The Immigrant’s Daughter Read Free Page B

sued!”
    â€œThe hell with that,” Sam said. “Once more around.”
    â€œI feel a bit strange,” Barbara said. “I have to get out of the sun, Sam.”
    They made an odd group, standing at the side of the road and drinking champagne. Behind them, a billboard proclaimed the merits of Toyotas. Barbara sank into the back seat of the car gratefully. It was hot in the car, but not so hot as out there in the sun. A motorcycle cop pulled up and they offered him champagne. He grinned and shook his head. Probably, Barbara thought, he’d heard about the accident. Sam was a hero. He was questioning them, and writing down the answers on his pad.
    The motorcycle cop took off, and Sam opened another bottle of champagne. Their little group was only twenty paces or so away from the car, but through the closed window it appeared to Barbara that she was in one world and they were in another world. It was chokingly hot in the car, parked as it was on the roadside under the noonday sun, but Barbara made no move to open a window or to turn on the motor and use the air conditioning. She was thinking about the driver, and how death could be so summarily dismissed. This was another aspect of her son: death comes, life goes on; and if death comes to someone whose name is not known, a stranger who dies driving a school bus, well, you take a glass of champagne. Sam was open-minded; no sense of the black man being black. The driver of the school bus had had his chest stove in against the wheel and his skull fractured as it crashed against the windshield. Was he married? Did he have children? Did he have life insurance? Was she, Barbara, weeping for him, for herself or for Boyd?
    The black man had gone to his car and brought out his trumpet case, and now he took out his shining instrument, put it to his mouth and blew several fanfares into the California air. More champagne. The three of them embraced and then Harvey Lemwax put his trumpet back in its case, took it to his car, came to say goodbye to Barbara, started, stopped when he saw her tears, shook his head and then walked to his car and drove off.
    Sam came to the car and threw open the door. “My God, it’s so hot in here, Mother, you could choke. Why on earth are you crying?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWe finished two bottles of that elixir. Carla and I are both sloshed, so you’d better drive. Are you all right? I mean, are you settled enough to drive?”
    â€œOf course,” Barbara snapped at him. “I had one small sip of champagne.”
    â€œI didn’t mean —”
    â€œI know what you meant — oh, Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to get so upset and scream at you. That isn’t my style, is it? Of course I’ll drive.”
    â€œAbout that silly little act we put on? We’re not heartless, Mother, but if you bleed for everything — well, how much blood does one have?”
    â€œI know.”
    Carla was silent. Barbara stepped out of the car and into the driver’s seat. Sam held open the back seat door for Carla, but Carla said, “No, I’d like to sit in front with Barbara.”
    â€œSure.”
    Barbara just glanced at Carla. A few moments after the car began to move, Carla reached out tentatively and touched Barbara’s arm. Then Carla burst into tears. Barbara slowed the car and took it off the road onto the shoulder.
    â€œWhat in hell is this all about?” Sam wanted to know.
    â€œSam, please shut up,” Barbara said. She got out of the car, walked around and opened the door on Carla’s side. Carla came out of the car into Barbara’s arms, and embracing her, holding her soft, warm body against her own breast, Barbara understood that this was something women could do, a kind of human contact that men had lost long, long ago.
    â€œI only wanted you to love me,” Carla whimpered.
    â€œI know. I do, truly.”
    Back in the car, Barbara