Jennifer Greene - Lucky

Jake understood a lot about attitude. What knifed him in the gut, though, was knowing that his son’s bad attitude was his fault.

The boy yanked open the driver’s door and hurled his long skinny body in the driver’s seat. “You’re late.”

Not only was Jake ten minutes early, but he’d been waiting. Still, he didn’t comment. If Danny hadn’t started the conversation with a challenge, Jake would probably have had a heart attack from shock. “You brought your permit? And you told your mom that you’re going out with me?”

“Like I need to be treated like a five-year-old.” Danny fussed with the key, the dials, then muttered, “If I had any choice—just so we both know where we stand—I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

That about said it all. Danny wanted to drive so badly that he was even willing to spend time with his dad—and then, only because no one else wanted to practice-drive with him. Even his mother valued her life too much to take the risk.

“I suppose you’re in a hurry.” Danny used his favorite world-weary tone as he started the car.

“Nope. I’ve got as much time as you want—although I assume your mom wants you back by dinner.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Can I go on the expressway today?”

Maybe Churchill thought there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but the image of Danny on a Detroit expressway at rush hour was enough to make bile rise up Jake’s throat in abject terror. The kid had just gotten his practice license. The last time he’d tried to do something as basic as making a right turn, he’d climbed over a curb. “I think you probably need to get a little more comfortable with the stick shift before we take on the expressway.”

“That’s what you said last week.” Danny shoved the stick in reverse, made the gear scream in pain, and then stalled out when he let up the clutch too fast. Red shot up his throat. “That wasn’t my fault,” he said furiously. “It’s this old heap of a car. It’s so old it doesn’t respond to anything.”

It was going to be one of their better times, Jake thought. Of course, as they aimed toward Lakeshore, the test questions began. Can I play the radio. Can I drive by Julie Rossiter’s house. Can I this, can I that.

As far as Jake could tell, all the questions were designed to elicit a no, at which point Danny would instantly respond with a look of anger and disgust. Jake knew the game. He did his absolute best to say yes to any request that wasn’t definably life-threatening. Sure, Danny could drive by the girl’s house. Sure, he could play the radio—any station and at any volume he wanted. Jake encouraged him to drive exactly as he would be driving later, when he was alone, so he could see how distractions affected his concentration.

“Oh, yeah? Does that mean I can smoke while I drive?”

“No.” Jake didn’t elaborate, knowing how a lecture on smoking would be received. Besides, just then his right foot jammed on the imaginary brake and his pulse pumped adrenaline faster than a belching well. No, they hadn’t hit that red Lincoln going through the intersection. No, scraping the tire against the curb wouldn’t kill them. No, braking so fast they were both thrown forward didn’t mean either of them was going to end up hospitalized.

“I’m going to be sixteen in another seven months,” Danny said, as he turned on Vernier.

“I know.” Jake resisted holding his hand over his heart. Suburban driving wasn’t too bad, but Vernier eventually turned into Eight Mile. Eight Mile was a Real Road. The kind that tons of people actually used. Some of them might not realize how close they were to imminent death.

“So, any chance you might buy me a car?” Danny rushed on, “Mom’ll never let me drive the Buick. It’s uncool, anyway. But she’s already warning me that I won’t be able to use her car all the time. I really need wheels.”

“I can’t afford a car, Danny.”

“You could. If you were still a lawyer. If we were still a family. If you weren’t a drunk.”

There now. Every one of the accusations stung like a bullet, just as his son intended. Sometimes Jake wanted a minute with his son—just one damn minute—when Danny wasn’t trying to wound him.

But of course he’d earned those accusations. And all he could do now was hope that time—good meaningful time together—could start to heal that old, bad history. “Getting you a car isn’t just about having enough money to buy one.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Danny, come on, you’re a new driver. You know that you need more practice before you’ll be safe—or feel safe—on the road. It’s nuts to start out with a new car before you have some experience under your belt.”

“You care about being safe on the road? You used to drive drunk.”

“Yeah, I did. And I hope you never do. I hope you’re way smarter than me.”

“That wouldn’t take much.” Danny made a left on Mack, where approximately five thousand cars were speeding toward home. Horns blared when the Honda accidentally straddled two lanes. Jake reached for an antacid. Then Danny tried another jibe. “Mom’s going out with some guys. Three of them, in fact.”

“That’s nice.”

“I’ll bet she’s screwing at least one.”

Jake understood that this comment was supposed to be another way to hurt him. Danny assumed that he still cared what Paula did. And even though Jake should have known better than to bite, he couldn’t quite let this one go. “Don’t use words like that about your mother.”

“Oh, that’s right. We’re not supposed to tell the truth about anything. We just lie and pretend everything’s okay, right? The way you lied about being an alcoholic. And about you and Mom staying together, that you were just going through a rough time but we’d all be fine.”

Halfway through a yellow light, Danny gunned the engine and it stalled. The light turned red while they sat clogging the middle of the intersection. Sweat beaded on Jake’s brow. He said, “Take it easy. The other drivers can see you, so there’s no immediate danger. Just concentrate on getting the car started and going again.”

On the inside, Jake marveled at the epiphany he kept getting from these practice driving sessions with Danny. You sure learned to value your life when it was constantly at risk.

Besides that—and in spite of Danny’s sarcasm and surly scowls—Jake still felt the wonder of being with his son. It wasn’t a given. Danny hadn’t been willing to see him for most of the two years since the divorce—and God knew, that wouldn’t have changed if Danny wasn’t desperate to drive.

Jake realized he was riding a shaky fence. He fiercely wanted to make things right for his son, yet there seemed no parenting rule book for this deal. The kid was always egging him on, pushing him to lose his temper. What was the right dad-thing to do? Be tough? Or be understanding? Give him the tongue lashing he was begging for, or keep proving to the kid that he’d never vent temper on him?

Hard questions surfaced every time they were together. Jake didn’t mind the kid beating up on him—hell, he had a lot to make up for. But just once in his life, he’d like some answers. Some right answers. He was already a pro at the other kind.

When Danny turned again, aiming down a side road toward Lakeshore, the boy suddenly muttered, “Julie’s house is down here.”

Abruptly the kid slowed to a five-mile-an-hour crawl—which was fine by Jake—until Danny made another left. Four homes down from Sacred Julie’s house was the Crandall place. Jake spotted a BMW pulling into the driveway. Saw Graham Crandall climb out of the driver’s seat. Saw the passenger door open.

And there was Kasey.

His pulse bucked like a stallion’s in spring—just like it had the first time he’d seen her. The kick of hormones struck him as incontestable proof that a man had no brain below his waist…still, it made him want to laugh. The last time he remembered that kind of zesty hormonal kick, he’d been sixteen, driving Mary Lou Lowrey home from a movie, and 51% sure from the way she kissed him that she was going to let him take her bra off. Second base was hardly a home run, but sixteen-year-old boys were happy with crumbs. Even the promise of crumbs. At that age, the thrum of anticipation alone was more than worth living for.