Driving School
the heart." She mimed being stabbed. "Nowadays, for example, I have a car that drives itself. I can be talking on the phone, putting on makeup, eating a burrito." She mimed these activities. "The car knows what I'm doing and compensates beautifully. My car gives me a total massage. Remember how, when we were young, we were told that we would live long enough to enjoy such innovations? Welcome to the future." Two weeks after Labor Day, it is snowing. I am seated in the dining area, sipping coffee with Crystal. Another couple lean toward each other across the next table, and there are three students in the kitchen, running hot water, knocking plates together. Kitchen police. I've avoided that assignment; Clarice has been excused from such labor because of her erratic hands. A few minutes ago we heard the old man cough-Mr. Wilton-and it was more than a light cough. He might have been coughing up a muffler. The door slammed, a phone rang, and the coughing stopped. An old man's voice rambled for a while. "How far north are we?" I ask. "Should it be snowing this early?" "I'm pretty sure I drove south when I came here," C rystal says. "Pointed the car toward the sun. I'm terrible with maps." The coughing starts up again, or I am hearing cowboy gunfire on TV, a more comforting sound. The bullets make that pinging noise they always do when fired in canyons where outlaws hide. "It was a rainy day when I got in the car," she says, taking her last sip and returning her aquamarine coffee mug to its nook. We have personalized nooks and hooks everywhere, like a day-care center. "It's always raining or snowing where I come from," C rystal says. "Canada? The Maritime Provinces?" "I kissed my husband goodbye. I guess we're still married." "Where's your wedding ring?" "Oh, this was a long time ago. My husband stood in the kitchen and accepted my kiss, but didn't return it. I wasn't upset. He was supposed to drive me here but would not agree to it. Nobody would agree to it. Everybody in my town hated me, and it wasn't just my terrible driving. We lived in a ruined trailer. A car had run into it." "Your car? Is that why they sent you to Wilton?" "Don't look now," she says in a bright whisper, "but the founder of our great school is sitting over there, in that dark corner under the spice rack." "The face on the napkin," I say. "One thing different about this school, compared to the others I've attended, is that you rarely see a gun or even a rifle. No knives. Just some very bad cars with sharp edges. But I don't blame him." The old man stirs in his chair, drops some magazines. Hot Rod, Popular Mechanics. "We're closing down the shop," he says, his voice not much more 22
FUGUE #35