What It Was Like (39 page)

“Here,” she slapped the bulky, clanky key chain into my palm like a nurse handing a scalpel to a surgeon.

“You know,” I said. “I've never driven a Cadillac.”

She tried to stifle a laugh, but it came out, that musical laugh of hers.

“Sorry,” she giggled. “But that is so – so – perfect.”

I had to ignore her: it might have just been the pills.

“After you're done laughing, you think you can just help me back this monster out?” I asked.

“Sure,” she trilled, trying to control her laughter.

“OK, I guess this is cool,” I said uneasily, trying to get comfortable in the oversized driver's seat of Eleanor's Caddy and get a sense of the huge car's dimensions. The interior smelled like Eleanor's overripe, perfumed closet, and I wanted to change the air as quickly as I could, but all in all, it was the biggest, plushest, nicest car I'd ever been in. Standing outside my door – it took me a minute to find the switch that put down the driver's side window – Rachel quickly showed me where things were: how to work the lights and the directionals and the heater/air conditioner, how to move the
power
seats and the mirrors, and how to work the radio. There was one of those new 8-track players. It looked strange and cool, but Rachel told me to forget about playing it.

“All she has is Percy Faith and Montovani,” she jeered.

“OK,” I said. “Then we're outta here.”

I turned on the engine, which inside the confines of the garage sounded like a Boeing 707 revving up for take-off. Then after I made sure that Rachel was clear of the car, I put it into gear, let up on the parking brake, and rolled out of the garage super slowly, checking the mirrors to make sure that I wasn't close to hitting anything, inching out into the middle of the night. I made sure that my headlights were off too. I didn't want any of the neighbors – or anyone around, some idiot walking a dog – to see us, and there was just enough light from the garage light and the moon.

Then Rachel turned out the inside garage light, and things got instantly darker, but there was still enough light to see by as my eyes adjusted. I waited, cringing, as she lowered the open garage doors, the chains grinding loudly for what seemed like forever. Then it was blessedly quiet. Then I heard the Mustang's engine turn over, and she
revved
the engine – twice! I should have told her not to, but I figured that she would have enough sense not to. Then, she turned on the Mustang's headlights, which made me even more nuts: the last thing we needed to do was attract attention to the house.

I frantically waved to her through the windshield to turn off her headlights, but she didn't see me. She just waited for me to take the lead, which was the plan. There was nothing to do but put the Caddy in drive and lead the way out of the backyard.

I rolled extra-slowly down the extra-crunchy gravel driveway. I was sure grateful that Manny Prince liked his privacy and there were no houses right around us, but I was still nervous as anything. It was late, but it was a Saturday night, and while there didn't seem to be anybody around right now, on the streets or awake in the houses, you never knew. . . . The headlights from Rachel's Mustang shone off the Caddy's rearview mirror and into my eyes. I wish she had followed my example and driven with the headlights off at least until we got clear of the house, but she didn't. We were in separate cars, and I had to trust that Rachel would have some sense and not do anything foolish for the whole, long way up to Mooncliff.

And so I turned out of the Princes' driveway in Eleanor's big, white, comfortable Cadillac and began the longest ride of my life.

≁

Out of Rachel's perfect, silent neighborhood, I led the way, driving ever-so-carefully, stopping completely at every stop sign. Eleanor's Cadillac had a ton of power, so I had to go lightly on the gas pedal at first. Also, the brakes were very tight, and it took a few tries to get used to their stopping power: the car was so many thousands of pounds heavier than my mother's Ford or even the Chrysler. But jam down too hard on those brakes, and I'd be scraping myself off the inside of the windshield. Plus, I didn't want to have the things in the trunk rolling around and becoming undone. “Things.”

When I got to the main drag in Oakhurst, I stopped at the first traffic light. Rachel was right behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror: she was there, right on my bumper. She could see that I was looking for her, and she gave me a tight little wave, then put her hands back on the steering wheel. She looked so good in that red Mustang. Candy. I tried not to think of what we were doing as the light turned green.

As I drove through Oakhurst, I kept trying to visualize the roads we were going to take to get to Mooncliff. I was pretty sure that once I got to Mooncliff, I could find the Quarry. We – by we, I mean people from Mooncliff – got to the Quarry by the trail from the end of the golf course, but other people, the Boonies, got there from the county road that ran between Boonesville and the next town over, a next-to-nothing hamlet called Loomis. There was some kind of a trail off that country road that went through the forest to the Quarry. We saw those Boonies who dumped garbage in the Quarry leave by that trail in a truck. There had to be access to it from the main road. I was sure that once I got up there, I could find it

I picked up my speed once we got to Peninsula Boulevard because I had to. There was some traffic on Peninsula, and I had to go the prevailing speed. To crawl along would make me stand out, and that's the last thing I wanted to do.

Again I checked my rearview mirror. Rachel was right behind me: perfect. She just had to follow me, and I had to try not to get too far ahead. I realized that my heart, which had been racing like mad since . . . well,
since
 . . . was just beginning to slow down. I put my hand on my heart, and I could actually
feel
my heart beating through my shirt. I felt the two pills in my shirt pocket; I was glad they were there, “just in case.” I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax. We had a long way to go, and I had to be absolutely in charge of the situation
for Rachel.
I was in the lead. I was the one who knew the way. Besides, I think I had enough adrenaline rushing through me to last for hours.

We headed down Peninsula. Again and again, I tried to see the map in my mind: Peninsula to Rockaway, past Kennedy, to the Van Wyck. The Van Wyck to the Whitestone Bridge, across the Bronx, which would somehow lead to the Thruway, and then upstate.

I looked behind me: Rachel was there, same as before, same spacing. Good.

For the first time, I felt relaxed enough to turn on the radio. Before, I didn't want to think about anything but getting on the road to where I was going and making sure that Rachel was behind me.

First thing, as soon as I turned on the radio, an antenna zoomed up automatically from the hood on the right side. Straight up into the air, at least three feet. And the radio reception instantly came in, strong and super clear. There must have been extra speakers in the back, and maybe even in the doors, because the sound was so enveloping. And, wouldn't you know it? Eleanor had on one of my Dad's stations.

Fairy tales can come true
 . . .
 
It could happen to you
 . . .

Sinatra. My Dad gave me long lectures on the glory and importance of the man he called “Frankie” or sometimes even “Francis Albert.” Really. And not just the songs and the singing, which are actually pretty good, but Ava Gardner and
From Here to Eternity
too. He was my Dad's generation's Dylan. So, of course, I had to turn to another station instantly. I didn't want to think about my Dad, or anything further than the road ahead of me, and Rachel behind me. I changed stations quickly and found some loud, stupid rock and roll. That immediately calmed me down.

Somehow the Mustang was now three cars behind me. (I shouldn't have let myself get distracted by the radio and all the dashboard lights.) But I signaled right, as we were coming up on Rockaway Boulevard, and checked to make sure that Rachel had seen me, even though she was going to be trapped at the red light. I looked back over my right shoulder, through the back window, and pointed vigorously with my finger, telling her to turn right.

Someone honked me –
beep-beep –
and I had to drive on. As I accelerated, I saw in my rearview mirror that Rachel had turned her right directional on: she had seen me. So I sped up and made the right onto Rockaway and immediately got over to the right side and slowed down super slow, so that she could catch up to me. I dawdled in the right lane until . . .

There she was! Coming around the corner. Great – she was right with me. I kept a slow pace until she fell in behind me. In the rearview mirror, I could see her give me that fast,
do-you-see-me?
wave that she gave me before, and I knew we were together. Then I sped up. Driving too slowly would be as conspicuous as driving too fast.

There was a lot more traffic now. We were getting near the airport, and there was always a lot of action near Kennedy: people coming and going, twenty-four hours a day. I had to go faster and blend in with the flow of cars. I saw an enormous silver jet ahead of me, just taking off, cutting over Rockaway Boulevard and rising into the sky. How I wished I could be on that plane, no matter where it was going! I looked in my rearview mirror and didn't see the Mustang. In a flash of panic, I checked my side mirror, and there she was. In the center lane. The better to keep an eye on me, I think. I also thought that she wanted to go faster. I could see the cars stacking up behind her because she had to go slower than I was going. So I sped up. The Caddy has power in reserve, and the car surged forward with just the slightest pressure from my foot. Nice. And she was right behind me. We were on this wild, real-life amusement park ride – part house of horrors, part tunnel of love – and we couldn't stop now.

There was the turn-off for the Van Wyck coming up, which would take us to the Whitestone and get us off this damn Island. That was a good sign: the further we got from the Prince house, the better I liked it. I flicked on my signal, saw Rachel move in behind me, and drove on. We made the transition fairly easily. We were moving north on the Van Wyck, starting to cut up through Queens at a good clip. This was great: if this were rush hour, we'd be at a standstill, guaranteed. Instead, I had to keep my eye on the speedometer to stay under sixty-five. This engine felt like it could have done
a hundred-and-sixty-five
. I saw why people liked Cadillacs. Lots of room, lots of power, lots of comfort, a great radio, and a sense that you were safe inside, with the whole world locked out. Plus a huge trunk that could hold . . . anything.

All I had to do was keep the Caddy between the white lines and make sure that Rachel was behind me. She had my directions, which were proving to be surprisingly accurate, but it's hard to read purple-on-pink in the dark, in a moving car. The best strategy was to keep her in my mirrors and leave no doubt in my mind.

There was no reason for anyone to stop us. These were two entirely respectable, even enviable cars: a big, new white Caddy and a sharp, new red Mustang. Both cruising down the highway in perfect condition. People in the cars we were passing could look at us and think, “Wow. Those people must be really lucky.”

When I saw the first sign for the “Bnx-Whitestone Bridge,” I was so happy that I wanted to beep the car horn, to make sure that Rachel saw it. Lots of traffic now, but we were moving well, linked by an invisible wire of love. Even if a car or two would get between us, I would keep her in view, in one of my mirrors. Sometimes she would have to change lanes, or pass someone. I had to go around some idiot, who must have been drunk or something, going thirty-five miles an hour and weaving, endangering a whole bunch of cars, but Rachel saw everything, got around the drunk, and stayed with me.

We were really moving now. When I finally caught sight of the bridge at the end of a long curve in front of us, I could almost feel myself breathe easier. I felt in the armrest in the door for the buttons that controlled the power windows. There were quite a few of these little metal switches, but after some trial-and-error, I found a way to open the driver's window just a couple of inches, enough to imagine the smell of the ocean air to try to clear my mind. Anyway, I felt good as I went onto the bridge, the big towers in front of me, the black water of Long Island Sound below, and the red Mustang behind me. We were
finally
getting off Long Island.

As I moved toward the exact-change lane that was furthest to the right, I got my coins ready. (I had put my coins in my shirt pocket earlier: the other one, the one without the pills.) I briefly lost sight of the Mustang, but I had to keep my eye on the road. It would not have been a good thing if I crashed into a tollbooth.

I rolled slowly through the narrow opening at the booth and threw my change into the metal basket. The Caddy was so damn wide that I kept thinking I'd scrape the sides on something, but the automatic gate flew up and I got through.

I turned to my left, to see where Rachel was. No Mustang. And on my right, parked on the side, were a bunch of police cars – and several cops standing outside their cruisers.

For a moment, I flashed:
What if Rachel's abandoned me? She could just drive off and leave me with what was in the trunk. Then, all the blame would shift to me! I was the perfect fall guy: the daughter's no-good boyfriend! Maybe I should just drive over to those cops right now, rip open the trunk, and tell them everything that had happened – everything!

A car horn blasted loudly: there was someone right behind me. I looked left – there was Rachel, a couple of lanes over, looking straight at me. The car horn blasted again. I had to go; I jammed down on the gas pedal and shot ahead, throwing my head back against the head rest, zooming past the cops and away from the guy on my bumper.

I surged in front of Rachel and rocketed down the road, shaking off any doubt or hesitation, back in the lead. I bore down on the highway in front of me, trying to put that millisecond of uncertainty behind me. What was I thinking? Rachel and I were in this together. I had to believe that we could get away with this. If Herb had some kind of mob connections, it would be believable that he could be involved in a murder – especially if he and Eleanor had had a public fight that very night. But what about Nanci? Say she got in the way? It was too much to work through at that moment. And to face facts, I couldn't
undo
what had already been done. We were already in so much cosmically serious trouble –
serious
serious trouble – that all I could do was continue what we were doing and try to make the whole thing go away.

≁

I kept a steady speed going straight across the Bronx. Together we made the tricky transition to the New York State Thruway. It almost looked like we were going to drive onto the George Washington Bridge, looming in front of us, but I faithfully followed the signs, and we exited onto the Thruway, going north. I was fairly sure that this was the right way to Mooncliff – I
had
to trust the signs – but I was still nervous as hell. After all, I didn't want to stop and ask anybody anything. The whole idea was to be invisible.

We caravanned up the Thruway for a long, long time, over the Tappan Zee Bridge and north into Upstate New York. By now, there were fewer cars on the road, and my driving was slightly more relaxed, considering the cargo. It was mostly just trucks and the two of us. After a while, I could drive with one hand on the steering wheel. I realized that for the first hour or so, my hands had been positively
epoxied
to the wheel by anxiety. Now, out in the country, I could ease off a little. The Caddy was big and quiet and squishy. Eleanor's radio got great reception, and for a while, it was like driving in a moving concert hall. Then, I would remember what I was doing, shudder, and step on the gas.

I was sure that Rachel would remember that we turned off the Thruway at Harriman for Route 17. Right before we left the house, I told her, “Route 17. Remember Route 17. The Harriman exit.” And she had it written down anyway. But as we got closer, I slowed down and signaled a good half-mile in advance of the exit so that she couldn't miss it. And she didn't; we exited together.

Without being too obvious, I tried to hide my face when I paid the toll taker at the exit booth: no exact-change lanes here. I was hoping that Rachel would think to do the same, but it would be hard for anybody – especially some dead-end guy in a dead-end job in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a lonely Saturday night – not to notice a beautiful girl in a hot red Mustang convertible, if anyone ever asked him about it. Talk about candy.

We were on Route 17; it was just a straight shot to Mooncliff and the Quarry and getting this thing over with. At least the first part of it. I was already thinking about what we were going to do and say when we got back to Rachel's. I had to ease up on the gas when I found that I was doing almost eighty on an open stretch of empty, easy-to-drive road. The Cadillac was so quiet that I vanished into the intricacies of my plan. The last thing I needed was to be stopped by some bored, curious, brave highway patrolman. That's when Rachel started flashing the Mustang's headlights. It took me a moment to remember that this was our sign to stop, our distress signal. As I just said, the last thing I wanted to do was stop; that could only attract attention. But she kept blinking the lights so I had to do something. The highway was pitch-dark, there was no one around, and the shoulder was pretty wide on this straightaway by a wide, dark meadow. I had no choice: the Mustang's lights were still blinking, so I figured that she must have had a reason. So I put on my right blinker and pulled off onto the shoulder.