2

Trigo and I walked home. I made us some chow, human and pup, and we sat in the dining room and watched students stroll and pedal by. I told Trigo again about the newfound money. He was not one to be easily impressed, but he admitted that we had come onto a tidy sum and then he suggested that we might need a car. He told me that our new job with Sill would no doubt require some travel and since he refused to fly, a car seemed reasonable. I could not argue with him, he’s a dog, so I agreed, pointing out that I had never driven an automobile. How could it be, he barked, then added that I would need a driver’s license.

Turns out one needs a car to take the driver’s test. Turns out one needs a driver’s license to rent a car. So, I decided to buy one. There is no law that states that you must have a license to buy a car, though driving it away from the dealership is met with frowns. I therefore sought out a used car from a private seller. Cars for sale in the newspaper were listed alphabetically by brand and I found myself in a driveway in Cranston looking at a 1970 Alfa Romeo GTV. None of that meant anything to me, but it obviously did to the fifty-year-old golf-shirted WASP who was eager to get, as he put it, a fair price, a fair price for a vehicle that he referred to on the phone as his baby.

“I know it’s a bright color,” the owner said. “It’s chartreuse.”

“Actually, it’s arctic lime, maybe peridot.”

“Okay,” he said.

His name was Kenneth Peterman and he wore kelly-green trousers and the aforementioned too-tight powder-blue golf shirt with an upturned collar. He smiled easily and constantly. “Here, sit behind the wheel. Feel that leather. Get out for a second and let me start her up for you.” He fell in behind the wheel and cranked the engine, letting out a noise himself as the motor turned over. “Listen to that.”

“There’s some—”

“No, listen to that for a second.”

I nodded, listened.

“That’s like music.”

“How much?” I asked.

Peterman looked at me as if offended.

“Does she have a name?” I asked.

This question relaxed him. “I call her Audrey. My wife hates her.” Peterman stared through the windshield. “She hates her, but she wants her. Everyone wants Audrey.”

I let my unspoken question hang in the air.

“Divorce,” he said. “Avoid it if you can.”

“I’m not married.”

“A very good first step.”

I appreciated his rudimentary logic, but still I wanted to know what he expected for the car.

“Can you believe she would take her just to be spiteful? Shrew.”

“No, I can’t,” I said. “Just how spiteful would that be? I mean, in dollars.”

“She won’t even drive it. She won’t even sell it. She’ll give it away as junk, to some lame charity that helps poor children, for a tax deduction. You’ve heard those damn kids singing on the radio. Annoying as hell.”