Read Online The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Nau Sullivan
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among the Kleenex, wallet, and keys dumped on to the bureau, an odd thing to carry since he didnât smoke anymore. I fiddled with the cover, reading it again andthinking 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 matchesâlined 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 wasnât looking for the lights. I drove along looking for his car. It wasnât 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 didnât want to deal with this. Iâd been so sure, waking up, remembering the address and pieces of past conversations. The things heâd said: âOh, I saw Pammie. You know, Pammie. Sheâs moved back up here from Kokomo. . . ?â Pammie? It had to be a Pammie? Not a Mathilda or a Mary or a Martha? Pammie on Fairview. I couldnât 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, andâone more timeâI glanced in the direction of 1776 Fairview.
I wonder what would have become of meâof usâif I hadnât 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. Heâd 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 trueâand at the same time, I didnât. 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
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 matchesâlined 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 wasnât looking for the lights. I drove along looking for his car. It wasnât 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 didnât want to deal with this. Iâd been so sure, waking up, remembering the address and pieces of past conversations. The things heâd said: âOh, I saw Pammie. You know, Pammie. Sheâs moved back up here from Kokomo. . . ?â Pammie? It had to be a Pammie? Not a Mathilda or a Mary or a Martha? Pammie on Fairview. I couldnât 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, andâone more timeâI glanced in the direction of 1776 Fairview.
I wonder what would have become of meâof usâif I hadnât 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. Heâd 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 trueâand at the same time, I didnât. 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
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