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But he let the speedometer inch up to sixty-five, to sixty-eight. They drew close behind the Chevy. Its rear window was so dusty that Ira had trouble seeing inside. All he could tell was that the driver wore a hat of some kind and sat very low in the seat. There didn't seem to be any passengers. The license plate was dusty too-a Pennsylvania plate, navy and yellow, the yellow mottled with gray as if mildewed.

"Y two eight-" Ira read out.

"Yes, yes, I have it," Maggie said. (She was the type who could still reel off her childhood telephone number.) "Now let's pass him," she told Ira.

"Oh, well . . ." "You see what kind of driver he is. I think we ought to pass." Well, that made sense. Ira veered left.

Just as they came alongside the Chevy, Maggie leaned out her window and pointed downward with her index finger. "Your wheel!" she shouted. "Your wheel! Your front wheel is falling off!" "Good grief," Ira said.

He checked the mirror. Sure enough, the Chevy had slowed and was moving toward the shoulder.

"Well, he believed you," he said.

He had to admit it was sort of a satisfaction.

Maggie twisted around in her seat, gazing out the rear window. Then she turned to Ira. There was a stricken look on her face that he couldn't account for. "Oh, Ira," she said.

"Now what." "He was old, Ira." Ira said, "These goddamn senior-citizen drivers ..." "Not only was he old," she said. "He was black." "So?" "I didn't see him clearly till I'd said that about the wheel," she said. "He didn't mean to run us off the road! I bet he doesn't even know it happened. He had this wrinkled, dignified face and when I told him about the wheel his mouth dropped open but still he remembered to touch the brim of his hat. His hat! His gray felt hat like my grandfather wore!" Ira groaned.

Maggie said, "Now he thinks we played a trick on him. He thinks we're racist or something and lied about his wheel to be cruel." "He doesn't think any such thing," Ira said. "As a ' matter of fact, he has no way of knowing his wheel isn 't falling off. How would he check it? He'd have to watch it in motion." "You mean he's still sitting there?" "No, no," Ira said hastily. "I mean he's probably back on the road by now but he's traveling a little slower, just to make sure it's all right." "I wouldn't do that," Maggie said.

"Well, you're not him." "He wouldn't do that, either. He's old and confused and alone and he's sitting there in his car, too scared to drive another inch." "Oh, Lord," Ira said.

"We have to go back and tell him." Somehow, he'd known that was coming.

"We won't say we deliberately lied," Maggie said. "We'll tell him we just weren't sure. We'll ask him to make a test drive while we watch, and then we'll say, 'Oops! Our mistake. Your wheel is fine; we must have misjudged.' " "Where'd you get this 'we' business?" Ira asked. "I never told him it was loose in the first place." "Ira, I'm begging you on bended knee, please turn around and go rescue that man." "It is now one-thirty in the afternoon," Ira said. "With luck we could be home by three. Maybe even two-thirty. I could open the shop for a couple of hours, which may not be much but it's better than nothing." "That poor old man is sitting in his car staring straight in front of him not knowing, what to do," Maggie said. "He's still hanging on to the steering wheel. I can see him as plain as day." So could Ira. > He slowed as they came to a large, prosperous-looking farm. A grassy lane led toward the barn, and he veered onto that without signaling first, in order to make the turn seem more sudden and more exasperated. Maggie's sunglasses scooted the length of the dashboard. Ira backed up, waited for a stream of traffic that all at once materialized, and then spun out onto Route One again, this time heading north.

Maggie said, "I knew you couldn't be heartless." "Just imagine," Ira told her. "All up and down this highway, other couples are taking weekend drives to- gether. They're traveling from Point A to Point B. They're holding civilized discussions about, I don't