Ray’s trusty old Austin, with its dusty aroma, was timeworn and elegant, just like a collector’s car. His neighbor claimed an A60 estate wasn’t an estate at all, but Ray knew the man was only jealous. Good luck finding such a handsome rosewood-effect dashboard these days. Even the clock on the dash was a vaunted relic. The Austin was already used when he acquired it all the way back in . . . Good lord. What year was it? Before the twins were born; had to be, of course. After all, Ray had used the Austin to pick up his future wife at the railway station when they were finally reunited. Incredible to think that this vehicle had been part of their lives all that time! How many miles had they racked up in this one car? 224,653, to be exact—make that 224,654 by the time he got to Michel’s place. Not a collector’s car? Ray chuckled. His neighbor was an idiot.
It was impossible for Ray to even glance at the passenger seat without being haunted by his wife’s ghost. He could picture her perfectly, sitting there, twisting herself into knots trying to put on her seat belt. She always had a hard time adjusting the damn thing, and would regularly accuse Ray of having shortened it as a prank, gaslighting her with the idea she had put on weight. In truth, he had pulled the prank two, maybe three times. No more than that. Okay, maybe a little more, come to think of it.
Ray had even often thought it would be nice to be buried in the Austin. But then he thought about how much room it would take up—that wouldn’t be very eco-friendly . . .
After pulling up in front of Michel’s place and honking the horn a couple of times, Ray cut the engine and gazed through the window at the faces of the passersby on the shimmering pavement outside. Complain all you want about the English rain, Ray knew of no other country as green as his homeland.
A passing older couple caught Ray’s attention, the husband clearly not big on smiling, much less laughing. If there was a god, this guy would have lost his wife, not Ray. The world certainly was one messed-up place. Good lord. Why did it take Michel so long to get out of the door? Of course, Ray knew why. Michel first had to check that everything was in its right place, verify that the gas wasn’t on (even if he hadn’t used the cooker in ages), double-check that all lights were off (except the one in his bedroom, which was kept on at all times), and make sure the fridge was closed. Speaking of the kitchen, the sink was in rough shape. Ray thought he would come over and replace it one day soon while Michel was at work; he’d be sure not to tell his son a thing until the repair had been completed.
When Michel at last emerged, Ray opened the door for him, and his son slid into the passenger seat. After a quick hug, Michel put on his seat belt and folded his hands snugly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the road as Ray started the car. A full two traffic lights later, the young man finally spoke.
“I’m very happy that we’re going to have dinner together, but it’s quite strange that the setting is Maggie’s flat.”
“And what’s so strange about that, my boy?” Ray asked.
“Maggie doesn’t cook. Therefore, it’s strange.”
“As I understand it, she’s going to order pizza. It’ll be a proper party.”
“Ah. Well, that factor does make it less odd . . . but still odd, nonetheless,” Michel declared, his gaze drawn to a lovely young woman crossing the street.
“Not bad!” Ray whistled.
“Granted. She is a bit out of proportion, strictly speaking,” Michel muttered.
“You kidding me? She’s gorgeous!”
“The average height for a female as of 2016 is five foot six. That woman is at least six foot one, well above average, with particularly elongated lower extremities.”
“Whatever you say, old man. But if I were your age, I’d probably appreciate those type of proportions.”
“As a matter of fact, I tend to prefer women who are . . . well . . .”
“Shorter?”
“Yes, well put. Shorter.”
“Well, whatever floats your boat, son.”
“I don’t quite see what flotation has to do with it.”
“It’s an expression, Michel. It means ‘to each his own.’ When it comes to women, everyone has different preferences.”
“Ah, yes. That seems like a logical conclusion to me. The initial expression didn’t make any sense at all, but the second is something of which I have seen proof.”
As the Austin moved into heavier traffic, typically fine English rain began to fall. The asphalt was shimmery and slick within minutes.
“My personal theory is that I think your sister is going to announce she’s getting married.”
“Which sister? I have two.”
“Maggie, I think.”
“Ah. And what makes you think that?”
“Call it fatherly instinct. Like a sixth sense. And, Michel? I tell you this now for a specific reason. I need you to understand this is good news, so when she makes the announcement, you know that the right response would be to show her that you are happy to hear it.”
“Ah. Why is that?”
“Because if you don’t, it’ll make your sister sad. When people tell you something they’re happy about, they expect you to share and demonstrate that happiness in return.”
“Ah. But why is that?”
“Because it’s one way for you to show them you love them.”
“I understand. And getting married is good news?”
“Well, my boy, that is a complicated question. But generally speaking, yes.”
“And will her future husband be in attendance?”
“Maybe. You really never can tell, with your sister.”
“Which sister? I have two.”
“I’m well aware, Michel. After all, I am the one who brought your two sisters into being—and your mother helped, I suppose.”
“And Mum will not be in attendance.”
“No, my boy. Your mother will not be there. And you know why.”
“Yes, I do know why. It’s because she is dead.”