Drives Like a Dream (24 page)

"We have an alarm system," Lydia reminded her. "And Norm only left town yesterday."

Lydia hadn't seen Norm since their disastrous afternoon together. She had planned never to see him again. But just after she'd told Jessica, now almost a month ago, that there was a new man in her life, she realized she would need to find a way to keep Norm in the picture. The day after their date she wrote him an e-mail:

Dear Norm,

I wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday on the People Mover. I don't know what got into me. I must be too defensive about my hometown. I guess it comes from living in a place so many people leave. The truth is, I had a nice time meeting you, and I hope you didn't take my running off too personally. I've been going through a difficult time of late. Perhaps we can try again soon.

Yours,
Lydia

It still surprised her, how the words
He's planning to move in
had tumbled out. Even as she spoke she recognized there was no going back. What could she have said? Just kidding, Jess; there is no man after all. If she did that, her family would think she'd gone insane. They'd never trust her again. No, what Lydia had said was irreversible. What's more, she wasn't so sure if she even wanted to take it back.

After sending Norm's e-mail, she took a long walk through her neighborhood. The sun had slipped through the elms and firs, and the air smelled of cut grass. She passed mothers returning home in minivans with their children and felt a creeping guilt about the plan to which, in her mind, she had already committed.

Perhaps the words hadn't slipped out by accident—in a way she had been scheming something like this all along. That stomachache, all the chances she'd had to tell her children that it had gone away and there was nothing to worry about. But she'd kept mentioning the pain and had even spoken of doctor's appointments. She'd played that card for weeks, and had only let it go when something better came along. Now she'd laid down her new card—Norm—on the table.

The farther Lydia walked, the more it all made sense. She would create a relationship, a whole new life. She'd call a handyman to fix the things around the house that hadn't worked in years—the ceiling fans, dimmers, jammed doorknobs, and loose gutters. Tiles would be replaced, new fixtures and fittings installed, accents added in every room. She'd have the floors stripped and stained, bring in painters to redo the interior rooms. She'd tell the kids that Norm had done most of the work himself, and when the place was ready she'd call Jessica to say that the house was about to go on the market; so if she wanted to sort through her stuff, the time was now.

As she passed through Huntington Woods's tiny town center—police department, fire department, town hall, all quiet-she guessed just how far she'd have to go with her plan. She was sure that at least one of the kids would return to help pack up. Davy certainly, probably Ivan as well. Jessica might need some finessing, but one way or another, she believed she could bring her family home. What they needed to do was spend time together, going through boxes, laying claim to what was theirs, revisiting their family history, in the very house where they had spent the greater part of their lives. There are times, Lydia thought, when a person needed to stop everything and sort through the past. Her children would not have to wait, as she had, until their parents were no longer alive. They could come home now.

Norm was the biggest obstacle, of course. The kids would want to meet him. Lydia could say he was out of town or busy with work in Windsor; she was sure she could hold them at bay for a while. She could even invite Norm on another date, have him show up at the house, wave hello and quickly depart.

Meanwhile she would go to a pharmacy and pick up a dopp kit, shaving cream, razors, an extra toothbrush for her bathroom. At a secondhand store, she would buy men's outfits to hang in her closet, socks and boxer shorts to stuff in one of her bureau drawers. She would get a couple of pairs of shoes in size 11—wingtips and work boots, extra-large work shirts to drape over chairs in the kitchen, in the garage, to hang on the doorknob in her bedroom. She would go to a hardware store and buy work gloves and deftly splatter paint on the clothes and boots.

She would need to drop hints about marriage so the kids wouldn't think she'd simply acquired a roommate. Occasionally she'd mention the word "elope," just as a possibility. She'd have a yard sale, and later she'd put the house on the market. She would buy
A FOR SALE BY OWNER
sign at a hardware store and when the time came, she'd take it out of the closet and plant it on the lawn. She wouldn't list the house—if she had any takers she'd quote a price well above its value to make sure that it wouldn't sell. She'd maintain complete control.

There was nothing like a long walk to stir the imagination. By the time Lydia reached home, she had mapped out the next few months. Gradually, as the kids settled in, she would scatter seeds of discontent, hint that she and Norm were having difficulties. These would turn to doubts until finally the marriage and the move would have to be put on hold. Lydia would announce that she and Norm were breaking up. She'd take the house off the market, and by then the place would look better than ever. Shiny floors, fresh paint on the walls, renovated rooms, the old American foursquare looking brand-new. The kids would be relieved. All she needed to do was to get them back to see for themselves.
Why leave such a lovely place? All our memories are here.
And by that time, who knew, maybe one or more of them would stay.

"You were gone a while," Lydia said when Jessica returned.

"Bedlam needs
a lot
of exercise." He was one of the most hyperactive creatures Lydia had ever seen. His whole body wagged with his tail, and his long fur stood on end.

"Well, I guess I should unpack." Jessica's bags were still in the front hallway.

Lydia grabbed one and followed her daughter upstairs. "Just a warning," she said. "Your room is a bit of a mess, but we've also made some changes." Bedlam shot ahead of them on the steps and pawed at the door.

"You're not kidding," Jessica said when they walked into the bedroom.

Lydia had organized the drawers and closet, putting the shabby clothes into green bags set aside for the yard sale.

"You could have waited for me, you know. I'll just have to go through all of it again."

"Notice anything different?" Lydia persisted.

Jessica sat down on her bed. "It's hard to tell with these boxes lying around. I see you've gotten a new canopy for the bed." She picked up the yarn-haired dolls from the pillow and handed them to Lydia. "I wouldn't want you to lose these."

Lydia tucked the dolls under her arm. "What about the rug? The duvet? See this art deco lamp? I found it at a great antique shop in Royal Oak. It matches the new slipper shade and wall brackets that Norm installed."

"Where are you finding the money?"

"Don't you like them?"

"Sure, but you're going to end up in debtors' prison."

It was true that Lydia hadn't calculated how much money she had spent. She hated to think of the charges she'd run up in the past month. When the bank statement and credit card bills had arrived the other day, she'd slid them to the bottom of her desk drawer. The cost of the Corolla, even with the great deal she'd gotten on it, was steep enough. She figured she had spent at least ten thousand dollars on the house alone, even more since she'd had to pay premium rates. She hadn't planned to spend this much, but then she hadn't counted on Jessica's reacting the way she did. She had assumed that Jessica would be the last one to come home, and probably not for a couple of months. But Lydia's message about Norm's wanting to elope had clearly turned everything up a few notches.

"It's been much less expensive than you'd think. Norm has done so much work. Cheap labor, you know."

"Not the exterior. Not the floors. Not your station wagon."

"No, but he's done everything else. I'm telling you, he's a cyclone, especially since school ended. He's been going nonstop."

"He must be in quite a hurry to get married and get you out of here." Jessica's eyebrow went up.

Lydia talked right over this, pretending to ignore the implications. "I've told him to take it easy," she said. "He's back in Minnesota for the week."

Which was actually true. He'd gone to Minneapolis to see his daughter. Lydia knew this from Norm's reply to her apology:

Lydia,

That was a first. I've never been ditched on a train before. I had thought that you, of all people, would be a sympathetic audience. Perhaps I misread your books. Or maybe you're the type who only knows how to find fault. I'd expected more, Lydia. At the very least I thought that if we disagreed you wouldn't run away.

Norman

Lydia wrote back, trying to put a balm on Norm's wounded pride, even though his refusal to take any responsibility was infuriating. At least
she
had apologized for her part in the lousy date. It was only when Jessica announced suddenly that she had bought a plane ticket that Lydia realized she would have to scramble to make her way back into Norm's good graces. So, she gritted her teeth and wrote:

Dear Norm,

I discovered yesterday that your web site is back up. Congratulations ! I spent much of last night reading through your various articles on Nuplan about sustainable growth, renewable energy, nutrient flows, and yes, green roofs. I hadn't realized when you were talking about Detroit that these roofs would not only cool the city but also provide solar energy, attractive gardens, and even food. I was too quick with my criticisms. These ideas are visionary. Is there somewhere that I might find your collected articles? Are they available on the web site?

Yours,
Lydia

Norm waited until the end of the weekend to write back, and then only offered a single question: "What did *you* have for breakfast this morning?"

It was not exactly an olive branch, but Lydia did think the door was open for a return to civility. With Jessica due to arrive at the end of the week, Lydia had no choice but to keep the flattery coming:

Dear Norm,

Grapefruit.

But if you want to know the truth, I was overwhelmed when we went to lunch. Seeing you in person again after those weeks of (much friendlier!) e-mails, I'd expected something different. I would be embarrassed to tell you exactly what I was hoping for, but suffice it to say that I was in no mood to discuss ecology. So the more you said about your work, the more confused I became. But now everything is different—at least for me. Your ideas make a lot of sense, and the fact is we agree on so much.

Can we pretend that the month of June never happened and make a new start in July? I'd love to have lunch again if you'll consider it. We can discuss renewable energy.

Yours,
Lydia

But despite her throwing herself at him, Norm wasn't budging.

Lydia,

I'm spending the upcoming holiday in Minneapolis. I plan to see my daughter and a number of old colleagues at the Center of Urban Design. I'm not sure when I will be getting back to Windsor. But I do thank you for your message. I'm glad you're enjoying the web site.

Norm

She worried that maybe she had scared Norm off for good. Maybe she had overcompensated and seemed fawning or disingenuous. Was he turning her down? Playing hard to get? How long would he continue to act wounded? She had to think of a way to keep him around.

"He should be here next week," Lydia said now to Jessica, who was sorting through the first of half a dozen yard sale bags. In fact, Lydia was not sure when Norm would return.

With Norm on her mind and workers in the house, Lydia had found it impossible to return to her book. Every time she opened a section of
Dream Machines
she remembered what M.J. had told her. She couldn't give an honest portrayal of her father or any of the GM designers now, knowing what they might have done to Preston Tucker.

The day after her conversation with M.J., Lydia had gone to the car archives. At first she was too upset and embarrassed to tell Walter precisely what she'd heard, so instead they talked about the rented Corsica that was costing her twenty-five dollars a day. Walter said that his daughter was selling her Toyota wagon. "Only fifty thousand miles on it. A fair bet more dependable than that Escort you used to drive."

It seemed a good deal, and Lydia returned to buy the car a couple of days later, sight unseen. This time she asked Walter if he'd show her the rest of the Tucker materials. "I'm telling you, all the highlights were in that stack of papers I gave you," he said. But nevertheless Lydia spent the afternoon looking in the library's files for her father's resignation letter, any proof that he had not been fired. By the end of the day she'd found only a scattering of her father's early drawings and interoffice memos from Tucker suggesting that Gilbert smooth out the racing lines and make the car more family-friendly. All of it only supported the Spiveys' theory.

As Walter walked Lydia to her new Toyota she got up the nerve to tell him some of what M.J. had said. "She gave me the name of the mole, but I swore on my life that I wouldn't tell anyone."

Walter stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Whoa. You have a name? You're telling me there
was
a Big Three conspiracy? That's a pretty major claim, Lydia."

"I do have a name, but I can't say who it is, not yet."

"So you're just tantalizing me?"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I got the information from Casper Spivey. You trust him, don't you?"

Walter didn't hesitate. "He's about the
only
ad man in Detroit I'd trust."

"Well, I just have one question for you, then," Lydia said. "It's entirely theoretical, okay? Is it possible that the mole, if there was one, could have been a disgruntled Tucker employee, someone fairly high up who knew all the books, who was fired and then moved to one of the Big Three?"

Walter considered this for what seemed a long minute—too long, Lydia thought. She began to worry that he was putting the puzzle together himself. Only a handful of people had left Tucker in '47. And why else would Lydia be so interested when she was supposed to be writing about GM? Finally, he said, "Yes, it's possible. If there
was
a conspiracy, even likely, I'd say. Maybe you'll tell me his name sometime?"