“Let me see the money,” she said.

I showed her my plastic Star Market grocery sack full of hundreddollar bills. She appeared to have an orgasm, but I wasn’t certain. “I’m serious about buying the car, so if you would ask your husband to call me.” I handed her my card.

She looked at it. “Professor Kitu.”

“My home number is there. I don’t have a mobile phone.”

Mrs. Peterman looked at me with a tilted head. “No cell phone?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have a cell phone.” She looked at my card again. “You’re a math professor?”

“Sort of. I’m in the math department.”

“You must be very smart.”

“I don’t know how to operate a motor vehicle, so not that smart.”

“You want an Alfa Romeo, do you? You fancy classic cars?” she asked, and looked again back into the house.

“Not really,” I told her. “It happened to be the first ad I saw in the newspaper. I simply want a functioning automobile. I wouldn’t know an Alfa Romeo from a … a … a …” I didn’t know another make.

“You know that thing has a manual transmission. And it’s real funky shifting from first to second. There’s a clunk in the clutch. Did my husband tell you that? I’ll bet he didn’t. He’s a crook.”

I shook my head.

“Of course he didn’t. He’s dishonest. That’s why I’m divorcing the son of a bitch. So, you don’t care what kind of car it is?”

“I do not.”

“That’s my BMW right there.” She pointed toward a small, dark blue convertible parked beside bright green Audrey. “It’s got an automatic transmission. It’s much easier to drive and it’s only ten years old as opposed to that forty-year-old piece of Italian bullshit. It has low miles. I drive it to my office and back. That’s it, to Pawtucket and back. I’m like that little old lady from Pasadena. And like my BIPDIP husband, it’s never even been out of the state, not even to Boston.”

“BIPDIP?”

“Born in Providence, died in Providence. We actually honeymooned in Newport. I hate him so much.” She returned her attention to me. “I’ll sell you my car for twenty-five and give you a driving lesson for free.”

“Okay. I need a car.”

“How did you get here?” she asked, as if suddenly thinking of it.

“Bus.”

“We have buses?” She tossed another glance back into the house, listened for movement. “You go wait over there by my car. I’ll be right out. In fact, sit in it. You’ll love the seats.”

I did as she instructed. I didn’t know what was required for a car seat to be comfortable, but I wasn’t uncomfortable. I kept my feet away from the pedals. In very short order Mrs. Peterman was outside with me. She held open the driver’s door and stepped away.

“You need to get out and go to the other side,” she said. I got out. As I was getting back in on the opposite side, she said, “We can’t very well have a lesson here, can we? I know just where to go.”