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Authors: Porter Shreve
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feelings on a day like this."
5
A N OVERPOWERING SMELL of rubber and engine oil floated over from Uncle Ed's garage as Lydia stepped out of the Escort. She slammed the door shut, trying to assure herself that the car was fixable. Her focus had always been on the history of automobiles, not the intricacies of their engines.
She walked into the first open bay of the garage, and a crew of mechanics looked up, surprised. Over the loud
tock-tock
of an oil gun counting its measure, she explained how the wheel had tightened up, how the gauge had fallen so quickly.
"Sounds like an alternator problem," offered one guy in a shirt with cut-off sleeves. A toothpick moved in his mouth as he talked.
"Nah, it's the battery," shouted another.
Soon the whole team came outside to look under the hood of the Escort, each giving the engine a cursory once over.
"It may seem like the battery, but that's what happens when the alternator's shot," said the one with the toothpick.
"I'll give you four hundred dollars for it," came a voice from the pit. "The repairs on that thing will be more than it's worth."
The manager had come out to take a look, too. He was someone who looked older than his years, Lydia guessed. His face was leathery, his hair smoothed back. He closed the Escort's hood and said, "Saturdays get busy around here. Not much we can do today. But feel free to use the phone."
In his office, he flipped through the yellow pages and slid his blackened fingers down to the listing of a nearby towing service. "This guy's the quickest in townâyour only bet, really, if you want to get that thing on the road today." He left Lydia in the office and went back to the garage.
She began to sit down on a padded stool, but when she put her hand on the chair, her fingers came up smeared with grease. No paper towels or tissue in sight; the whole place teemed with dirt. Frustrated, she wiped her fingers on her gray skirt, leaving two black lines on her hip, like mini tire tracks angling off.
"Of course," Lydia said to herself, as an answering machine picked up at the towing service. She left her name and the number at Uncle Ed's, displayed in large brown type on a sign in front of her. She turned back to the phone book and began calling other towing services. No one had a truck available. The estimated wait was several hours. It was turning out to be, quite possibly, the longest day of her life.
She went outside and leaned against the Escort. The heat of the asphalt mingled with the warm breeze of cars rushing by on Washtenaw Avenue. The digital clock at the Comerica across the street read 1:55. Nearly an hour into the wedding.
There in front of her, almost beckoning across the four-lane road, was an Arby's. She hadn't eaten fast food in years, but on this day she suddenly craved it. She opened the front door of the car, slid her laptop under the passenger seat, and locked up. Then she hurried across Washtenaw, holding up the hem of her skirt.
Once inside, she ordered a large roast beef sandwich, curly fries, and, though it was the last thing she needed right now, a large cup of coffee.
"Do you want the horsey sauce or the Arby's sauce with that?" the pixyish woman behind the counter asked.
"What do you mean 'horsey' sauce?" Lydia pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet.
"It's like horseradish, ma'am."
"Fine," Lydia said. "I'll have that." And before long she was sitting at a table by the front window, a paper napkin spread out on her lap. She ate some French fries and took a big bite of her roast beef sandwich. In front of the restaurant a cartoonish Arby's cowboy hat stood two stories tall, outlined with lights.
She looked down at her lunch. Her eyes welled up and the tears came. Maybe she
was
a pathetic, lonely person. Maybe Jessica was right: Lydia expected too much of her family; her hopes were absurdly unrealistic. How else to explain how thirty-three years of marriage had ended here, with her eating a sandwich, soggy with
5
A N OVERPOWERING SMELL of rubber and engine oil floated over from Uncle Ed's garage as Lydia stepped out of the Escort. She slammed the door shut, trying to assure herself that the car was fixable. Her focus had always been on the history of automobiles, not the intricacies of their engines.
She walked into the first open bay of the garage, and a crew of mechanics looked up, surprised. Over the loud
tock-tock
of an oil gun counting its measure, she explained how the wheel had tightened up, how the gauge had fallen so quickly.
"Sounds like an alternator problem," offered one guy in a shirt with cut-off sleeves. A toothpick moved in his mouth as he talked.
"Nah, it's the battery," shouted another.
Soon the whole team came outside to look under the hood of the Escort, each giving the engine a cursory once over.
"It may seem like the battery, but that's what happens when the alternator's shot," said the one with the toothpick.
"I'll give you four hundred dollars for it," came a voice from the pit. "The repairs on that thing will be more than it's worth."
The manager had come out to take a look, too. He was someone who looked older than his years, Lydia guessed. His face was leathery, his hair smoothed back. He closed the Escort's hood and said, "Saturdays get busy around here. Not much we can do today. But feel free to use the phone."
In his office, he flipped through the yellow pages and slid his blackened fingers down to the listing of a nearby towing service. "This guy's the quickest in townâyour only bet, really, if you want to get that thing on the road today." He left Lydia in the office and went back to the garage.
She began to sit down on a padded stool, but when she put her hand on the chair, her fingers came up smeared with grease. No paper towels or tissue in sight; the whole place teemed with dirt. Frustrated, she wiped her fingers on her gray skirt, leaving two black lines on her hip, like mini tire tracks angling off.
"Of course," Lydia said to herself, as an answering machine picked up at the towing service. She left her name and the number at Uncle Ed's, displayed in large brown type on a sign in front of her. She turned back to the phone book and began calling other towing services. No one had a truck available. The estimated wait was several hours. It was turning out to be, quite possibly, the longest day of her life.
She went outside and leaned against the Escort. The heat of the asphalt mingled with the warm breeze of cars rushing by on Washtenaw Avenue. The digital clock at the Comerica across the street read 1:55. Nearly an hour into the wedding.
There in front of her, almost beckoning across the four-lane road, was an Arby's. She hadn't eaten fast food in years, but on this day she suddenly craved it. She opened the front door of the car, slid her laptop under the passenger seat, and locked up. Then she hurried across Washtenaw, holding up the hem of her skirt.
Once inside, she ordered a large roast beef sandwich, curly fries, and, though it was the last thing she needed right now, a large cup of coffee.
"Do you want the horsey sauce or the Arby's sauce with that?" the pixyish woman behind the counter asked.
"What do you mean 'horsey' sauce?" Lydia pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet.
"It's like horseradish, ma'am."
"Fine," Lydia said. "I'll have that." And before long she was sitting at a table by the front window, a paper napkin spread out on her lap. She ate some French fries and took a big bite of her roast beef sandwich. In front of the restaurant a cartoonish Arby's cowboy hat stood two stories tall, outlined with lights.
She looked down at her lunch. Her eyes welled up and the tears came. Maybe she
was
a pathetic, lonely person. Maybe Jessica was right: Lydia expected too much of her family; her hopes were absurdly unrealistic. How else to explain how thirty-three years of marriage had ended here, with her eating a sandwich, soggy with
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