The Number 7 (19 page)

“You always want to rinse out the eggshells before adding them to the pile,” I heard him say.

The man seemed genuinely grateful to Gabe for the tip, thanking him before leaving the store with groceries in hand.

“Another happy customer?” I said in greeting, finding a lull in the checkout line.

“As always,” Gabe folded his arms casually. “What brings you in?”

“Deli sandwiches.” I tossed my head toward the back of the store. “My family's exasperated as a result of starvation. The usual.” I shrugged playfully.

“Ah, I see.”

“We're out shopping for a car for Greta as kind of an early Christmas present, and thought we'd stop in for some lunch. I didn't even know you served lunch.”

“Every day. Hey, we still on for Monday?” he asked. “I told my parents you were coming, and they said you could use my sister's old skis. You're about her size.”

“Yes, we're on,” I replied, relieved. “Thanks for the loaners. I didn't know you had a sister.”

“Yeah, she's studying abroad in Belize. She doesn't need
skis
in
Belize
,” Gabe chuckled at his own lame rhyme.

Someone got in line behind me.

“So we'll pick you up at seven on Monday?” Gabe straightened back up, unfolding his arms and smiling at the customer. He looked so friendly and adorable in his green apron.
His parents must love him working here
, I thought to myself. He had the perfect face to represent the family business.

“I'll be ready,” I answered, retreating back to the deli, fully knowing—meeting the parents, having never skied a day in my life—I would be anything but ready.

Back at the table, the conversation was, unsurprisingly, about cars.

“I still vote for the white Buick,” Dad commented to the table while taking a first bite of his sandwich.

“The one with the tan upholstery?” Greta looked up, trying to remember.

“Yeah, it was impeccable.”

“It was impeccable because ‘Grandma' died before she could drive it anywhere.”

“What? Rosemary, back me up here. That car was hip.” Even Dad's usage of the word “hip” came out sounding old.

Rosemary, in mid-chew of her roasted pepper on focaccia, held a hand to cover her mouth as she shook her head in disagreement. Dad's choice, the white Buick, was a lost cause.

“What?” Dad looked surprised.

“It really was an old lady's car, Christian,” Rosemary said from behind her hand, before swallowing.

“Well, I thought it was hip.” There was that word again.

“Maybe, Dad, that's because . . . ” Greta started, but stopped herself midsentence. She wasn't willing to risk losing a car she hadn't even been given yet. Dad scrunched his mouth. He knew when he was being insulted.

I sat down to my sandwich in its blue plastic basket, picked up a folded section of discarded newspaper, and willingly immersed myself in anything but car talk. The newspaper was dated yesterday, and my eyes scanned the page absentmindedly.

“What about that cute VW beetle?” Rosemary suggested, a dot of hummus on her bottom lip.

Dad motioned to his own lip and Rosemary embarrassedly wiped her mouth clean. “That was a coupe. What are the girls going to do with a coupe?” Dad prompted.

“Drive around together?” Rosemary answered innocently.

Dad smiled, realizing he was fighting a losing battle. I just batted my eyes and returned to the paper. Greta was noticeably silent.

“Great sandwich,” Dad chimed in after a prolonged moment of quiet.

We all nodded our heads in agreement but said nothing. I flipped the paper over and casually looked at the classifieds. My eyes rested on a small for-sale ad. Restored Glam: '67 Mercury Comet. Haul-away only. 812-6776. Ask for Edna.

I was interested. “Dad, what do Mercury Comets look like?”

“Muscle cars.” He paused. “Like
American Graffiti
muscle cars.”

“Like a Steve McQueen muscle car?”

“Cooler than Steve McQueen,” Dad joked, cocking his head to the side in confusion. “How do you know about Steve McQueen?”

“I've seen
Bullitt
,” I said defensively.

“What are you talking about, Louisa?” Greta asked, annoyed. She wasn't interested in our banter.

“I don't know,” I shrugged. “There's an ad here for a '67 Mercury Comet. Thought Dad might want to go see it and relive some of his youth,” I teased.

Rosemary laughed, and Dad held his sandwich out at me, shaking it as he answered, “I'd be surprised if the thing still ran.”

“Actually, I am surprised
you're
still running, Dad,” Greta chimed in.

Setting down his sandwich, Dad sighed, wiping his hands on his jeans in defeat.

“Call and see if it's still available.” He winked at Rosemary. “And how much it costs.”

Within thirty minutes, the four of us were standing in Edna's front yard—a littered jungle of scrap metal, spare parts, and dissected automobiles—staring at the most beautiful car I'd ever seen.

Sitting at the breakfast table early Monday morning, I still couldn't believe it. At any moment, I could walk to the window and look out at the stunning new automobile sitting in our driveway: the fully restored Comet Caliente. With its moss green and chrome exterior, brown leather steering wheel, and $10,000 price tag that was well under Dad's allotted budget, everything about it was perfect.

“It was my boy's car. He loved this thing,” Edna had said nostalgically, running her finger over its waxy hood. “He's dead now. Passed away two months ago.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Dad offered his condolences.

Edna folded her arms and leaned against the car, letting it embrace her. She looked our group up and down guardedly. She was feeling us out. Were we good enough for her son's prized hot rod?

“Yes, well.” She stopped to pick at something in her teeth, squinting at us. “I just want to get rid of it now. Can't stand to look at it anymore, t'be honest.”

“I understand that completely,” Dad gulped, looking at Greta and me. “More than you know.”

“How much do you want for it?” Greta chimed in, hesitantly.

Edna turned from Dad to look at my sister. “I could get a lot for it on the In-ter-net,” Edna spoke deliberately. “But I only really want what Roy spent restoring the thing.”

Twice she referred to the car as “the thing,” and I wondered silently if it was some form of disassociation. After Mom died, I remember walking around the house and deeming some of her things illegitimate: her garden shoes (the ones she wore before she got ill, the ones she wore every spring when she planted annuals in the garden, when she grew tomatoes with such tenderness); the reusable 7-Eleven Big Gulp she carried around with her throughout her chemotherapy (she was constantly complaining of thirst, and she refused to drink the water in plastic bottles that Dad bought in bulk because they were “wasteful”); her Rodgers and Hammerstein CD collection (how many times had I joined her for the second verse—the only verse I knew—to sing a mom-and-daughter duet of “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top”?). When Mom died, all those things became alien to me. I
needed
them to be foreign. Their significance and purpose were too painful to confess. And so, I imagined, came to be the Comet for Edna.

“Ten thousand dollars,” she finally nodded in declaration. “Cash. Title's in the glove compartment, signed and ready to go.”

Instantly, Dad ducked under the hood, inspecting the engine. He circled the car more than once and let out a couple approving grunts while Greta, Rosemary, and I stood on the sideline, speechless.

“Greta, you're sure you want to buy a manual? I thought you wanted automatic, not a stick like the Subaru.”

“I'll be fine, Dad,” she tried to quickly dismiss whatever doubts he had.

Greta was so nervous I could hear her deep breathing next to me. At one point, she reached over and grabbed my arm just to release some tension. None of us dared speak.

“I've got a check right here.” Dad reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his billfold, and began scribbling the price of the car. He held it out to Edna, then hesitated. “I can assume the heat works? It's freezing out here.”

“You think my son's a damn fool? 'Course the heat works! This is Pennsylvania!” Edna snapped the check from Dad's grip and handed him a key attached to a fuchsia-dyed rabbit's foot.

“The luck is complimentary,” Edna winked at Greta, turned on her heels, and retreated back into her house. The screen door banged loudly.

The deal was done. Dad walked over to his older daughter and held the keys in front of her, smiling. “Merry Christmas, Greta.”

“C'mon Louisa!” Greta shrieked.

We climbed onto the front bench seat together, giggling. It smelled like cherries. We drove out of the driveway, waving out the window to Dad and Rosemary, who stood holding hands in our dust.

Monday morning, before sunup, I sat happily at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats, knowing that gorgeous green car sat outside. And knowing that most college campuses don't allow freshmen to have cars meant that gorgeous green car would soon belong to me when Greta left for school next fall. I even convinced Greta we should christen it “The Thing.” She obliged happily but refused to let me smash a bottle of root beer on its grill in celebration.

I heard footsteps in the hall and looked expectantly at the doorway for Dad. He greeted me with a smile and a yawn, still in his favorite pajamas: a UNC sweatshirt and shorts.

“Morning, kiddo. Are you ready? Want some coffee to go?” He held up a travel mug to me.

“No, that's okay. I'm kind of nervous.” It was true. I was crazy-nervous, not sure if winter sports and I mixed well or not.

“Don't be nervous. We're Swedes. We're practically made of snow!” Dad laughed. I gave him a halfhearted chuckle. “Your Grandpa once did the Vasaloppet. Or so the legend goes.”

He pulled out a chair and joined me at the table. I glanced up at the kitchen clock. Gabe would be here in five minutes.

“The Vasa what?”

“The Vasaloppet. It's kind of a big deal in Scandinavia. Ninety kilometers of cross-country skiing. In other words, brutal torture,” he smiled introspectively.

“How many miles in ninety kilometers?” I hated doing math on the fly, but Dad was good at it. He was good at everything.

“Fifty . . . ” He scratched his chin. “Fifty-six? That sounds about right.”

“Fifty-six miles of snow? On skis?”

He laughed at my bewilderment. “Well, that's just what my mom told me. When I was a kid, Mom loved bragging about all of Dad's athletic abilities. He could wander aimlessly in the wilderness and always find his way back. When they were newlyweds he once did a triathlon, and he did the Vasaloppet. Before they met, of course, back when he still lived in Sweden.”

Jeez, Dad. Why didn't you ever tell us this before?
I thought. But I already knew the answer: I wouldn't have cared. Now, I cared with burning intensity.

“What else did Grandma say?” I inquired covertly.

It was good to hear him opening up again. There was still so much I had to figure out. It hurt my head thinking about it. But before he could answer, there was a soft tap on the front door. Gabe had arrived. My questions for Dad would have to wait.

We pulled into the ski resort two hours later. The drive was pleasant: Gabe's mom peppered me with questions about my life in North Carolina, Dad and Greta, and my other interests. I found his mom striking, though completely different from my own mother. She was tall and had wiry, overblown, thick gray hair. She didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and her skin was tough and creased from years of working—and playing—outside. Her eyes were very pale and she looked old, but wise. When she smiled, I felt warm. I imagined she wore Birkenstocks and thick wool socks. She was a grown-up flower child. For the most part, Gabe's dad just drove. Occasionally, he offered a one-liner or made some obscure reference to something I didn't understand, and everyone in the car laughed. They seemed like a very happy family. I was comfortable with them.

“We'll see you kids around four. Gabe, you have the credit card for lunch, right?” Mr. Weaver had just finished unlatching the four pairs of skis from the top of their Subaru—a detail Dad complimented when he shook Gabe's hand in the mudroom before walking out to meet his parents. (“Subaru drivers, huh? Good people.”)

“Yeah, I have it.”

And then the Weavers were gone, off to mingle with other ski friends in the lodge's lounge. Gabe and I walked through the lodge to pick up our lift tickets, affixed them to our jacket zippers, and then laid our skis in the snow, ready to click our boots into place. Gabe showed me how to do everything. He described the concept of “plowing” by angling the skis into a point in front of me, and he explained that veteran skiers did not have to plow. He told me that sometimes the best way to stop was to just fall over. Then he finished the lesson by saying, “Really, Louisa, when you're at the top of the mountain looking down, there's no better feeling. Knowing you're out here,” he stretched out his arms, “on this gorgeous day with good snow . . . there's just no better feeling.” He smiled at me, excited on my behalf.