Learning to Drive by William Norwich

Author:William Norwich
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic

TWENTY-ONE

• • •

It was popular in the late 1970s, especially among such industries of self-actualization as est and Lifespring, to say God was a large, black lady.

“God is a large, black lady,” someone from some New Age think tank would say on some talk show, or in some magazine article, and you were meant to titter with amusement at this flying in the face of convention.

Hector drove us off the Belt Parkway; we rumbled into a neighborhood in Queens. There were narrow, two-way streets, pizza parlors, laundromats, redbrick, multifamily houses the color of matchtops; Hector ran through stop lights unstopped.

“Faggot, you bother me,” he spit, fumbling with the radio dial when the reception went fuzzy.

We sped down roads; pedestrians jumped out of our way. In the distance was a large, black elderly lady slowly crossing the street. Unbridled, Hector sped toward her.

I hoped, I prayed she would get out of our way.

She wore the jauntiest of red hats, a turquoise car coat, a paisley dress; she carried two sacks of groceries.

“Be careful!”

“Fuck you, faggot,” Hector hissed.

“You're going to hit her!”

“What the fuck is your problem, faggot – shut up!” Hector yelled and slammed his fist against my head.

Hector hit the brakes; on impact the large, black lady rose slow-motion and fairylike – she smiled this forgiving smile – from the street. The turquoise car coat spread across the window like wings; she tumbled on the hood of the driving school Dodge. Her head hit hardball hard; the windshield fractured into a spiderweb of shattered glass.

Blood washed from her face. Blood bathed the car.

She clutched her grocery bags; a loaf of Wonder Bread lodged under her chin.

Her eyes – the look of someone saddened by a surprise – locked on us through the splintered glass.

Blood ran down her face; Hectors daughter screamed.

The woman's eyes froze on us.

Hector's lip was cut when his head hit the steering wheel. He spit out a mouthful of blood. He rubbed his eyes; his daughter covered hers. Hector spit more blood. He rang the car horn hoping that might get the woman off the hood of the Dodge.

The lady's jaunty red hat, saturated in blood, soaked purple and dripped to the ground.

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