Read Online The Red Car by Marcy Dermansky - Free Book Online Page A

of time, the island had been swallowed up by the sea. I read that repairs had been made, the visitors facility rebuilt. It was a place where I had been happy, but I would never go back again. That part of my life was over.
    A FTER THE FUNERAL, JUDY’S ECLECTIC group of friends and co-workers went to a nearby Mexican restaurant for lunch. Diego ordered a pitcher of margaritas. I licked the salt on the edge of my glass. I drank my drink too quickly. I liked the salt. I felt sad about the dolphins. Melancholy. I felt floating unexplainable melancholy. Loss.
    Beverly took my hand.
    â€œAfter lunch,” she said. “We’ll go see the car.”
    I had forgotten already. Judy had left me her car in the will. I hadn’t driven in years, not since moving to New York. Really, the only time I had ever driven was when I was in graduate school when the supermarket was three miles away and the mall was four, and driving was absolutely essential.
    â€œI don’t want the car,” I said. “Judy died in it.”
    Diego poured me another margarita.
    The man with the leather jacket and the wire-rim glasses came up to me and shook my hand. “She told me all about you,” he said.
    â€œWho?” I said.
    Okay, I was drunk already. There had been actual lunch at the restaurant, tacos and guacamole, and somehow all I had been able to do was drink. I picked up a chip and I dipped it in the guacamole and I ate it. It was good, so good. I didn’t know who this man was but somehow, he knew who I was.
    â€œI haven’t seen her in years,” I said.
    He shrugged. “That doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Love is what it is and she loved you.” I wanted to ask him who he was, but he said that he had to leave.
    â€œGuy is an asshole,” Beverly whispered to me. “He totally played with Judy’s heart.”
    â€œHe spent her money, too,” Diego added.
    â€œA boyfriend,” I said.
    â€œI wouldn’t call him that,” Beverly said.
    But it was something. If not love, maybe sex. Someone. At least Judy had gotten laid. I didn’t like the idea of Judy dying alone.
    â€œBut I did die alone,” Judy said, matter-of-fact. “I was alone in my car. Though I guess you could also say that I was with my car. I loved my car.”
    But then, I wanted to argue with Judy, everyone dies alone. You can’t die with another person, or even if you do, like in an earthquake or a car accident or a fire, or in a hospital bed with a lover holding your hand, your actual death is still a solitary thing. Why did I want to pick a fight about this in the first place, when I wanted to believe that Judy hadn’t been alone? Of course she was. It occurred to me that I did not know a thing, which made me wonder why I thought I could be a writer. It was time to leave the restaurant. I ate some more guacamole.
    Beverly told me that lunch was over. The funeral was over. The busboy began to clear the table. Diego was holding my hand. “Thank you,” I said.
    I had two more weeks in San Francisco.
    We drove back into San Francisco to see the car. Diego dropped me off at the garage. Beverly had forgotten her promise to take me.
    â€œAren’t you coming in with me?”
    â€œI have work to do, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s a workday.”
    I don’t know what I had thought. That he would take care of me, not leave my side. I did not even know where I was sleeping that night. I did not like how he called me “sweetheart.” I felt dismissed by the word.
    â€œDrive back to the office when you are done here and meet me,” he said. Which was a little bit better. But somehow not actually better.
    â€œWon’t the car be undrivable?”
    â€œThen take a taxi.”
    â€œI could take the bus.”
    â€œDon’t take the bus,” Diego said. “You’re overdressed.”
    I nodded, unsure. Maybe Diego had fulfilled