It’s easy to drive in New York. Unlike Boston’s winding livestock trails, the roads here are straight. “This is a man’s world. .” I ascend the bridge, always so lovely on a late summer day. The sun is strong. The big wheels seem to have found secret tracks on the blacktop in which to ride. I cross the river, staying with the flow of traffic, but it’s like I’m on my own personal rail, in second gear, with so much power in reserve.
New York City can be wonderful in August in the late afternoon because there’s no one here. I shouldn’t say no one; it’s left to the no ones who haven’t the means to escape the heat, stink, and grime. But just the same, there are fewer someones to rub your face in it. Things seem open. FDR is free on the northbound side. It’s rare to find a speed trap in the city, so I speed, not excessively — the car draws enough attention — but just enough to find out what Enzo’s folks have done. With the throttle only a quarter down I hit seventy in third gear. And by the time I pass the Thirty-fourth street exit, I realize I should ease off and just cruise.
I circle the city, staying away from the claustrophobia-inducing towers, remembering why, even when living in Manhattan, I stayed away from Midtown and stuck to the edges of the island. I take the river drive across Harlem and then wind my way to Broadway — the great black way up here. I had fantasies about relocating in Harlem, of finding some distressed brownstone or warehouse, buying it on the cheap from the city and then building a home for us. Claire had surprised me by loving the idea, scrutinizing every listing and dragging us uptown every Sunday for what seemed the better part of a year. We’d missed it, of course, another land grab, the day when a dollar down could reserve your empire.
I cruise back east on 125th. I turn off the AC and open the windows and sunroof. There’s something splendid about driving a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car and not having a pot to piss in. Guthrie comes on. “The winter wind is blowing strong, my hands ain’t got no gloves. .” There’s something splendid about being on the lam, in disguise. “Don’t you remember me, babe, I remember you quite well. .” I stop at the light on the corner of Fifth and sing along. “High sheriff on my trail, boys, high sheriff on my trail. .” I’ve always liked the sound of my voice next to Woody’s. Mine is hoarse, heavier. I switch to the harmony. “All because I’m falling for a curly-headed dark-eyed gal.” The light turns, but now people begin to cross Fifth. Some turn to look at the low-riding coupe, but more turn for my duet. Woody probably never drove a fine Italian sports car or wore hand-tailored English suits. I wonder if anyone crossing thinks these things are mine.
There’s a break in the line of walkers, and I go. “Who’s gonna stroke your coal-black hair and sandy-colored skin?” I used to sing this song in downtown bars and coffee houses. People were always polite, but no one ever really seemed to like it. “Who’s gonna kiss your red ruby lips when I’m out in the wind?” Perhaps my performance was poor — I don’t think so. Just the same, no one seemed to be able to hear the plea: “When I’m out in the wind, babe. .” Perhaps they couldn’t make the jump, couldn’t recognize the girl or empathize with his longing for her. Maybe the face in the song didn’t match the faces they knew, or his fate seemed too strange next to their own. Claire hadn’t liked it but was polite. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be that girl — heartbreaker of a lawless man. Claire is good: good wife, good mother, good daughter. She weeps instead of rages. She smiles and makes others feel good — the good teeth, good skin, the good word: They are nearly cold — perfect — but softened by the small hint of sorrow.
I’ve caught her before — mourning — holding a folding picture frame with two photos of her father: one as a little English boy sitting on his mother’s lap, feeding doves on a great lawn; in the other he’s a man, dancing — thin, long limbs stretched, spinning round a cane — the big finish of a show. It seems impossible that his heart was ready to explode. “He would’ve liked you. You really would’ve gotten along.” Perhaps — me and the noble, weak-hearted, dancing man whose build was not like mine but whose suits fit me so well — the tall Anglican snob. He was the freak of his family — part buttoned-down conservative, part romantic fop. He was handsome, a great storyteller, so I’ve been told, and Claire said that he was really very much in love — even in the end. He died in Claire’s arms—“Tell your mother I love her. And I love you.” That I know is true. You can tell when someone’s been loved; they don’t question its presence, nor do they despair when it seems to be gone. The photographs of father and daughter dancing together are sincere, there’s nothing coy about the way they look at each other. Now those pictures are packed up in Marco’s cellar, away from her, not good for a haunt, especially one who knows how alone she was when he died — how alone she is still. She’s too good — never rages at Edith’s loss of memory, nor at Edith’s ghostless world. But I can see her sorrow when her lip quivers. It’s like he’s there, in her face, restless, trying either to emerge or to recede, making her visage move. Then some deep sighs, perhaps some tears, but that is all.
“Who’s gonna kiss your Memphis mouth, when I’m out in the wind?” I shoot my cuffs in my late father-in-law’s suit. The light turns green, and then up ahead, the rest begin to change. I weave through traffic. There’s a storm cloud over Midtown slowly moving to meet me. “When I’m out in the wind, babe. .” I cut across two lanes and turn east. The street is empty, so I push on the throttle. The big engine growls a response. I time the light, cross Madison doing sixty-five and then Park — trying to hit each light. I pick a hole between the pedestrians crossing First and head north again. I check the rearview for cruisers. In Boston I would already have been popped — curbside, with the two cops approaching me warily from either side of the car. If they did come, I don’t think I’d wait around for them. They don’t want you to explain why your name isn’t on the title. I could get to the Bruckner fast — make for the Connecticut border on 1-95. I’d be too fast for them there. I check the rearview again. No cops, but the rain is coming. I can tell the green light at Ninety-sixth is going stale. It turns yellow, and I slow down. The Impressions sing out, “Keep on pushin’. .” I shift into neutral and roll, idling to the intersection. The car shudders with its own power. It’s too fast for this city. It wants to go. I stop and wonder if Enzo ever thought his horse machine could outrun fate.
At eight, I turn onto Fifty-seventh. Marco’s in front of the restaurant — Sky — gesturing for me to simultaneously pull over and roll the window down. I do.
“Valet it.”
Before I can get out, a kid in a crimson blazer and black bow tie opens the door for me.
“Hello, sir. Valet?”
“Sure.”
I pull myself out of the cockpit. The black street glows with moisture, and the tires of the cars going by hiss and drip as they roll. There’s a faint hint of sunlight left and for a moment the city seems clean, almost welcoming. I look west down the street and then up in the sky. A mottled pigeon flies by, then passing in the opposite direction but at the same angle of ascent, an airplane. A taxi honks. The valet hands me a ticket. He’s been waiting.
“Hey, man, happy birthday.” We shake. I step onto the curb. “So, have you joined us all on the downward slope?”
“One more year.”
“Well, enjoy it.” He starts inside, then turns. “Did your wife ever get ahold of you?”