She started the car. The engine was much less loud than Audrey’s and I wondered if that was a good thing. She zipped out of the driveway and down the suburban lane faster than I knew the rules of the road suggested or allowed. After a couple of turns and a few miles, she rolled us into the uneven puddle-marked parking lot of a defunct shopping center. One store remained open on the end far from us; three or four cars and a pickup were diagonally parked in front of it.

“Have you ever tried to drive before?” she asked.

“Never.”

“How is that possible?”

I shrugged.

“No cell phone. You can’t drive. How do you get along?”

“I manage.”

She stopped and pushed the gear lever forward. “That’s park. Never get out of the car unless you have put it in park.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“Park.”

“No, the whole thing,” she said. “Never get out of the car until it is in park. P.”

“Never get out of the car until it is in park. P.”

She switched off the engine. “All right, let’s trade seats.”

We did. I put my hands on the wheel and tried to relax.

“Buckle up. Put your right foot on the pedal on the left, that’s the brake, and turn the key.” The motor started. “So, what did you think of my husband?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Did you hate him?”

“I guess not.”

“Too bad. He’s a real prick. Keep your foot on that pedal, that’s the brake, and move the gear shift”—she touched it—“down to D for drive.”

“What’s the R for?” I asked.

“Reverse.”

“Can’t one drive in reverse?”

“I suppose.”

“Then should the D actually be an F for forward?”

She stared at me. “You might have a point, but put it down to D. Now, take your foot off the brake and move it to the pedal on the right.”

I did and we took off like a shot. Mrs. Peterman screamed. “Stop!”

“How?”

“Step on the brake!”

She peeled herself off the dash and glared at me. “When you step on the gas, do it gently, softly, slowly. Okay? All right, let’s try it again. Gently. Treat it like you would a woman.”

“I would never step on a woman.”

“That’s not what I mean. Touch it like you would touch a woman.”

“I’ve never touched a woman.”

Mrs. Peterman laughed. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five years, three months, and seventeen days.”

“No hours and minutes?”

“Six hours and around twenty minutes.”

“Very funny. You’re hilarious.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at me for a few seconds. “Okay, let’s try this again. Slowly onto the gas pedal, barely touch it.” We moved slowly forward. “Good. Press it a little more. Look at the numbers in the middle. You’re going fifteen miles per hour. Turn the wheel to the left to go left, right to go right. Simple, right? Try turning.” I turned the car to the right and headed straight toward a light pole. “Watch out for the pole. Watch the pole! The pole! Brake!”