Yellow Cadillac In those days my mother drove a yellow ’56 DeVille which always broke down, so she called it My Lemon. She liked the car, a birthday gift from my father. But then the water pump—we found this out later—let go, stranding the two of us in a Christmas shopping rush. On the streets of downtown Dayton. It stopped dead. I sat beside her as a random moat of bystanders grew. The shop windows glowed. Read Season’s Greetings. We were in a Cadillac and so people seemed interested in what had gone wrong with such a shiny automobile, its wax job making the melting snow bead and travel. It wasn’t the first time the car had disappointed her, but this time she was in traffic. Something snapped. Maybe she had been rehearsing for a moment like this. She got out and slammed the car door. Started cursing. I knew very little of the poor girl my mother had been. A man in a long coat raised the hood. Shook his head. A plume of white steam rose from the busted machine. The man gave up. Went to dial a number she gave him. This was 1959 America; a woman swearing loudly was a thing that created an obligation in men, who struggled to restore the boundaries between actual and perceived reality. I recall a commanding anger; the museum-quiet expected of women had vanished. She was beautiful and so knew Beauty for the weapon it is in the right hands. And my father’s swift appearance only made it worse. He couldn’t fix it. Not with the snow, with a crowd watching. So she railed, calling him names. If her mission was to set her own limits, she succeeded as they became Lucy and Desi without the laugh track. The car sat with a boy inside learning what not to say to a woman the world has wounded because it can. Copyright (c) 2013 by Roy Bentley. All rights reserved.
Posted on: Sat, 26 Oct 2013 05:40:50 +0000