My Name Is Venus Black(78)
How I’ll do that after I move to California, I have no idea.
After Inez and I get back in the car, she says, “I’m giving you the Honda. To keep. I plan to buy a new car when I sell the house anyway.”
“No way,” I reply. “I don’t want it.”
“Why? You need a car, for Christ’s sake.”
“After all this, I’m not taking a car from you. It’s too much.”
She is quiet the rest of the way home, and “after all this” hangs in the air.
“Please take it.”
Once we’re back at the house, she asks again.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. “But to be honest, I would want a way better car.” I laugh at my own mean joke.
“So when are you leaving?” she asks, opening the dishwasher. I can hear the worry in her voice.
“Not as soon as you think,” I tell her. “We still have a big problem. You’re forgetting something very important,” I say with mock sternness.
She looks stricken. “What?”
“I don’t know how to drive a car!” The look of relief on her face cracks me up. “Lucky for you, I just happen to have a phony license. And you’re gonna teach me how to drive in one day.”
“How fun!” she says, genuinely excited.
I’m tempted to make a smart remark about how this—her teaching me to drive—should have happened years ago. But I hate to dampen the mood.
A few minutes later, we’re back in the Honda. Only this time, I’m the one in the driver’s seat.
* * *
—
AFTER A FEW hours of Inez’s direction, it’s painfully apparent that I’m not yet ready to drive alone to California. We stop at Herfy’s Burgers for lunch, and I can barely choke down the burger for the good memories that come with it—my friends and I after soccer games, a gang of girls lining up at the order window, starving, our knees bruised, our bodies sweaty, our faces happy—even if we’d lost.
Damn if those good memories aren’t the worst.
On the way home, I can tell Inez is thinking hard about something. It bothers me to still know her so well.
“I really want you to stay for one more night,” she says. “I’ll work with you on learning to drive the rest of the afternoon—into the evening. I don’t care how long it takes. And you need to leave early, because I don’t want you to drive at night.”
I almost make a joke that this—I don’t want you to drive at night—is precisely the kind of thing I was supposed to hear from her when I got my license at sixteen. But I stop myself. I wait for further arguments or emotional manipulations. When none come, I meet her eyes and I can tell she’s just being practical. Shit. Damn.
“Okay,” I say. “One more night. But we get to call in Chinese for dinner.”
“Oh, so you like Chinese now?” she asks.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I tell her. Which is the point, I guess.
* * *
—
ON TUESDAY MORNING, as soon as I pull away from the house, I notice that even without Inez in it, the Honda smells like her Charlie perfume. The first time I stop for gas, I buy a tree-shaped air freshener and a map of California.
Traveling south on I-5, I’m careful to drive the speed limit or just below. I never try to pass anyone, nervous about being pulled over. My name is Annette Higgman. I live on Federal Drive Boulevard.
I drive and drive, and keep on driving. I can’t decide if I’m on a fool’s errand—or if I really have a chance. Perhaps what matters most to me is that I make the effort. For Leo. For all of us.
Inez warned me that Oakland is massive—not some small town where people all know one another or you can find someone by just asking around. I try not to let her doubts—and mine—get to me.
It’s pretty late when I finally stop at a cheap hotel in Redding, California. But I’m so excited just to be in California I can hardly sleep. Plus, the adrenaline must really have me going. In that half-sleep state, I dream of my real father, his black curly hair and sparkly blue eyes—even though I can’t recall them exactly. I dream of Leo and Echo Glen. I dream of my childhood best friend, Jackie. I dream of Truly, who died of cancer (the reason for her wispy, barely there hair) a year after her great escape from Denney. I dream of my whole life—and yet I swear I never slept.
At first light, I drive through a McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a greasy hunk of hash browns. Almost four hours later, I roll into Oakland. I take a random exit and find a pay phone to call Inez to tell her that I made it here. It’s so bizarre to dial the number for home after all these years. She fills me in on her conversations with the Everett police. They suggested she phone the police in Oakland. Duh. We should have thought of that!
I’ve decided to start with art galleries. I open the phone book. There are five pages of listings. Shit. I rip out all those pages. It takes me an hour to whittle it down to the five galleries that seem most promising because they feature numerous artists—and there are a few Anthonys in the bunch. I make a list of addresses to visit and I use my map.
As I travel around Oakland, I am startled by how different it feels from Everett. The streets—and a lot of the people—seem rough, unfriendly. Phone poles are covered with bills advertising who-knows-what. I spot graffiti everywhere.