Fourth Gear

We were standing there at the open garage bay, studying her car. Cars and trucks were whizzing past on the interstate behind us, just on the other side of the service road. The mechanic wiped his greasy hands on a handkerchief as he glanced at the car's tags. "Your transmission won't make it back to Virginia." He shoved the hood down. The car shuddered. "I can work on it first thing Monday. You'll be on your way home Tuesday."

"We're headed to Montreal," I said.

If it had been my car and a different trip, I would have made some joke, sold the car on the spot, and whipped out my credit card for a rental. I've done crazier things, but it wasn't my car, and it wasn't my show. "What do you think," I said, turning to my friend.

She looked at me, studying my eyes, considering without looking away. It made me nervous. She was a bit intense but kept herself under control as if there could be trouble under there. We didn't know each other that well, just well enough to hope and we both were a little desperate for hope.

The trip had been a crazy spur-of-the-moment idea. My crazy ideas had come to no good end several times, but this time, I wasn't drunk, desperate, or trying to convince myself I found a dream. I had said, not entirely seriously, "I'd love to show you Montreal; it's a place I love," but I may have said, "Let's take a break from the stress of life and go to Montreal for the weekend."

She hesitated only for a minute, then smiled. "Ok." We kept surprising each other like that.

My children were with their mother for the weekend. After we dropped off her son, we threaded our way onto I-81. We told people at work nothing. Well, I told them I was headed to Richmond for the weekend, and she said something like that, but on the opposite side of the state.

As we drove, we talked about the things that hadn't worked out in our lives, what we wished we had done, our weaknesses, and how we needed to be careful. We knew what mistakes looked like, our mistakes, and our choices.

It was still early, but we were settling into the trip. Her transmission was noisy, and I said something when we reached Hagerstown, Maryland.

Once in Pennsylvania, we pulled in for gas. After a gas and bathroom break, we were back in the car. I started the engine and tried to slip the shift into reverse, but I hit a grinding wall. The shift wouldn't budge. Reverse was gone.

"We'll have to have someone look at that," I said as if it weren't important—and it wasn't because we were having one of those great conversations.

We bought coffee in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and started out, but there was no first gear. The car easily started off in second and we kept talking until we couldn't hear each other over the roar. We pulled into the transmission shop on the outskirts of Binghamton, New York.

The mechanic smiled. "You might make it to Montreal but not back to Virginia. That transmission is gone."

A car whizzed by, then another, then silence. It wouldn't have crossed his mind we wanted to keep going, but for us, the worst had happened. Monday morning, we wouldn't show up at work, and by lunch, people would know. It didn't take rocket science to figure out something was up if we both called, saying we might be back in the office on Wednesday. There had been rumors. People noticed me hanging around her office, going on about my children, divorce, and the crap of life.

I learned about big plans from my father. He kept trying to make life work. My mother had no part in that and started in on him right away. She accused him of orchestrating various plots or being a Russian agent. My mother wasn't exactly normal. My father usually poured a couple of bourbons for himself. Later, he would find me in my bedroom. He always started out, "Everything will be alright in the morning." Then he read me some story about some kid overcoming impossible obstacles. He was such an optimist. He should have told me the truth. Some things are just broken. In spite of all that had gone wrong, I had my own irrational hope.

This history was playing in my head. We studied each other. Because of the kids, I was scared. I knew what families did to children, what I had already done to mine. We were both risking a lot.

I finally had to say something. "We could find a motel and make the best of it." This is where I paused. I didn't want it to settle for so little, yet I didn't want the same old thing, struggling to keep a big adventure on course.

I added, "We could stay here or try for Montreal, go for broke, and hope we can fix the transmission there. If we try, there's a distinct possibility we'll end up broken down in the middle of nowhere."

I didn't have my usual confidence, so I glanced at the mechanic. At first, he looked puzzled, and then a sliver of smile eased into the corners of his eyes.

She touched her car. "Montreal, of course, and if it doesn't work, you and I will make new plans."

The mechanic wished us well. "Montreal is possible. Good luck."

Hours later, almost deaf from the noise, we arrived to rush hour traffic. Boulevard de Maisonneuve was packed cheek to jowl with cars and trucks, hot and chaotic. Our car's agony drowned out everything. Cars passed, and people turned our way, studying the couple in the roaring car. We had their pity, but we tried to appear nonchalant, even smiled. The transmission screamed, hanging on to fourth gear, our last gear, our last hope, but we were in Montreal, and that was all that mattered.