
His mother was the first of them, leadfooting her big Buick coupe across intersections with a big-block push that pressed him into the velour and blurred the terrain around him. He tossed around in the flat seat, clinging to the sky-blue safety belt. “I was a rally driver,” she would say. Later, he would find out that she’d been a rally navigator, not a driver, and that the rally-driving boyfriend was long dead. It seemed reasonable that she might have inherited the boyfriend’s skill. Women, he realized, absorb us, becoming who we are or wish them to be, viewed through a glass darkly, or through his rearview mirror, leaving home for the last time.
* * *
She took his crutches and put them in the back of a new Corvette-engined ’88 Camaro. “So glad to see you out of the hospital. I wanted to do something nice for you… take you for a ride… we’re going to do, like, a hundred miles per hour in this IROC.” She drove with the carelessness of Fitzgerald’s Jordan Baker, looking away from the road while she swerved down the freeway and reaching over to touch him through his thin shorts.
“This IROC-Z… it’s… awesome,” he managed to say, “did you just buy it?”
“Oh,” she replied, “it belongs to a… friend, I guess you could say.”
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