Elizabeth McCracken - Thunderstruck & Other Stories

Izzy shrugged her entire body infinitesimally, to illustrate the impossibility of this.

“Money,” said Sid, nodding. “I know a bloke looking for a car.” He turned to Tony. “All right, Knight Rider. You’re selling the Ford.”

“What Ford?” said Izzy.

Tony shook his head.

“You say it’s for Malcolm. For Malcolm ,” said Sid, disgusted. “I say, sell all his Christmas presents.”

“That’s the only one,” said Tony.

Izzy rubbed her head and her hair bristled. He hated that haircut. “You bought him a car?”

“A crap car,” said Tony. “Twenty-five euro.” Actually it had been a hundred. The Italian had been desperate.

“Malcolm is in England,” said Sid; and Izzy repeated, in a wondering sorrowful voice, “Malcolm is in England?”

“What’s Malcolm doing in England ?” Tony asked.

Sid sat back down on the sofa. “You didn’t know Malcolm was in England?”

“What’s he doing there?” said Tony.

“I don’t know. But he’s gone. Christmas with his mother? Said he was going, hasn’t been at the Commerce, and if Malcolm hasn’t been at the Commerce then he’s not in the country. I know someone looking for a car. This Englishman who married an American. The fool. How much do you want for it? They have a budget. It’s not much. Three hundred euro.”

“It’s not worth—”

“Sell it,” said Izzy. “If that’s their budget, that’s what it’s worth.”

Three hundred euro seemed simultaneously an enormous sum of money and so little it wasn’t even worth thinking about.

“It’s Malcolm’s,” said Tony again.

“Who cares!” Sid pulled a cell phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and shook it.

“No reception,” said Izzy. “End of the driveway.”

“Fuck it. I’ll go get them. They’re staying with Little Aussie Peter. Back in a tick. I’ll try to talk them up. All right, Tony? Pay attention. Action stations. The car runs?” He stood up and suddenly noticed he was still holding a kitten. “Hello, moggy. Let’s go. The car?”

“Those old diesels run forever.”

“That’s all they need. Cash in hand, I’ll tell them. Bye, Izzy darling.”

“Bye, Sidney,” she said. “Take that parrot with you.”

“She’s my parrot,” said Tony. “Her name’s Clothilde.”

“Clothilde!” said Izzy, as though the name itself were an argument against the bird.

This was finally how their marriage would drift apart: Tony didn’t understand loving fifty birds at a time, and Izzy didn’t understand loving only one. Tony followed Sid down the hallway. “He might change his mind.”

“He won’t change his mind. What have you done with my clothing?” Sid asked the kitten, who meowed in an incensed, kittenish way. “Ah, here.”

In the front room, Clothilde knocked her beak on her cage and said, “Aye-aye-aye.” Somehow Sid managed to pull on the fleece top while still holding the kitten, though his head spent some time investigating first one armhole and then the other before at last finding the neck. “When was its last contrôle technique? ”

“Not too long ago.”

“Aye, aye,” said Clothilde.

“More than six months? Because otherwise you’ll have to do it again, and will it pass?”

“Aye!” Clothilde said.

“It’ll pass,” said Tony, who hadn’t checked the date. “Listen. He’s not that bad. When it comes down to doing the worst thing—”

Sid had his hand on the door. He smelled sweet and winey, and his eyes looked like the back end of a globe, some place where the Earth was mostly oceans and unpronounceable islands, some place to fear cannibals. Please , Tony thought, don’t tell me you know him better than I do .

“The worst thing is saying,” said Sid.

“What?”

“The worst thing is he told you he would . He’s done the worst thing. Now he’s got that out of the way he can do anything. Believe me. I know.” Sid handed the kitten over and opened the door. “I’ll be right back. Anthony. Listen to me. It’s not too late. You have to decide what kind of man you want to be.”

Clothilde said, “I love you!” as though she’d been teaching herself in their absence, an orphan hoping to ingratiate herself to foster parents.

“I love you, too, my darling,” Sid said, and closed the door behind him.

· · ·

For a parrot, Clothilde seemed to have a poor sense of balance: she squawked and dug into Tony’s shoulder. It had stopped raining. The outdoor cats were edging out of the old barn and sniffing the wet air. Clothilde squawked again. “You’re a pretty girl,” said Tony, though even he could hear the lie in his voice. She ran her beak through his hair. He kicked the cats from the barn so they wouldn’t bother her, and closed the door.

In the dim light the Escort looked seaworthy. It was black, with tinted windows, and on both sides the word LASER was painted in space-age lettering. It was an ’84, Malcolm’s birth year, and that had seemed like a sign. Malcolm took his bike to the Commerce, and came back wobbling drunk or not at all. Sometimes he slept in a ditch — an actual ditch. “It’s France, Daddy,” he said. “It’s not like a ditch somewhere else.”

Tony had assumed Malcolm had been sleeping on sofas since he’d made his announcement, ashamed of himself. But he was in England.

He lifted the passenger door handle, remembered it opened only from the inside, and went around. The paperwork was still in the glove box. The carte grise —the title — was in order, and the last contrôle technique had been, miraculously, five months and three weeks before. He could legally sell the car to the Americans without putting it through another inspection, just as the Italian had sold it to him. That was the reason the Italian hadn’t haggled, or held out for another offer.

“Bah di donc!” said the parrot.

His shoulder hurt. “All right, Clothilde,” he said, and set her on the passenger seat so he could get to work.

For three hundred euro, could you expect a radio? He pulled it out, and then the safety kit: the reflective vest, the reflective triangle, the flares, all the things he’d bought for Malcolm to keep him safe and entertained. The old fuel pump had gone out and he’d replaced it with a rubber bulb: he had to open the bonnet and pump the fuel into the engine by hand, but it worked all right and a new pump would cost a hundred euro. If the Americans wanted to replace it, let them. Now he opened and pumped and slammed.

The car started. The fuel tank was full up. He got the tubing and another rubber bulb to siphon it out. He knew this was not quite decent, but the lawnmower ran on diesel, too, and fuel was expensive. He’d give the Americans directions to the Leclerc station.

“Hello,” he said to Clothilde.

She gave a half whistle.

“Tell me a story,” he said to her. She chewed at the edge of the seat. “Tell me the story of your life. Tell me — tell me you love me.”

The dashboard looked sad with the radio gone. The steering wheel had been put on crooked at some point, which made it difficult to read the speedometer, which reminded him that the dashboard light had gone out. They could get a bulb at the Leclerc, too.

The engine stunk of oil once it heated up.

The hatchback didn’t stay open. You needed a plank.

“The plank’s gratis,” Tony said aloud. “No charge whatsoever for the plank.”

The love of a young couple for a bad car took time: you had to drive it as it grew more eccentric, as each component failed or flickered or worsened. Tony had bought the car dazzled by the price, and then added each new oddity to the story he was telling himself: Malcolm’s First Car. They were going to tell that story forever. But that’s not how it worked, was it.