She knows how to play this game, she learned a long time ago, but she’s tired and a little nauseous now and she can’t quite focus her eyes, and, you know what, she’s really, really sick of big, stupid men who have to have everything their way. Fuck that and fuck them. “Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she says. “He just got out of jail. Assault with a deadly weapon.”
Jim whistles through his teeth, looks around to see if anyone’s watching, leans in closer. “You’re tough,” he says. “I like that. Gotta be tough for this job.”
“Good,” she says, and she keeps walking.
“Bud said you’ve taken the test before.”
“Yeah.”
“Twice.”
“Yeah.”
They stop in front of the rig. It looks impossibly long and unwieldy. She understands in theory how you’re supposed to control the thing when you’re backing it up, but she can’t get her brain to make the right decisions when she’s up there. Not without time to think, breathe, talk herself through it at her own pace. “A pretty girl like you could get certified in about five minutes,” Jim says. He nods up at the cab, huge and red and painted with a tomato haloed by the sun.
She could do it — just say yes, get him off, get the job, and run. Let’s face it, she’s not at her best right now, all floaty and exhausted and numb — really, she’s so out of it that she’d hardly even notice he was there — and to fail again is to fail for good, and then what? She doesn’t want to do anything else. The thoughts spin and buzz around until she realizes she expects herself to say yes to him, and that’s when the calm blooms inside her head and drapes warmth all over her, and she decides she can beat this test, she can drive that goddamn rig as well as anyone, she could take the thing in reverse down Lombard Street if she wanted to. “Cut the shit, Jim,” she says. “Let’s just do the test.”
“Have it your way,” he says, pulling away, his eyes narrowing. He takes off his cap, smooths his thinning, greasy hair. “Start with the inspection. Go.”
Deep breath. She knows the drill, knows it cold. Check the hoses, check the oil, check the coolant. Check the belts and the clutch, the signals and the horn. Driveshaft, air brakes, tires and rims. There’s a rhythm to it, a groove, feel the patterns and forget your nerves. Shock absorbers, slack adjusters, torque arms, mounts. Mounting bolts, locking jaws, kingpin, and so on. It’s a breeze. She climbs into the cab and the engine growls all around her and she feels more powerful, more in control, than she can ever remember.
“All right,” Jim says from the passenger seat. “Now back out of here and follow the yellow lines through the cones. And I want you to pretend that every single one of those cones is a member of my family.”
It’s reverse time but that’s cool, she still has the rhythm, still has the groove, and when she grips the shift she hears that Feat song in her head: If you give me weed, whites, and wine, and you show me a sign, I’ll be willin’ to be movin’. I’m willing, she thinks, I’m willing and I’m moving. She drops it into reverse and starts back, smoothly, smoothly, no problem. She checks her mirrors, she’s drifting a little, no problem, turn into the drift, get the trailer righted, turn back, no problem. She’s on a roll, she’s rolling, she can do this in her sleep, and a month from now she’ll be waking up in her rig just off Highway 58 in Tehachapi with Lowell George singing to her as she watches the sun rise over the fields of windmills.
“Congratulations,” Jim says. “You just flattened my fucking grandmother.”
She winds her way up the Los Altos hills, the Fiesta’s engine slipping almost every time she hits the gas. Sometimes, instead of backing off so that the gears can catch, she stomps the pedal harder, making the engine scream. She wants to hear the noise.
The pint bottle of Jack that she bought in Gilroy is in the passenger seat, half-empty. All she wants to do is get back to the pool, to Shane and his tennis ball, to the floating chair, where she’ll be able to sit alone and drink and enjoy the warmth of the sun and the fruits of the Crenshaws’ medicine cabinet. She’ll call Wayne and promise something vague, buy herself some time.
Jo turns into the driveway. Spencer’s car is gone, but now there are two others: in the open garage, the Crenshaws’ convertible; in the driveway, Wayne’s pristine white ’72 Comet. Before her foot touches the brake she remembers that the house is a mess, that the Crenshaws, who have always trusted her, always given her a place to stay, have come home to dead plants, a pool full of beer cans, tire tracks across the lawn. And now Wayne is there. He could be sitting in the living room, sobbing. He could be holding them hostage with a kitchen knife. Hard to know with him anymore. One thing she does know: they’re waiting for her.
She also knows that the gas pedal, the true patron saint of lost causes, is the one thing that’ll get her out of this, but she feels drawn to the house — feet on the driveway, on the flagstone path, on the front steps — feels like she’s marching toward something she’s meant to confront. The only question rolling through her mind as she stares blearily at the wood grain of the door is whether she should ring the bell or just walk right in.
The four of them are sitting around the table by the pool. Mrs. Crenshaw is sipping iced coffee and Kahlua from the astronaut mug—That’s mine! Jo has the urge to tell her — and gazing off at the summer-brown hills in the distance. Jo and Mr. Crenshaw have vodka gimlets that the older man insisted on mixing. Wayne is holding a bottle of mineral water loosely by the neck. Birds are chirping. Shane is racing around in the yard, chasing squirrels, snapping at bugs like nothing at all is amiss.
“I’m a reasonable man,” Mr. Crenshaw says. “I don’t expect the house to be perfect if we come home early. But this?” He raises his palm up. He could be referring to the entire universe. “This is too much. It raises serious questions.” He rattles the ice in the glass to free the last few drops of his drink. He pours himself another from the cocktail shaker, which is sweating.
Jo nods. She glances quickly at Wayne. His head looks too large for his frame now that he has no hair. Four red-spotted bandages decorate his scalp, covering the nicks. He sits tall in his seat, composed, looking waxen in the bright sun. “It looks like there was a party here last night,” Wayne says, in a flat, uninflected voice she hardly recognizes.
“It does, Wayne,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.
“A regular Cinco de Mayo,” Mr. Crenshaw says.
This feels wrong to her, like it’s happening on a sound-stage, everything and everyone too quiet, too detached. Confusing and creepy. Or is she just too wasted to understand everyone’s angle?
“It’s rude to bring strangers into other people’s homes,” Wayne says, tapping his glass on the table — gently, but it makes her nervous anyway. He’s never had a good sense of his own strength. She wonders if he found Spencer here. If he hurt him. But those aren’t the kinds of things you just ask out of the blue.
“I’m sensing a pattern of irresponsible behavior,” Mr. Crenshaw says.
Wayne turns to the other man. “Me, too,” he agrees. “Jo isn’t focusing on her responsibilities these days at all.”
Wayne is up to something, she thinks. Or he’s on new and weirder meds. Maybe both. Even the Crenshaws seem strange, precariously calm. “I’m sorry,” Jo says. “I let some things get away from me.”
“Would you like to talk about it, Jo?” Mrs. Crenshaw asks.