep in his basket of rushes,” I pretend-read. “And his mother stands at the clay oven baking the bread for lunch, and his father is at the marketplace selling flagons of homemade wine.”
“How is it possible that Moses was a Pompeian and all this time I never knew?” William T. says.
The door handle turns, and we both look up, ready to greet Angel. But it’s not Angel. It’s Tom Miller and Joe Miller. Joe looks like an animal who has never been indoors before. “It’s a crime, to keep a Miller confined,” William T. said once.
Joe Miller stands there with his Gray’s Automotive cap in his hands. There he stands, Tom behind him. It is the end of May, and Ivy has been on the ventilator for over two months. I watch Joe behold her, my sister Ivy with the tube in her throat and the tube in her arm and the tubes you can’t see, underneath the sheet. Joe Miller turns and turns and turns his cap.
“Ivy?”
That’s Joe, his voice. Low. Quiet. Saying her name. Can she hear him? Is she there? Joe watches Ivy, and I watch Joe, and Tom watches Joe, and Ivy with her closed eyes watches nothing.
“Ivy?”
Joe puts his cap on the table. He kneels by Ivy’s bed.
“Ivy.”
He says her name, and again he says her name.
“Ivy.”
He reaches his hands to Ivy’s, to Ivy’s hands that lie cradled one inside the other. He folds his fingers around hers.
“Ivy,” Joe whispers.
Then his eyes close. He brings my sister’s folded hands to his cheek and rubs his cheek along the bundle of hands, four hands, that are his hands encircling my sister’s hands. He rubs his face against my sister’s hands, and he
“Jesus. Ask me something I don’t know.”
“‘What’s the hand signal for right turn?’”
William T. frowns. He raises his left hand straight up in the air and studies it, then drops it by his side, then holds it straight out.
“Goddamn. I think you’ve got me, Younger.”
“Didn’t take much. Quarter, please.”
“What’s the answer?”
I wave the manual at him. “Study up on the rules of the road. You might learn something.”
William T. laughs. “You’re a tough customer, Younger.”
“‘Solid line with broken line,’” I read. “‘If you’re on the side with the solid line, you may not pass other vehicles or cross the line except to make a left turn into a driveway. If you’re on the side with the broken line, you may pass if it is safe to do so and your driving will not interfere with traffic.’”
“Duh,” William T. says.
“‘Single solid line,’” I read. “‘You may pass other vehicles or change lanes, but you should do so only if obstructions in the road make it necessary or traffic conditions require it. With regard to a left turn from a one-way road onto another one-way road, prepare to turn by getting into the left lane, or the left side of a single lane, as close as possible to the left curb or edge of the road. If the road you enter has two lanes, you must turn into its left lane.’”
“Jesus, there’s a lot of rules in that thing,” William T. says.
“You should know. You must have studied it when you were getting your license.”
“If I did, I have no memory of it.”
I look at Ivy, sister with hands folded in front of her heart as if she is keeping them warm, as if she is praying, as if she is pleading, as if she is holding her own self together. Ivy and I had an accident. It was dusk in the Adirondacks that night, and we were coming around a curve.
“I don’t want to drive,” I say.
“To live in this world you must drive,” William T. says.
“I’ll live in another world, then.”
I shut the driver’s manual and pick up my Pompeii book again.
“Imagine it,” I pretend-read. “All those ordinary people, living their ordinary lives. Maybe the baby had just gone to sleep in his basket of rushes in the corner.”
“Basket of rushes?” William T. says. “I thought that was Moses.”
“The baby is asleep in his basket of rushes,” I pretend-read. “And his mother stands at the clay oven baking the bread for lunch, and his father is at the marketplace selling flagons of homemade wine.”
“How is it possible that Moses was a Pompeian and all this time I never knew?” William T. says.
The door handle turns, and we both look up, ready to greet Angel. But it’s not Angel. It’s Tom Miller and Joe Miller. Joe looks like an animal who has never been indoors before. “It’s a crime, to keep a Miller confined,” William T. said once.
Joe Miller stands there with his Gray’s Automotive cap in his hands. There he stands, Tom behind him. It is the end of May, and Ivy has been on the ventilator for over two months. I watch Joe behold her, my sister Ivy with the tube in her throat and the tube in her arm and the tubes you can’t see, underneath the sheet. Joe Miller turns and turns and turns his cap.
“Ivy?”
That’s Joe, his voice. Low. Quiet. Saying her name. Can she hear him? Is she there? Joe watches Ivy, and I watch Joe, and Tom watches Joe, and Ivy with her closed eyes watches nothing.
“Ivy?”
Joe puts his cap on the table. He kneels by Ivy’s bed.
“Ivy.”
He says her name, and again he says her name.
“Ivy.”
He reaches his hands to Ivy’s, to Ivy’s hands that lie cradled one inside the other. He folds his fingers around hers.
“Ivy,” Joe whispers.
Then his eyes close. He brings my sister’s folded hands to his cheek and rubs his cheek along the bundle of hands, four hands, that are his hands encircling my sister’s hands. He rubs his face against my sister’s hands, and he
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