Wheels

  “We figured this is where the action is,” Brett said. “Don’t disappoint us.”

  Rowena asked, “What kind do you have in mind?”

  “You know us auto people. We’ve only two interests—business and sex.”

  The judge smiled. “It’s early. Perhaps we should take business first.” He addressed Adam. “A while ago you were talking about company annual meetings. I liked what you said—that people, even with a single share, should be listened to.”

  Frazon, the engineer, as if rising to a bait, put down his knife and fork. “Well, I didn’t. I don’t agree with Adam, and there are plenty more who feel the way I do.”

  “I know,” the judge said. “I saw you react. Won’t you tell us why?”

  Frazon considered, frowning. “All right. What the loudmouth one-share people want, including consumer groups and the so-called corporate responsibility committee, is to create disruption, and they do it by distortion, lies, and insult. Remember the General Motors annual meeting, when the Nader gang called everybody in the industry ‘corporate criminals,’ then talked about our ‘disregard for law and justice,’ and said we were part of ‘a corporate crime wave dwarfing street crime by comparison’? How are we supposed to feel when we hear that? Grateful? How are we supposed to take clowns who mouth that kind of claptrap? Seriously?”

  “Say!” Brett DeLosanto interjected. “You engineering guys were listening. We thought the only thing you ever heard was motor noises.”

  “They heard, all right,” Adam said. “We all heard—those in General Motors, the other companies too. But what a lot of industry people missed was that the very words just quoted”—he motioned toward Frazon—“were intended to anger and inflame and prevent a reasonable response. The protesting crowd didn’t want the auto industry to be reasonable; if it had, we’d have cut the ground from under them. And what they planned, worked. Our people fell for it.”

  The judge prompted, “Then you see invective as a tactic.”

  “Of course. It’s the language of our times, and the kids who use it—bright young lawyers mostly—know exactly what it does to old men in board rooms. It curls their hair, raises their blood pressure, makes them rigid and unyielding. The chairmen and directors in our industry were reared on politeness; in their heyday, even when you knifed a competitor, you said ‘excuse me.’ But not any more. Now the dialogue is harsh and snarly, and points are scored by overstatement, so if you’re listening—and smart—you underreact and keep cool. Most of our top people haven’t learned that yet.”

  “I haven’t learned it, and don’t intend to,” Frazon said. “I’ll stick with decent manners.”

  Brett quipped, “There speaks an engineer, the ultimate conservative!”

  “Adam’s an engineer,” Frazon pointed out. “Trouble is, he’s spent too much time around designers.”

  The group at the table laughed.

  Looking at Adam, Frazon said, “Surely you’re not suggesting we should go along with what the militants at annual meetings want—consumer reps on boards of directors, all the rest?”

  Adam answered quietly, “Why not? It could show we’re willing to be flexible, and might be worth a try. Put somebody on a board—or on a jury—they’re apt to take it seriously, not be just a maverick. We might even end up learning something. Besides, it will happen eventually and we’d be better off if we made it happen now instead of being forced into it later.”

  Brett asked, “Judge, what’s your verdict now you’ve heard both sides?”

  “Excuse me.” The judge put a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. “For a moment I thought I was in court.” He shook his head in mock solemnity. “Sorry. I never hand down opinions on weekends.”

  “Nor should anyone,” Rowena declared. She touched Adam’s hand, letting her fingers travel lightly over his. When he turned toward her, she said softly, “Will you take me swimming?”

  The two of them took a boat from the floating dock—one of Hank Kreisel’s with an outboard which Adam used to propel them, unhurriedly, four miles or so toward the lake’s eastern shore. Then, within sight of a beach with towering leafy trees behind, he cut the motor and they drifted on the blue translucent water. A few other boats, not many, came into sight and went away. It was midafternoon. The sun was high, the air drowsy. Before they left, Rowena had changed into a swimsuit; it was leopard patterned and what it revealed of her figure, as well as the soft, silken blackness of her skin, more than fulfilled the promise of the linen dress she had had on earlier. Adam was in trunks. When they stopped, he lighted cigarettes for them both. They sat beside each other on the cushions of the boat.

  “Um,” Rowena said. “This is nice.” Her head was back, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun and lake. Her lips were parted.

  He blew a smoke ring lazily. “It’s called getting away from it all.” His voice, for some reason, was unsteady.

  She said softly, with sudden seriousness, “I know. It doesn’t happen often. And it never lasts.”

  Adam turned. Instinct told him that if he reached for her she would respond. But for seconds of uncertainty he hesitated.

  As if reading his mind, Rowena laughed lightly. She dropped her cigarette into the water. “We came to swim, remember?”

  With a swift, single movement she rose and dived over the side. He had an impression of her lithe dark body, straight-limbed and like an arrow. Then, with a whipcrack sound and splash, she was out of sight. The boat rocked gently.

  Adam hesitated again, then dived in too. After the sun’s heat, the fresh lake water struck icily cold. He came up with a gasp, shivering, and looked around.

  “Hey! Over here!” Rowena was still laughing. She bobbed under the surface, then re-emerged, water streaming down her face and hair. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “When I get my circulation back, I’ll tell you.”

  “Your blood needs heating, Adam. I’m going ashore. Coming?”

  “I guess so. But we can’t leave Hank’s boat to drift.”

  “Then bring it.” Already swimming strongly toward the beach, Rowena called back, “That’s if you’re afraid of being marooned with me.”

  More slowly, towing the boat, Adam followed. Ashore, and welcoming the sun’s warmth again, he beached the boat, then joined Rowena who was lying on the sand, her hands behind her head. Beyond the beach, sheltered in trees, was a cottage, but shuttered and deserted.

  “Since you brought it up,” Adam said, “at this moment I can’t think of anyone I’d sooner be marooned with.” He, too, stretched out on the sand, aware of being more relaxed than he had felt in months.

  “You don’t know me.”

  “You’ve aroused certain instincts.” He propped himself on an elbow, confirming that the girl beside him was as breathtakingly lovely as she had seemed when he met her several hours ago, then added, “One of them is curiosity.”

  “I’m just someone you met at a party; one of Hank Kreisel’s weekend parties where he employs hostesses. And in case you’re wondering, that’s all he employs us for. Were you wondering?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave the soft laugh he had grown used to. “I knew you were. The difference between you and most men is that the others would have lied and said ‘no.’”

  “And the rest of the week, when there aren’t parties?”

  “I’m a high school teacher.” Rowena stopped. “Damn! I didn’t mean to tell you that.”

  “Then we’ll even the score,” Adam said. “There was something I didn’t intend to tell you.”

  “Which is?”

  He assured her softly, “For the first time in my life I know, really know, what it means when they say ‘Black is Beautiful.’”

  In the silence which followed, he wondered if he had offended her. He could hear the lapping of the lake, a hum of insects, an outboard motor in the distance. Rowena said nothing. Then, without warning, she leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips.

  Before he could
respond she sprang up, and ran down the beach toward the lake. From the water’s edge she called back, “Hank said you had the reputation of being a sweet man when he told me to take special care of you. Now let’s go back.”

  In the boat, heading for the west shore, he asked, “What else did Hank say?”

  Rowena considered. “Well, he told me you’d be the most important person here, and that one day you’ll be right at the top of your company.”

  This time, Adam laughed.

  He was still curious, though, about Kreisel and his motives.

  Sunset came, the party at the cottage continuing—and livening—as the hours passed. Before the sun disappeared, at last, behind a squad of white birches like silhouetted sentinels, the lake was alive with color. A breeze stirred its surface, bearing fresh, pine-scented air. Dusk eased in, then darkness. As stars came out, the night air cooled and the party drifted from the sun deck to indoors where, in the great rock fireplace, heaped brush and logs were blazing.

  Hank Kreisel, an affable, attentive host, seemed everywhere, as he had throughout the day. Two bars and the kitchen were staffed and bustling; what Kreisel had said earlier about drinks and food available twenty-four hours each day seemed true. In the spacious, hunting lodge-style living room the party split into groups, some overlapping. A cluster around Pierre Flodenhale fired auto racing questions. “… say a race is won or lost in the pits. Is that your experience?” … “Yes, but a driver’s planning does it too. Before the race you plan how you’ll run it, lap by lap. In the race you plan the next lap, changing the first plan …” The network TV personality, who had been diffident earlier, had blossomed and was doing a skillful imitation of the U. S. President, supposedly on television with a car maker and an environmentalist, trying to appease both. “Pollution, with all its faults, is part of our great American know-how … My scientific advisers assure me cars are polluting less than they used—at least, they would if there weren’t more cars.” (Cough, cough, cough!) … “I pledge we’ll have clean air again in this country. Administration policy is to pipe it to every home …” Among those listening, one or two looked sour, but most laughed.

  Some of the girls, including Stella and Elsie, moved from group to group. Rowena stayed close to Adam.

  Gradually, as midnight came and went, the numbers thinned. Guests yawned, stretched tiredly, and soon after climbed the stone stairway at the fireplace, some calling down goodnights from the gallery to the holdouts who remained below. One or two exited by the sun deck, presumably reaching their rooms by the alternate route which Hank Kreisel had showed to Adam earlier. Eventually, Kreisel himself—carrying a sourmash Bourbon—went upstairs. Soon after, Adam noticed, Elsie disappeared. So did Brett DeLosanto and the redhead, Stella, who had spent the last hour close together.

  In the great hearth the fire was burning down to embers. Apart from Adam and Rowena, both on a sofa near the fireplace, only one group remained at the room’s opposite end, still drinking, noisy, and obviously with the intention of staying for a long time.

  “A nightcap?” Adam asked.

  Rowena shook her head. Her last drink—a mild Scotch and water-had lasted her an hour. Through the evening they had talked, mostly about Adam, though not by his choice but because Rowena adroitly parried questions about herself. But he had learned that her teaching specialty was English, which she admitted after laughingly quoting Cervantes: “My memory is so bad, that many times I forget my own name.”

  Now he stood up. “Let’s go outside.”

  “All right.”

  As they left, no one in the other group glanced their way.

  The moon had risen. The night was cold and clear. Moonbeams shimmered on the surface of the lake. He felt Rowena shiver, and put an arm around her.

  “Almost everyone,” Adam said, “seems to have gone to bed.”

  Again Rowena’s gentle laugh. “I saw you noticing.”

  He turned her to him, tilted her head, and kissed her. “Let’s us.”

  Their lips met again. He felt her arms around him tighten.

  She whispered, “What I said was true. This isn’t in the contract.”

  “I know.”

  “A girl can make her own arrangements here, but Hank sees to it she doesn’t have to.” She snuggled closer. “Hank would want you to know that. He cares what you think about him.”

  “At this moment,” he whispered back, “I’m not thinking of Hank at all.”

  They entered Adam’s bedroom from the outside walkway—the route he had used this morning on arrival. Inside, the room was warm. Someone, thoughtfully, had been in to light the fire; now, tongues of flame cast light and shadows on the ceiling. The coverlet was off the double bed, with sheets turned back.

  In front of the fire, Adam and Rowena slipped out of what they were wearing. Soon after, he led her to the bed.

  He had expected tenderness. He found, instead, a savagery in Rowena which at first amazed, soon after excited and, before long, inflamed him, too. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the wild, tempestuous passion she unleashed. For both of them, it lasted—with gaps which human limits demanded—through the night.

  Near dawn she inquired mischievously, “Do you still think black is beautiful?”

  He told her, and meant it, “More than ever.”

  They had been lying, quietly, side by side. Now Rowena propped herself up and looked at him. She was smiling. “And for a honky, you’re not bad.”

  As he had yesterday afternoon, he lit two cigarettes and gave her one. After a while she said, “I guess black is beautiful, the way they say. But then I guess everything’s beautiful if you look at it on the right kind of day.”

  “Is this that kind of day?”

  “You know what I’d say today? Today, I’d say ‘ugly is beautiful’!”

  It was getting light. Adam said, “I want to see you again. How do we manage it?”

  For the first time, Rowena’s voice was sharp. “We don’t, and both of us know it.” When he protested, she put a finger across his lips. “We haven’t lied to each other. Don’t let’s begin.”

  He knew she was right, that what had begun here would end here. Detroit was neither Paris nor London, nor even New York. At heart, Detroit was a small town still, beginning to tolerate more than it used to, but he could not have Detroit and Rowena—on any terms. The thought saddened him. It continued to, through the day, and as he left Higgins Lake for the return journey southward late that afternoon.

  When he thanked his host before leaving, Hank Kreisel said, “Haven’t talked much, Adam. Wish we’d had more chance. Mind if I call you next week?”

  He assured Kreisel that he could.

  Rowena, to whom Adam had said goodbye privately, behind two locked doors an hour earlier, was not in sight.

  16

  “Oh, Christ!” Adam said. “I forgot to phone my wife.” He remembered, guiltily, intending since Saturday morning to call Erica and patch up the quarrel they had had before he left. Now it was Sunday evening and he still hadn’t. In the meantime, of course, there had been Rowena, who eclipsed less immediate matters, and Adam had an unease, too, about facing Erica after that.

  “Shall we turn off and find a pay phone?” Pierre Flodenhale asked. They were on Interstate 75, southbound, near the outskirts of Flint, and Pierre was driving Adam’s car, as he had been since leaving the Higgins Lake cottage. The young race driver had come to the cottage with someone else who left early, and Adam had been glad to offer him a ride, as well as to have company on the way back to Detroit. Moreover, when Pierre offered to drive, Adam accepted gratefully and had dozed through the early part of the journey.

  Now it was growing dark. Their headlights were among many slicing homeward from the country to the city.

  “No,” Adam said. “If we stop, it will waste time. Let’s keep going.”

  He put out a hand tentatively to the Citizens Band radio beneath the instrument panel. They would be coming within range of
Greater Detroit soon, and it was possible that Erica might have switched on the kitchen receiver, as she did on weekdays. Then he let his hand drop, deciding not to call. He was increasingly nervous, he realized, about talking with Erica, a nervousness which increased a half hour later as they passed Bloomfleld Hills, then, soon after, left the freeway and turned west toward Quarton Lake.

  He had intended to let Pierre, who lived in Dearborn, take the car on directly after dropping him off. Instead, Adam invited Pierre in and was relieved when he accepted. At least, Adam thought, he would have the foil of a stranger for a while before having to face Erica alone.

  He need not have worried.

  As the car crunched to a halt on the driveway gravel of the Trentons’ house, lights went on, the front door opened, and Erica came out to greet Adam warmly.

  “Welcome, darling! I missed you.” She kissed him, and he knew it was her way of showing that Saturday’s incident was over and need not be mentioned again.

  What Adam did not know was that part of Erica’s good spirits stemmed from a dress watch which she was wearing, the watch acquired during a further shoplifting adventure while he had been away.

  Pierre Flodenhale climbed out from behind the wheel. Adam introduced him.

  Erica gave her most dazzling smile. “I’ve seen you race.” She added, “If I’d known you were driving Adam home, though, I might have been nervous.”

  “He’s a lot slower than I am,” Adam said. “Didn’t break the speed limit once.”

  “How dull! I hope the party was livelier.”

  “Not all that much, Mrs. Trenton. Compared with some I’ve been at, it was quiet. Gets that way, I guess, when you only have men.”

  Don’t push it, pal! Adam wanted to caution. He saw Erica glance at Pierre shrewdly, and suspected the young race driver was not used to the company of highly intelligent, perceptive women. Pierre was clearly impressed with Erica, though, who looked young and beautiful in silk Pucci pajamas, her long ash-blond hair falling around her shoulders.