The Stars Are Fire(53)
“I wouldn’t have been able to leave the parking lot if I hadn’t,” she says. “I put them back to where they were when I first got into the car. It purrs.”
“Listen, Grace, I mean it when I say you’ve improved my life. And Amy’s. And certainly those of the patients who were turned away by the chaos of the waiting room. Or the ones who just got sicker and sicker as they waited. I should never have let it get out of hand like that.”
Grace leans her head back against the soft upholstery.
A hand squeezes hers, and she comes awake. Dr. Lighthart is in the driver’s seat next to her, and her mother-in-law’s house is up the hill outside the window. Damn, she thinks, she did fall asleep.
“I’m sorry,” she says. He withdraws his hand. “It’s just so comfortable in here.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Thanks for the ride,” she adds as she turns to get out of the car.
“Anytime.”
She watches the taillights for as far as she can see.
“You’re home early,” her mother comments. As usual on Fridays, Marjorie’s hair is in pin curls under a red bandanna. She washes her hair on Fridays and always has, which Grace thinks stems from the days when her mother and father were courting: a fresh set for going out.
“I got a ride.”
“From whom?”
“From the doctor. He had a patient out this way.”
Grace doesn’t think she could utter a lie to Dr. Lighthart, yet it’s so easy to do to her mother, who is undeserving of any lie. Who, without the slightest complaint, has taken over the care of her grandchildren and the enormous house they are living in. Whenever Grace and Marjorie have words, it’s because her mother is worried about her, trying to keep the marriage, which threatens to roll down the hill and out to sea, intact. Grace can hardly blame her for that.
She gives her mother a peck on the cheek.
“What’s that for?”
“No good reason,” Grace says.
After Grace has cooked teddy-bear pancakes for Claire and Tom the next morning (Claire annoyed that her bear is misshapen), Grace’s mother comes down late. “I hope you didn’t mind my not being up to cook.”
“Mind?” says Grace. “On weekends, you should sleep all you want. I’ll bring you a tray for breakfast. I’ll do it tomorrow in fact. I’ve been thinking I might go look for a car today.”
“You’re going to buy a car?”
“I hope to.”
“With what, may I ask?”
“I’ll put this week’s salary toward the purchase as a down payment. I’ve heard you can pay as little as ten dollars a month.”
“But money is so tight.”
“I have to have a car,” Grace argues, drying the dishes. “It will be much easier for us to shop, and I can skim an hour off my commute. I’ll leave here at eight-thirty and be home by five-thirty. I’ll see the kids more.” Grace knows it’s this last point that will win her mother over. “So I thought I might go into Biddeford today. I saw a used-car lot there.”
“When were you in Biddeford?” her mother asks, startling Grace.
Thinking quickly, she answers, “When Matt took me there to buy material to make the kids clothes.”
“You ought to write to them,” Marjorie says as she brings the kettle to the sink.
“I should.”
“All used-car salesmen are crooks.”
“And you know this how?”
“Everyone does,” her mother says. “Oh, by the way, there’s a letter for you on the telephone table.”
Grace picks the letter up and studies the return address. The Statler Hotel, Boston. She walks into the sitting room, slits the letter open, and reads.
Dear Grace,
I’ve wanted to write to you ever since I got on the train to travel south. I left without saying goodbye because I couldn’t. Simply could not. I hope you’ll understand.
I was hired by the Boston orchestra for several solo performances and have already been asked to travel to New York and to Chicago.
It is not my place ever to hope we will meet again.
I enjoyed every minute I was in your presence, and the memory of our last night will be with me forever.
I can’t say more than that, just as you cannot.
With deep affection and love,
Aidan Berne
(Italian accent)
In her room, Grace reads the letter half a dozen times. During the second and third readings, she dots the paper with tears. On the fourth reading, she laughs at the words Italian accent. During the fifth reading, the word love causes her to feel like a balloon leaving the earth. After the sixth reading, she folds the letter and puts it into the hatbox.
Grace stands by the outer wire fence of the used-car lot pretending to be searching for something in her purse.
“This one’s a beauty,” the salesman says to a young couple, the buyer in a long taupe coat and hat, his wife in a green wool coat and shivering. The salesman, in only a suit (a show of strength?), points to an old Ford. It’s been washed and polished, but nothing can hide the considerable rust on the front bumper, or the dent above it. He has had the car pushed so close to the wire fence that the buyers, unless they ask him to pull the car out for them, are unlikely to see the damage. Grace wants to call to them to check out the front, but she probably shouldn’t alienate the salesman. She’s here to buy a car, too.