Pages of a Day Ch. 02

"There's the paint, of course, then the way I apply the lacquer to the dashboard wood," he explained, utterly missing Sandra's playful meaning of "special techniques." He can be sooo serious, she thought.

She pressed the button on the side of her door. Sure enough, the window silently moved down; a push in the other direction and the window rose. Sandra felt like a kid. Power windows were common, but in a car like this, they had been the latest technology.

"OK, now I've done windows. Let's see what's on the radio," she said.

She turned a dial and the radio lit up. The station, broadcasting the state university in the city, was at the moment playing "The End" by the Doors. "Eek, that's no Django Reinhardt. What a depressing song to play on such a pretty day," said Sandra. "Those college students. I could use something more in the spirit of summer."

"You're the radio crew, put on whatever you'd like," said Marshall as he pointed the car toward the Maple Centre exit.

She hit the button, listening for a few seconds to hear what was on.

"On Wall Street today." Click.

"Stunning a crowd of onlookers at the Vatican, Michael Jackson." Click.

"Yo, yo, yo for the lowwwwest prices, move your butt down to." Click.

"Next, the immortal piano stylings of Liberace." Click

"And then Jeeeesus said unto the harlot." Click.

"Just when that was getting interesting," Marshall grumbled in a good-natured way.

"Give a radio preacher a few minutes and he'll start talking about how much he loves the Jewwwwwws. I can do without that."

"Agreed. Keep looking."

Finding a suitable station proved more difficult than Sandra expected. Then she turned the dial just a bit and . . .

"Hot time, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty, cool cat looking for a kitty . . . "

"That's more like it," Sandra said. "John Sebastian and the Lovin' Spoonful, 1967. One of the great summer songs."

"Ahhh, 1967, we were trying to get out of Rumania. Not such a great summer for us. The Securitate, they hounded us every day."

"Securitate? What's that?" asked Sandra.

"Rumanian secret police. Very bad men. Brutes. Anti-semites, of course. Never a moment of peace for anybody in the country."

She turned to him, his hands firmly on the steering wheel at the 10-and-2 position beloved by driving instructors everywhere. She could only guess at the pain behind "not such a great summer."

She put her hand on his forearm. She felt the muscles beneath the jacket and shirt. "I'm, I'm sorry it was so hard for you," Sandra said. "Nobody should suffer like that."

He sighed. "We got out. So did many of our friends. In that respect, the Rumanians were a little better than others. They let our people go, grudgingly. We went to Israel. Now some of us are here. Next year, next decade, who knows? What is the plant in cowboy movies that keeps blowing around?"

"Tumbleweeds."

"Yes, tumbleweeds. Blown from place to place."

"You've got a shop. You've been here a long time. Maybe this is a place for roots."

He glanced quickly at her and smiled. "Yes, even a weed that tumbles can put down roots. I like this place. If I ever call a place home, this is it." He moved the Thunderbird into a turning lane and asked, "Are you sad, Sandra?"

"I don't like to think of people I care for suffering." There, she said it, turning a page in her mind.

"I don't either. So let's agree to make it like the song, yes? Our summer in the city. What are the rest of the lyrics? I do not know the song at all."

Sandra sang the song for him in her tuneful voice. Marshall flashed on the image of her as a singer in a darkened lounge, atop a barstool, a spotlight shining off her lustrous brown hair, perspiration aglow on her curving cleavage and shoulders in a sleeveless gown. A bass-drums-piano trio laid the subdued foundations for her love songs. He was in the audience. She sang to him only.

"Marshall? The light turned green. You'd better turn while we still have the protected left," she said gently.

"Right. I was just thinking about, oh, I don't know. I like that song."

"If we wait long enough we'll hear some Beach Boys."

"That group I have heard of. 'Little Deuce Coupe,' that's a favorite among car people," said Marshall. "Almost there."

Soon Sandra saw their destination: Fast Food on Wheels, the city's only drive-in restaurant, a place so old, dating from the 1940s, that it long ago regained a kitschy charm that made it a favorite of seekers of off-beat food experiences. Waitresses on skates zipped among dozens of cars angle-parked in bays, each bay equipped with a squawk box for orders and a mini-jukebox with a dozen different channels of music. A quarter brought 15 minutes of tunes.

"Here we are, car food for car people," said Marshall.

"This is great," said Sandra. "I've always heard off this place but I've never come here. I guess I never had a reason to. It didn't sound like fun for a solo meal."

"It's not," said Marshall. "It only took me 20 meals here to figure that out. But I'm a smart guy, I finally realized I ate too much when I was here feeling lonely."Sandra smiled and patted his arm. "You're not lonely now, I hope."

"Not since we walked back into the bookstore," he replied. "I thought you might like to know that."

"Hmmm, I do like to know that," said Sandra, heart thudding. An awkward silence settled in the car. So," she said brightly, "Shall we order some food on wheels?"

They both got hamburgers, a large banana shake for Marshall, a Diet Sprite for Sandra, and an order of onion rings to share. And plenty of napkins.

"This is great car food," said Sandra, biting into her burger. "And I can't think of a better car to eat it in."

"I wouldn't mind a convertible, so our hair could fly in the wind," said Sandra. "Hey, you're the radio operator, pick a channel to play from the jukebox here." Marshall read the choices: Motown, classic rock, jazz, Nashville, rap, Latin, and "painfully earnest folkies."

"What was that last one?" asked Sandra, cocking her head at him.

"A joke. You'll have to get your Joni Mitchell someplace else."

"If I can't get Joni, then I'll choose Motown."

"Excellent choice." Marshall popped a quarter in and soon "You Keep Me Hangin' On" by the Supremes started.

"Let's give credit to Randall and Jessica for not giving us that treatment. They didn't keep us hanging on at all," said Marshall.

"She acted like a bitch, but I should thank her. Otherwise she'd be with you," added Sandra. Her attraction to Marshall made her recklessly bold. So far, she thought, she hasn't backed away.

"I seriously doubt that. She didn't seem like the auto-shop type. Maybe a date or two, but would it last? Not likely."

"But Marshall," said Sandra, putting down her hamburger. "You're more than a car guy. That's what you DO, not what you ARE. You're a kind, decent and funny guy. We haven't known each other long, but you're a gentleman. A mensch, you know?"

"Some women find that boring. I've been told in so many words."

"Well I don't find it boring at all. Au contraire."

"Excuse me?"

"That's French. On the contrary. We have a lot to talk about."

Marshall was quiet. He hadn't had a woman sit in his car in a year. The automatic transmission lever separated the bucket seats. Their arms brushed against each other as they ate. Each touch gave Marshall a thrill. However many women he had touched in the past, on whatever continent, the first elusive brushes with a woman he liked had a special, electric power. In the close quarters, Sandra had a pulsing physical presence, even when she wiped ketchup from her lips. Marshall imagined her body beneath the pretty pants suit, with the yellow sleeveless blouse that gave him tantalizing peeks at her bra straps. The fast-food smells couldn't cover her perfume, Sandra's wonderful womanly aroma that suffused the car like oxygen filling an astral vacuum.

Sandra, he thought. Here, with me, enjoying herself, amazing.

Once they finished, their hands fell easily together on top of the glove box case between the bucket seats. Sandra rested her hand there, and Marshall simply placed his on top. His beefy, clean fingers closed around her smooth, manicured hands. Sandra flashed back to the time when Marshall examined her hand at their first meeting, as part of his analysis of her work. Then, the connection felt a bit clinical, but good; now, the connection felt delicious, each of them sensing the steady pulse of blood from the other. Marshall felt Sandra's heartbeat bump up when he gently covered her hand.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asked.

She smiled. "I feel like a teenager, holding hands in the car."

"We've never too old to be young, that's my attitude. You don't stop wanting this when you hit 40. Yeah, I want it more."

"I don't have longer before I'm 4-0," said Sandra, brightly but with a quiver in her voice.

"You'll survive," said Marshall. "I did. And, well, what's the alternative? Eternal youth?"

"I know, I shouldn't feel bad, your family survived worse things in Romania," she said with a chuckle.

"What did you say?" he asked. "Please repeat that."

Sandra looked at him. Her stomach churned when she saw a dark curtain fall over his eyes. "I, I was just joking."

"That is not a very funny joke. Yes, my family survived worse things than turning 40. Those that survived, that is. Sadly, my dear Sandra, I had many relatives that, thanks to the Germans and our neighbors, were spared the trauma of turning 40." His voice rang with a hard edge, as if her words had frozen something in him, turning the soft Marshall into a man of grief and bitter feelings. "Shall I tell you what happened to save them from turning 40? Turning 20? Turning 10? You choose the age and I will tell you."

She turned her head to look out the windows. Tears welled in her eyes at the surge force of his anger at her stupid comment. He's going to kick me out of the car, I know it, she thought. Oh my God, give me another chance. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin and turned to him, but new tears balanced on her eyelids, about to descend her cheeks.

"I am so, so sorry, Marshall. Please forgive me. I was just, not thinking. Of course that's a terrible thing to make any joke about, your family's suffering. I wish I could turn the clock back two minutes. I'd do anything to take that back. There's no excuse."

He stared straight out the window. Sandra's wonderful smell seemed far away from him, replaced by the acrid odor of memories stoked across family dining tables in Bucharest, Haifa, and elsewhere. The stories – his parents, unlike other Holocaust survivors, readily shared their experiences – pounded in his temples, threatening a headache. Sandra saw the unimaginable in the red rims of Marshall's eyes.

He shook his head wearily. She couldn't have known his family's history, his responses to such comments. Now, she did. "I'm sensitive about this. You didn't know. So, we keep learning about each other, what we like and dislike. I forgive you. It's the past. Someday soon I will say something dumb and then you will be the forgiver. Fair enough?"

Sandra looked at him, and her big, rumpled, barrel of a man now calmly gazed into her eyes. "You're not going to throw me out of the car?" she asked, seriously.

"I would only throw you out of the car if the car was on fire, Sandra," he said in his matter of fact voice.

"Still friends?"

"Of course we are still friends. Let us shake on it."

With exaggerated formality they shook hands across the bucket seats. The corporate grip softened into fingers entwined and caressing. In her mind Sandra heard the flutter of pages flipping in a breeze, from one chapter to another. The electric touch of hands, the sweet reconciliation after a clash, drew them together. Corkscrewing their bodies in the bucket seats, Marshall and Sandra faced each other and leaned over so their lips met across the space.

They kissed lightly at first, in the gathering dusk of Fast Food on Wheels. Their lips joined, then pulled apart with a smacking sound that made them both laugh. "Good for a start. How about one for the road?" said Sandra, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Just one?" said Marshall. "OK, one for the road, but it will be a long road."

Again they leaned together and kissed. This time, their lips lingered and pressed more urgently. Marshall tasted the mix of lipstick and French fries on Sandra's mouth. She tasted good, feminine but not like a hothouse dainty, no, rather a strong woman who liked to mix it up with a man, he thought. A murmur, a throaty "mmmmmm," vibrated from her larynx to her lips to Marshall's lips, branching to his brain and his crotch. "Mmm, nice," he said back to her. Sandra's female sensors detected an uptick of his desire. He shifted noticeably in his seat.

"Let's make it a long road," she said between kisses.

"The road goes back to my shop. Want to continue to our discussion there, see the rest of the office? We can visit the bookstore at Maple Centre first and get some coffee. Whatever you feel comfortable with, Sandra."

"Well," said Sandra, wondering just how comfortable she would be later that evening. Very comfortable, she imagined. Still, a little voice warned her about the old-world formality framing Marshall. "I could be comfortable with many things. And you? Shall we find out what Marshall's comfortable with?"

"Let us do that. To the office we go," he said, turning the keys.

No lapses in attention slowed the return to Maple Centre. As soon as a light turned green, Marshall was rolling, and before long, as dusk fell, they parked next to Sandra's Subaru in the lot behind BuchaRestorations. The mall still hummed with night activities, restaurants, a jazz café, the octoplex cinema, an independent bookstore.

"So? Next stop for the evening?" asked Marshall. He sensed the evening's arc angling in several directions, each pleasant. But he wanted to leave the options open to Sandra.

"Why don't we get some ice cream and eat it in your office?" she said, hoping she didn't sound too eager to find a private place.

"I like that idea. Peanut butter and chocolate in a cup is my favorite," said Marshall.

"You really like your ice cream, I can tell from your voice," teased Sandra, confident again in her ability to strike the right tone with Marshall.

"You know the way to this man's heart," he said. "And your favorite?"

"I'm not too much for super-chocolaty flavors. I like pecan, vanilla with fruity swirls. Is there hope for us?" she asked, lightly slapping his arm.

"I think we can overcome our dessert differences. Perhaps we will need couples ice-cream counseling," he said, getting into the spirit of the exchange.

They strolled to the ice cream shop, where Marshall bought peanut butter for him, pecan for her. Rather than rush to the office, they sat on a bench near a gurgling round fountain in the center plaza. Couples and families circled the plaza, a perfect summer evening that included fireflies twinkling in loops around the chairs and grass. A few drops of water splashed on Sandra's arms and chest. The cool sensation stirred her. All day, impatient for the evening with Marshall, every touch felt like a caress, an aching substitute for real intimacy; the softness of a towel at the gym; the deep leather creak of her office chair as her thighs fell against it; the cream of an iced coffee sliding past her lips and down her throat. And now, soft drops patted her arms and even formed a rivulet that gathered at her throat and slowly, slowly slid down to nuzzle between her breasts.

After that endless build-up, Marshall sat in the flesh beside her. He deftly scooped the last bits of peanut butter ice cream from his cup. A few bites remained of Sandra's pecan ice cream. She filled her spoon and waved it in front of Marshall's face.

"Here, you're a growing boy, you need your strength. Finish it," she said.

Marshall's eyes lit up. "A treat from my treat," he said, opening his mouth. Ice cream really was his weakness! She thought.

"Would you be upset if I said, 'Here comes the choo-choo?'" she asked as the spoon approached his mouth.

"Just don't let your mother hear you say it. She might think you were practicing for . . . the future."

I am, my dear Marshall, I am, even if you don't realize it yet, Sandra thought to herself, then said, "Oh, motherhood is the farthest thing from my mind. I'm just a simple Jewish career gal, happy to work 12 hours a day, go to the gym, eat ice cream alone, and cry my eyes out at other people's kids' bar mitzvahs. It's a wonderful life, l'chaim."

"L'chaim," said Marshall as the last boxcar of pecan ice cream slid into the roundhouse of his mouth. "And what parts of that last statement am I supposed to take seriously?"

"The part about crying at bar mitzvahs, not to mention bat mitzvahs, weddings, aufrufs, brit milahs, baby namings, and bridal showers. I'm a hardass at work, but a mush everywhere else."

"Like bookstores when you get dumped by blind dates?"

"You got it."

"You weren't a mush when that punk jammed a gun in your ribs."

She shrugged. "In my line of work that was just another day at the office. Piece of cake."

"Ah, but around a piece of wedding cake, that's another matter."

"True. If you've got a piece of wedding cake in the fridge at your shop, don't show it to me."

"No threat of that. Say, are you ready to take another look at the shop?"

"I thought you'd never ask. Let's go," said Sandra as she put their napkins and cups in a trash can.

They strolled across the plaza, holding hands. The crowds thinned a bit, park lights were already aglow, a breeze stirred the deep-green leaves of trees along the footpaths. Marshall fished a key from his pocket when they reached the back entrance. Beyond the door, the shop was dark.

"Nobody here this time of night finishing up projects?" asked Sandra, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Working late isn't part of the union contract. In the restoration business, there are no rush jobs. So, we are the only ones here," said Marshall, closing the door. "Here's the shop. You've seen the work area. I've got my office over here." He led her to an area partitioned off by moveable walls, like an office cubicle.

"Very simple office for the boss," said Sandra, eyeing the desk, computer table, low-slung bookcases, and a plaid-fabric couch across from the desk.

"My proletarian roots are showing," he said. "We all work here as a team. The books are open. We have no secrets, not after growing up together and serving in the military. My money got the place going, but my team's skills keep it going. I would have called the place Car Kibbutz but nobody would understand what I meant, unless they were Israeli."

"You have so many car books here," said Sandra. Hundreds of books on automotive history, design, mechanics, and lore lined the office, with model cars on the top shelf.

"I like to read. You should see my apartment. I decided, long ago, that I had to be an expert on cars to do my work. Not just have the technical skills. The customers, many of them are car fanatics, far more than I am. When they come here, they feel good when I can talk about, oh, I don't know, who won at Le Mans in 1957, or why Ferraris are red, or whether the Edsel was really a bad car. I'm selling, how would the marketers say, an automotive experience, not just a restoration service."

"Hence the team jump suits and the open design so people can see what's going on. Those are parts of the experience."

"Yes. The experience puts people in the mood to write me large checks for expensive restorations. Of course, the quality of our work means they never regret writing those checks."

Sandra perched on the edge of the desk. The rounded corner cut through her pants to tease her bottom. One part of the office struck her fancy.