Breathing Lessons (16 page)

But he let the speedometer inch up to sixty-five, to sixty-eight. They drew close behind the Chevy. Its rear window was so dusty that Ira had trouble seeing inside. All he could tell was that the driver wore a hat of some kind and sat very low in the seat. There didn't seem to be any passengers. The license plate was dusty too-a Pennsylvania plate, navy and yellow, the yellow mottled with gray as if mildewed.
"Y two eight-" Ira read out.
"Yes, yes, I have it," Maggie said. (She was the type who could still reel off her childhood telephone number.) "Now let's pass him," she told Ira.
"Oh, well . . ." "You see what kind of driver he is. I think we ought to pass." Well, that made sense. Ira veered left.
Just as they came alongside the Chevy, Maggie leaned out her window and pointed downward with her index finger. "Your wheel!" she shouted. "Your wheel! Your front wheel is falling off!" "Good grief," Ira said.
He checked the mirror. Sure enough, the Chevy had slowed and was moving toward the shoulder.
"Well, he believed you," he said.
He had to admit it was sort of a satisfaction.
Maggie twisted around in her seat, gazing out the rear window. Then she turned to Ira. There was a stricken look on her face that he couldn't account for. "Oh, Ira," she said.
"Now what." "He was old, Ira." Ira said, "These goddamn senior-citizen drivers ..." "Not only was he old," she said. "He was black." "So?" "I didn't see him clearly till I'd said that about the wheel," she said. "He didn't mean to run us off the road! I bet he doesn't even know it happened. He had this wrinkled, dignified face and when I told him about the wheel his mouth dropped open but still he remembered to touch the brim of his hat. His hat! His gray felt hat like my grandfather wore!" Ira groaned.
Maggie said, "Now he thinks we played a trick on him. He thinks we're racist or something and lied about his wheel to be cruel." "He doesn't think any such thing," Ira said. "As a ' matter of fact, he has no way of knowing his wheel isn 't falling off. How would he check it? He'd have to watch it in motion." "You mean he's still sitting there?" "No, no," Ira said hastily. "I mean he's probably back on the road by now but he's traveling a little slower, just to make sure it's all right." "I wouldn't do that," Maggie said.
"Well, you're not him." "He wouldn't do that, either. He's old and confused and alone and he's sitting there in his car, too scared to drive another inch." "Oh, Lord," Ira said.
"We have to go back and tell him." Somehow, he'd known that was coming.
"We won't say we deliberately lied," Maggie said. "We'll tell him we just weren't sure. We'll ask him to make a test drive while we watch, and then we'll say, 'Oops! Our mistake. Your wheel is fine; we must have misjudged.' " "Where'd you get this 'we' business?" Ira asked. "I never told him it was loose in the first place." "Ira, I'm begging you on bended knee, please turn around and go rescue that man." "It is now one-thirty in the afternoon," Ira said. "With luck we could be home by three. Maybe even two-thirty. I could open the shop for a couple of hours, which may not be much but it's better than nothing." "That poor old man is sitting in his car staring straight in front of him not knowing, what to do," Maggie said. "He's still hanging on to the steering wheel. I can see him as plain as day." So could Ira. > He slowed as they came to a large, prosperous-looking farm. A grassy lane led toward the barn, and he veered onto that without signaling first, in order to make the turn seem more sudden and more exasperated. Maggie's sunglasses scooted the length of the dashboard. Ira backed up, waited for a stream of traffic that all at once materialized, and then spun out onto Route One again, this time heading north.
Maggie said, "I knew you couldn't be heartless." "Just imagine," Ira told her. "All up and down this highway, other couples are taking weekend drives to- gether. They're traveling from Point A to Point B. They're holding civilized discussions about, I don't know, current events. Disarmament. Apartheid." "He probably thinks we belong to the Ku Klux Klan," Maggie said. She started chewing her lip the way she always did when she was worried.
"No stops, no detours," Ira said. "If they take any break at all, it's for lunch in some classy old inn. Someplace they researched ahead of time, where they even made reservations." He was starving, come to think of it. He hadn't eaten a thing at Serena's.
"It was right about here," Maggie said, perking up. "I recognize those silos. It was just before those mesh-looking silos. There he is." Yes, there he was, not sitting in his car after all but walking around it in a wavery circle-a stoop-shouldered man the color of a rolltop desk, wearing one of those elderly suits that seem longer in front than in back. He was studying the tires of the Chevy, which might have been abandoned years ago; it had a settled, resigned appearance. Ira signaled and make a U-turn, arriving neatly behind so the two cars' bumpers almost touched. He opened the door and stepped out. "Can we help?" he called.
Maggie got out too but seemed willing for once to let Ira do the talking.
"It's my wheel," the old man said. "Lady back up the road a ways pointed out my wheel was falling off." "That was us," Ira told him. "Or my wife, at least. But you know, I believe she might have been wrong. That wheel seems fine to me." The old man looked at him directly now. He had a skull-like, deeply lined face, and the whites of his eyes were so yellow they were almost brown. "Oh, well, surely, seems fine," he said. "When the car is setting stark still like it is." "But I mean even before," Ira told him. "Back when you were still on the road." The old man appeared unconvinced. He prodded the tire with the toe of his shoe. "Anyhow," he said. "Mighty nice of you folks to stop." Maggie said, "Nice! It's the least we could do." She stepped forward. "I'm Maggie Moran," she said. "This is my husband, Ira." "My name's Mr. Daniel Otis," the old man said, touching the brim of his hat.
"Mr. Otis, see, I had this sort of, like, mirage as we were driving past your car," Maggie said. "I thought I noticed your wheel wobbling. But then the very next instant I said, 'No, I believe I imagined it.' Didn't I, Ira? Just ask Ira. 'I believe I made that driver stop for no good reason,' I told him." "They's all kindly explanations why you might have seen it wobble," Mr. Otis said.
"Why, certainly!" Maggie cried. "Heat waves, maybe, rippling above the pavement. Or maybe, I don't know-" "Might have been a sign, too," Mr. Otis said.
"Sign?" "Might have been the-Lord was trying to warn me." "Warn you about what?" "Warn me my left front wheel was fixing to drop off." Maggie said, "Well, but-" "Mr. Otis," Ira said. "I think it's more likely my wife just made a mistake." "Now, you can't know that." "An understandable mistake," Ira said, "but all the same, a mistake. So what we ought to do is, you get into your car and drive it just a^few yards down the shoulder. Maggie and I will watch. If your wheel's not loose, you're free and clear. If it is, we'll take you to a service station." "Oh, why, I appreciate that," Mr. Otis said. "Maybe Buford, if it ain't too much trouble." "Pardon?" "Buford Texaco. It's up ahead a piece; my nephew works there." "Sure, anywhere," Ira said, "but I'm willing to bet-" "In fact, if it ain't too much trouble you might just go on and carry me there right now," Mr. Otis said.
"Now?" "I don't relish driving a car with a wheel about to drop off." "Mr. Otis," Ira said. "We'll test the wheel. That's what IVe been telling you." "I'll test it," Maggie said.
"Yes, Maggie will test it. Maggie? Honey, maybe I should be the one." "Shoot, yes; it's way too risky for a lady," Mr. Otis told her.
Ira had been thinking of the risk to the Chevy, but he said, "Right. You and Mr. Otis watch; I'll drive." "No, sir, I can't allow you to do that," Mr. Otis said. "I appreciate it, but I can't allow it. Too much danger. You folks just carry me to the Texaco, please, and my nephew will come fetch the car with the tow truck.'' Ira looked at Maggie. Maggie looked back at him helplessly. The sounds of traffic whizzing past reminded him of those TV thrillers where spies rendezvoused in modern wastelands, on the edges of superhighways or roaring industrial complexes.
"Listen," Ira said. "I'll just come right out with this-" "Or don't carry me! Don't," Mr. Otis cried. "I already inconvenienced you-all enough, I know that." "The fact is, we feel responsible," Ira told him. "What we said about your wheel wasn't so much a mistake as a plain and simple, um, exaggeration." • "Yes, we made it up," Maggie said.
"Aw, no,"'Mr. Otis said, shaking his head, "you just trying to stop me from worrying." "A while back you kind of, like, more or less, slowed down too suddenly in front of us," Maggie said, "and caused us to run off the road. Not intending to, I realize, but-" "I did that?" "Not intending to," Maggie assured him.
"And besides," Ira said, "you probably slowed because we accidentally honked. So it's not as if-" "Oh, I declare. Florence, that's my niece, she is all the time after me to turn in my driver's license, but I surely never expected-" "Anyhow, I did a very inconsiderate thing," Maggie told him. "I said your wheel was falling off when really it was fine." "Why, I call that a very Christian thing," Mr. Otis said. "When I had caused you to run off the road! You folks been awful nice about this." "No, see, really the wheel was-" "Many would've let me ride on to my death," Mr. Otis said.
"The wheel was fine!" Maggie told him. "It wasn't wobbling in the slightest." Mr. Otis tipped his head back and studied her. His lowered eyelids gave him such a haughty, hooded expression that it seemed he might finally have grasped her meaning. But then he said, "Naw, that can't be right. Can it? Naw. I tell you: Now that I recollect, that car was driving funny all this morning. I knew it and yet didn't know it, you know? And I reckon it must've hit you-all the same way-kindly like you half glimpsed it out of the comer of your vision so you were moved to say what you did, not understanding just why." That settled it; Ira took action. "Well, then," he said, "nothing to do but test it. Keys inside?" And he strode briskly to the Chevy and opened the door and slid in.
"Aw, now!" Mr. Otis cried. "Don't you go risking your neck for me, mister!" "He'll be all right," Maggie told him.
Ira gave Mr. Otis a reassuring wave.
Even though the window was open, the Chevy was pulsing with heat. The clear plastic seat cover seemed to have partially melted, and there was a strong smell of overripe banana. No wonder: The remains of a bag lunch sat on the passenger seat-a crumpled sack, a banana peel, and a screw of cellophane.
Ira turned the key in the ignition. When the engine roared up he leaned out toward Maggie and Mr. Otis and said, "Watch carefully." They said nothing. For two people who looked so little alike, they wore oddly similar expressions: wary and guarded, as if braced for the worst.
Ira put the car in gear and started rolling along the shoulder. He felt he was driving something that stood out too far on all sides-a double bed, for instance. Also, there was a rattle in the exhaust system.
After a few yards, he braked and cocked his head out the window. The others had not moved from where they stood; they'd merely turned their faces in his direction.
"Well?" he called.
There was a pause. Then Mr. Otis said, "Yessir, seem like I did see a bit of jiggling motion to it." "You did?" Ira asked.
He quirked an eyebrow at Maggie.
"But you didn't," he said.
"Well, I'm not certain," Maggie told him.
"Excuse me?" "Maybe I just imagined it," she said, "but I thought there was a little, sort of, I don't know ..." Ira shifted gears and backed up with a jolt. When he was alongside them once more he said, "Now I want you both to watch very, very closely." He drove farther this time, a dozen yards or so. They were forced to follow him. He glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Maggie scurrying along with her arms folded beneath her bosom. He stopped the car and climbed out to face them.
"Oh, that wheel is loose, all right," Mr. Otis called as he arrived.
Ira said, "Maggie?" "It reminded me of a top, just before it stops spinning and falls over," Maggie said.
"Now listen here, Maggie-" "I know! I know!" she said. "But I can't help it, Ira; I really saw it wobble. And also it looked kind of squashy." "Well, that's a whole different problem," Ira said. "The tire may be underinflated. But that wheel is on tight as a drum, I swear it. I could feel it. I can't believe you're doing this, Maggie." "Well, I'm sorry," she said stubbornly, "but I refuse to say I didn't see what I saw with my own two eyes. I just think we're going to have to take him to that Texaco." Ira looked at Mr. Otis. "You got a lug wrench?" he asked.

"A ... sir?" "If you've got a lug wrench, I could tighten that wheel myself." "Oh, why ... Is a lug wrench like a ordinary wrench?" "You probably have one in your trunk," Ira told him, "where you keep your jack." "Oh! But where do I keep my jack, I wonder," Mr. Otis said.
"In your trunk," Ira repeated doggedly, and he reached inside the car for the keys and handed them over. He was keeping his face as impassive as possible, but inwardly he felt the way he felt anytime he stopped by Maggie's nursing home: utterly despairing. He couldn't see how this Mr. Otis fellow made it from day to day, bumbling along as he did.
"Lug wrench, lug wrench," Mr. Otis was murmuring. He unlocked the trunk and flung the lid up. "Now let me just . . ." At first glance, the trunk's interior seemed a solid block of fabric. Blankets, clothes, and pillows had been packed inside so tightly that they had congealed together. "Oh, me," Mr. Otis said, and he plucked at a corner of a graying quilt, which didn't budge.
"Never mind," Ira told him. "I'll get mine." He walked back to the Dodge. It suddenly seemed very well kept, if you overlooked what Maggie had done to the left front fender. He took his keys from the ignition and unlocked the trunk and opened it.
Nothing.
Where once there'd been a spare tire, tucked into the well beneath the floor mat, now there was an empty space. And not a sign of the gray vinyl pouch in which he kept his tools.
He called, "Maggie?" She turned lazily from her position by the Chevy and tilted her head in his direction.
"What happened to my spare tire?" he asked.
"It's on the car." "On the car?" She nodded vigorously.
"You mean it's in use?" "Right." "Then where's the original tire?" "It's getting patched at the Exxon back home." "Well, how did ... ?" No, never mind; better not get sidetracked. "So where are the tools, then?" he called.
"What tools?" He slammed the lid down and walked back to the Chevy. There was no point shouting; he could see his lug wrench was not going to be anywhere within reach. "The tools you changed the tire with," he told her.
"Oh, I didn't change the tire. A man stopped and helped me." "Did he use the tools in the trunk?" "I guess so, yes." "Did he put them back?" "Well, he must have," Maggie said. She frowned, evidently trying to recall.
"They're not there, Maggie." "Well, I'm sure he didn't steal them, if that's what you're thinking. He was a very nice man. He wouldn't even accept any money; he said he had a wife of his own and-" "I'm not saying he stole them; I'm just asking where they are." Maggie said, "Maybe on the . . ." and then mumbled something further, he wasn't sure what.
"Pardon?" "I said, maybe on the corner of Charles Street and Northern Parkway!" she shouted.
Ira turned to Mr. Otis. The old man was watching him with his eyes half closed; he appeared to be falling asleep on his feet.
"I guess we'll have to unpack your trunk," Ira told him.
Mr. Otis nodded several times but made no move to begin.
"Shall we just unload it?" Ira asked.
"Well, we could do that," Mr. Otis said doubtfully.
There was a pause.
Ira said, "Well? Shall we start?" "We could start if you like," Mr. Otis told him, "but I'd be very much surprised if we was to find a wheel wrench." "Everybody has a wheel wrench. Lug wrench," Ira said. "It comes with the car." "I never saw it." "Oh, Ira," Maggie said. "Can't we just drive him to the Texaco and get his nephew to fix it properly?" "And how do you think he would do that, Maggie? He'd take a wrench and tighten the lug nuts, not that they need it." Mr. Otis, meanwhile, had managed to remove a single item from the trunk: a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He held them up and considered them.
Maybe it was the dubious expression on his face, or maybe it was the pajamas themselves-crinkled and withered, trailing a frazzled drawstring-but at any rate, Ira all at once gave in. "Oh, what the hell," he said. "Let's just go to the Texaco." "Thank you, Ira," Maggie told him sweetly.
And Mr. Otis said, "Well, if you sure it ain't too much trouble." "No, no . . ." Ira passed a hand across his forehead. "So I guess we'd better lock up the Chevy," he said.
Maggie said, "What Chevy?" "That's what kind of car this is, Maggie." "Ain't hardly no point locking it with a wheel about to fly off," Mr. Otis said.
Ira had a brief moment when he wondered if this whole situation might be Mr. Otis's particularly passive, devilish way of getting even.
He turned and walked back to his own car. Behind him he heard the Chevy's trunk lid clanging shut and the sound of their feet on the gravel, but he didn't wait for them to catch up.
Now the Dodge was as hot as the Chevy, and the chrome shaft of the gearshift burned his fingers. He sat there with the_motor idling while Maggie helped Mr. Otis settle in the back seat. She seemed to know by instinct that he would require assistance; he had to be folded across the middle in some complicated fashion. The last of him to enter was his feet, which he gathered to him by lifting both knees with his hands. Then he let out a sigh and took his hat off. In the mirror Ira saw a bony, plated-looking scalp, with two cottony puffs of white hair snarling above his ears.
"I surely do appreciate this," Mr. Otis said.
"Oh, no trouble!" Maggie told him, flouncing onto the front seat.
Speak for yourself, Ira thought sourly.
He waited for a cavalcade of motorcyclists to pass (all male, unhelmeted, swooping by in long S-curves, as free as birds), and then he pulled onto the highway. "So whereabouts are we headed?" he asked.
"Oh, why, you just drive on past the dairy farm and make a right," Mr. Otis told him. "It ain't but three, four miles." Maggie craned around in her seat and said, "You must live in this area." "Back-air a ways on Dead Crow Road," Mr. Otis told her. "Or used to, till last week. Lately I been staying with my sister Lurene." Then he started telling her about his sister Lurene, who worked off and on at the K Mart when her arthritis wasn't too bad; and that of course led to a discussion of Mr. Otis's own arthritis, the sneaky slow manner it had crept up on him and the other things he had thought it was first and how the doctor had marveled and made over his condition when Mr. Otis finally thought to consult him.
"Oh, if you had seen what I have seen," Maggie said. "People in the nursing home where I work just knotted over; don't I know it." She had a tendency to fall into other people's rhythms of speech while she was talking to them. Close your eyes and you could almost fancy she was black herself, Ira thought.
"It's a evil, mean-spirited ailment; no two ways about it," Mr. Otis said. "This here is the dairy farm, mister. You want to take your next right." Ira slowed down. They passed a small clump of cows moonily chomping and staring, and then they turned onto a road not two full lanes wide. The pavement was patchy, with hand-painted signs tilting off the grassy embankment: DANGER LIVESTOCK MAY BE LOOSE and SLOW THIS MEANS YOU and HOUNDS AND HORSES CROSSING.
Now Mr. Otis was explaining how arthritis had forced him to retire. He used to be a roofer, he said, down home in North Carolina. He used to walk those ridgepoles as nimble as a squirrel and now he couldn't manage the lowest rung of a ladder.
Maggie made a clucking sound.
Ira wondered why Maggie always had to be inviting other people into their lives. She didn't feel a mere husband was enough, he suspected. Two was not a satisfactory number for her. He remembered all the strays she had welcomed over the years-her brother who spent a winter on their couch when his wife fell in love with her dentist, and Serena that time that Max was in Virginia hunting work, and of course Fiona with her baby and her mountains of baby equipment, her stroller and her playpen and her wind-up infant swing. In his present mood, Ira thought he might include their own children as well, for weren't Jesse and Daisy also outsiders-interrupting their most private moments, wedging between the two of them? (Hard to believe that some people had children to hold a marriage together.) And neither one had been planned for, at least not quite so soon. In the days before Jesse was born, Ira had still had hopes of going back to school. It was supposed to be the next thing in line, after paying off his sister's medical bills and his father's new furnace. Maggie would keep on working full time. But then she found out she was pregnant, and she had to take leave from her job. And after that Ira's sister developed a whole new symptom, some kind of seizures that required hospitalization; and a moving van crashed into the shop one Christmas Eve and damaged the building. Then Maggie got pregnant with Daisy, another surprise. (Had it been unwise, perhaps, to leave matters of contraception to someone so accident-prone?) But that was eight years after Jesse, and Ira had more or less abandoned his plans by then anyhow.
Sometimes-on a day like today, say, this long, hot day in this dusty car-he experienced the most crushing kind of tiredness. It was an actual weight on his head, as if the ceiling had been lowered. But he supposed that everybody felt that way, now and again.
Maggie was telling Mr. Otis the purpose of their trip. "My oldest, closest friend just lost her husband," she was saying, "and we had to go to his funeral. It was the saddest occasion.'' "Oh, gracious. Well, now, I want to offer my sincere condolences," Mr. Otis said.
Ira slowed behind a round-shouldered, humble-looking car from the forties, driven by an old lady so hunched that her head was barely visible above the steering wheel. Route One, the nursing home of highways. Then he remembered that this wasn't Route One anymore, that they had drifted sideward or maybe even backward, and he had a dreamy, floating sensation. It was like that old spell during a change of seasons when you momentarily forge> what stage the year is going through. Is it spring, or is it fall? Is the summer just beginning, or is it coming to an end?
They passed a modern, split-level house with two plaster statues in the yard: a Dutch boy and girl bobbing delicately toward each other so their lips were almost touching. Then a trailer park and assorted signs for churches, civic organizations, Al's Lawn and Patio Furnishings. Mr. Otis sat forward with a grunt, clutching the back of the seat. "Right up-air is the Texaco," he said. "See it?" Ira saw it: a small white rectangle set very close to the road. Mylar balloons hovered high above the pumps-three to each pump, red, silver, and blue, twining lazily about one another.
He turned onto the concrete apron, carefully avoiding the signal cord that stretched across it, and braked and looked back at Mr. Otis. But Mr. Otis stayed where he was; it was Maggie who got out. She opened the rear door and set a hand beneath the old man's elbow while he uncurled himself. "Now, just where is your nephew?" she asked.
Mr. Otis said, "Somewheres about." "Are you sure of that? What if he's not working today?" "Why, he must be working. Ain't he?" Oh, Lord, they were going to prolong this situation forever. Ira cut the engine and watched the two of them walking across the apron.
Over by the full-service island, a white boy with a stringy brown ponytail listened to what they asked and then shook his head. He said something, waving an arm vaguely eastward. Ira groaned and slid down lower in his seat.
Then here came Maggie, clicking along, and Ira took heart; but, when she reached the car all she did was lean in through the passenger window. "We have to wait a minute," she told him.
"What for?" "His nephew's out on a call but he's expected back in no time." "Then why can't we just leave?" Ira asked.
"I couldn't do that! I wouldn't rest easy. I wouldn't know how it came out." "What do you mean, how it came out? His wheel is perfectly fine, remember?" "It wobbled, Ira. I saw it wobble." He sighed.
"And maybe his nephew won't show up for some reason," she said, "so Mr. Otis will be stranded here. Or maybe it will cost money. I want to make sure he's not out any money." '' Look here, Maggie-'' "Why don't you fill the tank? Surely we could use some gas." "We don't have a Texaco credit card," he told her.
"Pay cash. Fill the tank and by then I bet Lamont will be pulling into the station." "Lamont," already. Next thing you knew, she'd have adopted the boy.
He restarted the engine, muttering, and drew up next to the self-serve island and got out. They had an older style of pump here that Baltimore no longer used-printed flip-over numerals instead of LED, and a simple pivot arrangement to trip the switch. Ira had to readjust, cast his mind back a couple of years in order to get the thing going. Then while the gas flowed into the tank he watched Maggie settle Mr. Otis on a low, whitewashed wall that separated the Texaco from someone's vegetable garden. Mr. Otis had his hat back on and he was hunkered under it like a cat under a table, peering forth reflectively, chewing on a mouthful of air, as old men were known to do.
He was ancient, and yet probably not so many years older than Ira himself. It was a thought to give you pause. Ira heard the jolt as the gas cut off, and he turned back to the car. Overhead, the balloons rustled against each other with a sound that made him think of raincoats.
While he was paying inside the station he noticed a snack machine, so he walked over to the others to see if they wanted something. They were deep in conversation, Mr. Otis going on and on about someone named Duluth. "Maggie, they've got potato chips," Ira said. "The kind you like: barbecue.'' Maggie waved a hand at him. "I think you were absolutely justified," she told Mr. Otis.
"And bacon rinds!" Ira said. "You hardly ever find bacon rinds these days." .
She gave him a distant, abstracted look and said, "Have you forgotten I'm on a diet?" "How about you, then; Mr. Otis?" "Oh, why, no, thank you, sir; thank you kindly, sir," Mr. Otis said. He turned to Maggie and went on: "So anyways, I axes her, 'Duluth, how can you hold me to count for that, woman?' " "Mr. Otis's wife is mad at him for something he did in her dream," Maggie told Ira.