dream.
Michael returns with some masking tape, a pad of paper, and some felt pens. And for the next hour, he coaches me through the storage unit, saying yea to some pieces and nay to others. I get a glimpse of what he must’ve been like while working on a film. He seems to have some sort of scheme, perhaps like scene settings, all worked out in his head. And although it’s a mystery to me, I am trying to trust him with these decisions.
I watch as he writes down various instructions, taping notes onto boxes and pieces of furniture in a way that reassures me that he really does know what he’s doing. I feel as if I am a robot and he is controlling all the buttons. But by the time the movers arrive, there seems to have been a method to his madness. He gives them some directions, then turns to me.
“Our work here is done. Let’s go get the Jaguar.”
“Am I to drive it?” I ask in a weary voice.
“I can’t very well drive two cars,” he points out. “All you need to do is follow me to the closest rental car place. I’m sure it’s not more than ten minutes from here. Then I’ll return this dog of a car, and I’ll drive your lovely Jag back to the hotel.”
“Where I can take a nap?”
“Of course, darling. And then we’ll have a nice late dinner and pack our bags and be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”
I take my time to orient myself to my car. It has been a bit more than six weeks since I’ve driven, but it feels more like six years. I used to pride myself on my ability to drive—so many friends my age had given it up completely. But I still drove out to the country club or to lunch or to shopping. And so far I’ve never even had a fender bender. But suddenly I feel uncertain…about everything.
“You’ll be fine.” Michael opens the door and hands me my car keys. “Just relax and focus.”
“Relax and focus,” I tell myself as I start the engine, which purrs happily, as if she is glad to see me again.
The Jaguar is an XJ6, which means little to me since I know absolutely nothing about engines. I chose this vehicle strictly for looks—lean, elegant, and sexy. I run my fingers over the polished burled wood on the dash. It still gleams like it did the day Gavin brought it home to me more than twenty years ago.
I put the car into gear, checking the rearview and side mirrors before carefully backing out of the storage garage. As I follow Michael’s car, trying not to get too close but not far enoughto be cut off and lose him, I remember back to when Gavin asked me to pick out a new car. It was a couple of weeks before my sixtieth birthday. My Porsche convertible was starting to ping, and he was worried that it was becoming unreliable.
I’d seen an advertisement, in
Vogue
as I recall, for a car exactly like this. Even the color was perfect: a scrumptious shade of taupe that still leaves me longing for a latte. I think it was called doeskin. Pleased with myself, I’d torn out the glossy page and left it in the center of Gavin’s desk.
But straightaway, he tried to talk me out of a Jaguar, and we ended up in a huge argument. I accused him of not loving me, which I think was partially true, and he accused me of being “completely superficial,” which was also partially true, although we never could admit to our shortcomings.
“If I were Gala, you’d get me that car!” I’d yelled at him. This was my usual trump card in any argument. “It wouldn’t be too expensive if you really loved me the way you loved Gala.”
He got very quiet and attempted to calm me down, explaining that his reservations had nothing to do with the price tag. He said he was concerned that a Jaguar could have a lot of mechanical problems. “You’ll have to make sure that it’s carefully maintained, Claudette. It’ll be up to you.” Naturally, I promised him I would do that, that I
could
do that. So he conceded to the car.
I made him swear to no big fanfare about my sixtieth birthday. “And do
Michael returns with some masking tape, a pad of paper, and some felt pens. And for the next hour, he coaches me through the storage unit, saying yea to some pieces and nay to others. I get a glimpse of what he must’ve been like while working on a film. He seems to have some sort of scheme, perhaps like scene settings, all worked out in his head. And although it’s a mystery to me, I am trying to trust him with these decisions.
I watch as he writes down various instructions, taping notes onto boxes and pieces of furniture in a way that reassures me that he really does know what he’s doing. I feel as if I am a robot and he is controlling all the buttons. But by the time the movers arrive, there seems to have been a method to his madness. He gives them some directions, then turns to me.
“Our work here is done. Let’s go get the Jaguar.”
“Am I to drive it?” I ask in a weary voice.
“I can’t very well drive two cars,” he points out. “All you need to do is follow me to the closest rental car place. I’m sure it’s not more than ten minutes from here. Then I’ll return this dog of a car, and I’ll drive your lovely Jag back to the hotel.”
“Where I can take a nap?”
“Of course, darling. And then we’ll have a nice late dinner and pack our bags and be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”
I take my time to orient myself to my car. It has been a bit more than six weeks since I’ve driven, but it feels more like six years. I used to pride myself on my ability to drive—so many friends my age had given it up completely. But I still drove out to the country club or to lunch or to shopping. And so far I’ve never even had a fender bender. But suddenly I feel uncertain…about everything.
“You’ll be fine.” Michael opens the door and hands me my car keys. “Just relax and focus.”
“Relax and focus,” I tell myself as I start the engine, which purrs happily, as if she is glad to see me again.
The Jaguar is an XJ6, which means little to me since I know absolutely nothing about engines. I chose this vehicle strictly for looks—lean, elegant, and sexy. I run my fingers over the polished burled wood on the dash. It still gleams like it did the day Gavin brought it home to me more than twenty years ago.
I put the car into gear, checking the rearview and side mirrors before carefully backing out of the storage garage. As I follow Michael’s car, trying not to get too close but not far enoughto be cut off and lose him, I remember back to when Gavin asked me to pick out a new car. It was a couple of weeks before my sixtieth birthday. My Porsche convertible was starting to ping, and he was worried that it was becoming unreliable.
I’d seen an advertisement, in
Vogue
as I recall, for a car exactly like this. Even the color was perfect: a scrumptious shade of taupe that still leaves me longing for a latte. I think it was called doeskin. Pleased with myself, I’d torn out the glossy page and left it in the center of Gavin’s desk.
But straightaway, he tried to talk me out of a Jaguar, and we ended up in a huge argument. I accused him of not loving me, which I think was partially true, and he accused me of being “completely superficial,” which was also partially true, although we never could admit to our shortcomings.
“If I were Gala, you’d get me that car!” I’d yelled at him. This was my usual trump card in any argument. “It wouldn’t be too expensive if you really loved me the way you loved Gala.”
He got very quiet and attempted to calm me down, explaining that his reservations had nothing to do with the price tag. He said he was concerned that a Jaguar could have a lot of mechanical problems. “You’ll have to make sure that it’s carefully maintained, Claudette. It’ll be up to you.” Naturally, I promised him I would do that, that I
could
do that. So he conceded to the car.
I made him swear to no big fanfare about my sixtieth birthday. “And do
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