Earthly Possessions - Anne Tyler [15]
“Over this way,” he said.
He led me into the dark, toward the clump of cars I’d seen from the window. One car was long, humped—I didn’t get a good look at it. On the passenger side the front door handle and the back door handle were looped through with a chain and padlocked. We edged between cars to get to the driver’s side. Jake opened the door and pushed me onto the seat. “Slide over,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Don’t try no funny stuff, I got it locked with the men’s room chain.”
I slid over. Cars are closed-in spaces too, even without locked doors, and this one could smother a person, I thought, with its fuzzy, dusty-smelling seat covers and slit-eyed windows. There were no headrests. A pair of giant fur dominoes hung from the rear-view mirror. “What kind of car is this?” I asked.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Jake. “None of them others had their keys left in.”
He settled into the driver’s seat and inched the door shut, so it barely clicked when it latched. Then he let his breath out and sat still a minute. “Question is, does it work,” he told me.
I heard the rustle of nylon, a key turning. The engine came on with a grudging sound. Jake slipped into reverse, and I saw the car ahead of us sliding away. Since I’m not a driver myself, I went on facing forward. So it came as a shock when wham!—we hit something. I spun around but I couldn’t see what it was. A mailbox, it sounded like. Something clattery. “Oh, hell,” Jake said, and shifted gears and roared into the street. But even that didn’t bring anybody out after us. At least, I was still looking backward and I didn’t notice anyone.
“See, I didn’t want to brake,” Jake said. “Didn’t want the brake lights lit.”
But now that we were out of there and into the ordinary, evening-time traffic, he switched on the headlights and settled back. I couldn’t believe it. Was that it? Simple as that? “Well. My goodness,” I said. “I never knew a life of crime could be so easy.”
He looked at me sideways. He said, “A what? Life of what?”
I didn’t answer (not wanting to get in any trouble). We rode along a ways. Turned right. Passed a line of people in front of a restaurant. Then, “Ha,” he said. “Bet you think I’m some kind of a criminal, don’t you.”
“Um …”
“Think I’m a crook or something.”
I decided it was best not to mention the bank robbery. I smoothed my skirt down and settled my purse on my lap. We turned left. Buildings grew sparser.
“That what you think?” he asked me.
“I don’t know what you are and I don’t care,” I said.
He stopped for a traffic light. He was chewing on his lower lip; no wonder it got so chapped. When the light turned green the car started off with a jerk, as if suddenly reminded of something. The tires screamed, the dominoes bounced. “Fact is, I ride demolition derbies,” said Jake.
I thought he was making a joke about his driving, but his face stayed serious. “I do a lot of them out roundabout,” he said. “Hagerstown, Potomac … Maryland’s just full of them.”
“Full of … demolition derbies?”
“Last year, I won three. But generally I do a whole lot better.”
“Well, I thought that was just a weekend thing, demolition derbies. You make your living doing that?”
“What I make is my affair,” he said.
“I mean—”
“If I have to I’ll hire on a few days in a body shop or something, but I don’t really like doing nothing but them derbies. I am a demolition fool, I tell you. I like that better than