Tilt - Alan Cumyn [20]
Stan slid over awkwardly. His mother jolted into the passenger seat.
“If I were a better parent I’d be taking you out driving every night.” She thrust over the keys.
“Mom.”
“If I were a better parent you’d be in driver’s ed. You’d have your license by now.”
“You’re a great parent, Mom.”
“Shut up. Do up your seatbelt!”
If he could drive with his mother, Stan thought, he could drive with anybody. He clicked his belt, adjusted the mirrors, flicked the lights on and off.
“What was that for?”
“Just testing.” Stan switched on the left turn signal, and the wipers.
“For God’s sake, Stanley! We’re already late!”
It had been so long since his last practice session he’d forgotten what all the controls were. That’s all. He pressed down the clutch with his left foot.
It was all in the balance. As the clutch came out, the gas went down.
He wiggled the stick shift. Reverse was toward him, down the slot.
“Any time this afternoon, Stanley,” his mother breathed.
He turned the key and the engine coughed to life. This was all going to be fine. Lots of idiots learned how to drive. Stan pulled the stick into reverse. He let up on the clutch. Don’t rocket out. Don’t —
The car lurched back, then stalled.
“All right!” his mother said, undoing her seatbelt. “This isn’t the time for a lesson.”
“I can do it! Honest!”
“You’re going to kill the car!”
Stan stayed quiet, didn’t move. She did up her belt again.
“Just take it easy . . .”
Stan had drained the winning shot against Karl Brolin in a high wind on a bent rim from too far away. He could do this, too. It was all about balance. Clutch and gas. Release one, press the other . . . and the car reversed down the driveway as smooth as butter.
He was doing it!
“Which way should I signal if I’m backing left, but going right?” he asked calmly.
“Nobody signals going backwards! Look out!”
A woman with a stroller was half a block down the road and going in the opposite direction.
Stan didn’t bother signaling. Technically, he knew he was supposed to signal. He remembered that at least from the driving regulation book he’d spent some time with months ago. It was the balance that was important. Clutch went in, gas went out . . . gas in, clutch out. How many times did people tell him? But until you actually knew it in your body . . .
“We can’t take forever!” his mother nearly shouted. Stan shifted into first, then proceeded down the street. He left ample room for the woman and stroller. Second was easy.
“I’m going the speed limit,” Stan said. It was hard not to keep his voice a deadpan in reaction to his mother’s rising anxiety. But inside, trumpets were blowing.
He was driving the stick shift!
“You’re close to the ditch!”
Stan eased over slightly. His mother wasn’t used to sitting in the passenger seat. Everything looked close to the ditch from there.
“Do we know what Lily has done this time?” Stan asked. He turned onto Broadlane, shifting gears like a professional, and stayed beautifully in sync with the traffic. It was Friday rush hour. Worst time to be driving. But they didn’t have far to go.
“The principal wouldn’t say anything on the phone,” Stan’s mother said. “Honey —!”
A boy on a bicycle wobbled on the sidewalk nowhere near where they were. Even if he fell he was too —
Stan braked, a little harshly, for the light, and the engine bucked and his mother lurched forward and was caught, roughly, by her seatbelt. She glared at him.
But it was all right. No damage. Everything started again. He liked the feel of the vehicle. He liked pressing ahead smoothly, that harmony between left foot and right, and the way the car took a turn and how the steering wheel spun back more or less by itself as the road straightened. He could feel it now in his body. In a couple of months he was going to be a better driver than his mother.
Well, maybe that wouldn’t be so hard.
He had another thought that seemed profound: the car wants to stay on track.
If you stayed between the lines you eventually got to where you were going.
Which was