The Triumph

“Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day. Why don’t we take Old Mellow out for a drive?”

I stopped cutting my waffle and looked up in surprise at my husband. “That sounds like fun.”

I kept my emotions in check, but inside I was bursting with joy. For the past few months, Brad has been uncharacteristically irritable. Conversations at the dinner table brought only mumbled responses from him. My simple requests for him to take out the trash or help with the dishes drew such ire that I no longer asked.

We used to enjoy watching a little TV after dinner. Now, he leaves the dinner table mumbling to himself, and goes to his garage, presumably to work on his beloved 1972 Triumph Spitfire. I try to wait up for him, but he never returns before I give up and go to sleep.

Once I asked him why he was so irritable, thinking it may be because he hates his job so much. He has been working for the Federal Government for almost 35 years and hating it the past 30 years. Retirement is just a year away. His response was the usual “I’m just tired.”

I could understand that. I was tired too. It seemed we both just worked and never had any fun. Our kids were grown and out of the house, living their own lives. It was just he and I. Most couples would celebrate being empty nesters, but Brad and I trudged through each day. Worse than that, we trudged through each day separately, connecting only at dinner. It’s as if we are strangers.

So, when, on a Saturday morning, my husband suggests taking a ride in the Spitfire, it’s a big deal. That car is the one thing where we find a connection. It is a catalyst for our future. Whenever we ride in that car together, only good times prevail.

We finished breakfast and got ready for the ride. I knew Brad would want to put the top down on the car, so I dug out my vintage scarf to wear over my head to keep my hair in place. It was a pink, nylon scarf and made me feel like Joan Fontaine from one of her movies I’d seen when she was riding in a convertible wearing the same kind of scarf.

Brad met me at the door wearing his gray Newsboy driving cap and a big grin.

“I remember that hat,” I said, returning his grin.

He pulled on the brim and inclined his head as if offering a polite “hello”.

“You ready?” he asked.

I placed my scarf over my head and secured the ends around my neck, “Lead the way.”

Brad pushed the button on the garage opener and the door rose to reveal a shiny, yellow car inside. I glanced at Brad and saw the biggest smile I’d seen in months. Besides the wonderful memories riding in that car, I knew he enjoyed driving it.

He bought that car with money he received for his high school graduation along with money he had saved from working at the gas station for three years. The car was five years old when he got it, and had over 80,000 miles on it, but it was his. It was his ticket to freedom.

He called it “Old Mellow” because it was the same color as the Mellow Yellow soft drink. It had a stick shift and a loud engine which made up for the color not being very masculine. Brad never minded the color, saying it was unique which matched his uniqueness. But the coolest thing about the car was its black convertible top which Brad almost always kept down - even in cold weather. As long as the sun was out, the top was down.

We got into the car and Brad slowly backed it out of the garage. I detected a faint scent of perfume. Where had I smelled that before? It wasn’t anything I wore. The scent seemed to get stronger, perhaps because I was so focused on it.

Brad stopped to lower the garage door, and I decided the scent reminded me of Nordstroms. Every time I walked into that store, some woman was approaching me with a bottle of expensive perfume and offering to spritz me.

Suddenly the sun was warming my hair, and I realized Brad and lowered the top. He was frowning at me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged. “You looked deep in thought. I was thinking you were having second thoughts about the drive.”

I laughed. “Oh, no. I’m very much looking forward to the drive and spending the day with you.” I gave him a meaningful look. “It’s been a long time.”

He smiled, then shifted in first gear and we were on our way to the curving roads of the Blue Ridge Parkway without any particular destination. Between the car’s loud engine and the wind blowing in our ears, conversation was impossible, but the smiles on our faces said it all.

When the kids were young, Brad regaled them with stories of the Triumph. How he worked hard and saved money so he could buy it without any help from his parents, and how much fun he had driving around with his buddies. When our son was older, Brad lauded the Triumph a car to attract girls which motivated our son to get a job and buy his own car. It was never Brad's intention to give our son the Triumph.

I knew this car had different memories for Brad than for me. I’m sure there were other girls he put his arm around and pulled close to him as he drove. He might have even taken them to a drive-in movie with the top down on a warm summer’s night.

Our first date was in this car. Literally. We had intended to go to a movie, but the car broke down and we ended up sitting in the car for several hours talking before the tow truck arrived. It was the best first date I ever had.

We took our first trip together in this car. Feeling stressed from our college academics, we decided to get away for the weekend in the Shenandoah mountains. It was mid October and the leaves were brilliant hues. We stayed in a cheap, but clean, hotel. It was our first night together.

This was the car that was decorated with shaving cream, streamers and tin cans as we drove away from the church after getting married. Brad was so certain our friends were following us; he took several detours getting to his house. Other drivers honked as they passed us. We lost a couple of the tin cans and streamers along the way only to find out no one was there to greet us. We quickly changed, discarded the remaining tin cans and streamers, then drove to the airport for our honeymoon to Hawaii.

Unwilling to sell the car, Brad spent five years and thousands of dollars restoring it. I’m so glad he did.

It was dark when we returned from our drive. The day had been wonderful. We had lunch at a nice restaurant with a mountain view, took in a little hike, then grabbed a burger on the way home. Brad let me out of the car so I could get into the house and turn on the lights while he parked the car in the garage.

It was only eight o’clock so I thought we might enjoy a little TV before retiring for the night, but Brad claimed to not be feeling well and headed on to bed. I was disappointed, but at least we had an enjoyable day together.

I stayed up a little bit longer before taking a shower and crawling into bed. I could hear him softly breathing and an occasional snort. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought, again, about the perfume I smelled in the car. I don’t know why I couldn’t let it go.

A squawking bird woke me up from a fitful sleep. The sun was just starting to rise making objects in the room appear as silhouettes. It seemed eerily quiet. I turned to see if Brad was still in bed. His silhouette lay still. I rose up on my elbows and leaned closer to him. I couldn’t hear him breathing. I touched his arm. It was cold.

“Brad?”

No response.

I nudged him. “Brad?” I asked a little louder.

Nothing.

I shook him. I could feel his cold skin through his t-shirt. Brad was dead.

It turned out Brad wasn’t making excuses for abruptly ending our fun day together. Had he been more specific about how he was feeling, we would have recognized he was having symptoms of a heart attack and gotten him to the ER. I admit I was angry at him for taking our fun day and turning it into a tragic memory. But, as the day passed in a blur of activities, my anger was reduced to bleakness.

The kids were a huge help, but I felt I needed to be emotionally strong for them and it was exhausting. I just wanted closure.

The day of the funeral was as beautiful as the day we took that drive. Brilliant sunshine peeked through trees heavy with green leaves and a fresh mountain breeze caressed our faces as we entered the church. It was a lovely memorial. I found comfort in the preacher’s words and encouragement from friends and family. I even found myself ravished with hunger afterwards since I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in several days. I considered that I might not look very mournful as I gnawed on a chicken wing, but the smiles from the other mourners told me they understood.

Sara, our oldest, approached me. “Hey, mom. If you give me your keys, we can start loading your car with the extra food and take it to the shelter.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I glanced around looking for my purse then realized I left it in the sanctuary.

“Oh, I left my purse in the sanctuary. Let me get it.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Sara said.

“No, that’s okay. I’m not sure where it is. I’ll be back.”

The door to the small sanctuary opened quietly and I saw a woman standing in front of the table which held an arrangement of pictures of Brad and the family. She reached out and picked up one, staring at it for several seconds before placing it back.

Her back was towards me as I walked quietly up to her.

“Hello”, I said.

She jumped and turned around.

“Oh!” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry.” My eyes narrowed as I tried to discern who she was. “Were you a friend of Brad’s? I don’t believe I know you.”

“Uh, yes. We worked together.”

“I see. What’s your name?”

“Sybil.”

I reached into my memory of Brad’s conversations about work. “I don’t recall him mentioning you, yet you seem to be more distraught than I think a coworker would ordinarily be.”

Sybil glanced around the sanctuary. “We were close.”

An uncomfortable silence surrounded us for several seconds.

“Well,” Sybil said. “I have to go. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I continued to stare at her, taking in her youthful face, long dark hair and slender figure. “Thank you,” I said.

She started to walk away, but I reached out to stop her.

“How old are you?” I asked.

She hesitated. I wasn’t sure she was going to answer. After all, why would a stranger ask her such a thing?

“Thirty-five. Why?”

Thirty-five. Just a couple of years older than Sara. I shrugged. “Just seems awfully young to have such a close relationship with a 68 year old coworker.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, then walked away.

I couldn’t help thinking she was sorry for something other than my loss. Then I noticed the faint scent that followed in her wake. The same scent I smelled in the Triumph.

I fell onto the pew sobbing. Suddenly everything was clear: Brad’s irritability, his working late, our drifting apart. He was having an affair.

Sara walked into the church and saw me crying. She sat beside me and wrapped her arm around me, drawing me close.

“It’ll be okay, mom. We’ll get through this.”

I started sobbing even more. If she only knew. Of course, she would never know. Neither would her brother and sister.

A week later, after the visitors stopped coming by and phone calls ceased, I found the remote to the Triumph’s garage and opened it. There “Old Mellow” sat. A faint smell of gas fumes escaped from the open door. I walked up to it and ran my fingers over the shiny hood and canvas black top. A tear rolled down my cheek as I recalled that last drive and all the memories before. Meeting Sybil ruined everything. Brad ruined everything. I can’t look at this car and not think of Brad; and I can’t think of Brad without thinking of his betrayal.

I marched into the house and grabbed my purse, phone and keys. Then I got into the Triumph and screeched out of the driveway. Brad taught me years ago how to drive a stick and I hadn’t forgotten. The Triumph shifted easily as I made my way to the hidden dirt road I’d discovered a month ago while out driving. I turned onto the road unsure if it was someone’s private property, but I didn’t see signs indicating that. I followed the road around a curve and stopped the car. I was far enough off the road to be hidden and there was nothing around me but a field and a copse of trees about 30 yards away.

I opened the glove compartment and gathered everything inside, then shoved it into my purse. I took one last look around the car and almost decided against what I was about to do, but a piece of paper sticking out of my purse drew my attention. I pulled it out and saw Sybil’s name and phone number. I balled it up and threw it on the floor.

Once out of the car, I lifted the hood and cut the fuel line. The smell of gasoline grew strong, and I trembled as I struggled to light a match. The match finally caught, and I dropped it at the back of the car then took off running towards the road. The explosion was louder than I imagined it would be. I kept running and didn’t look back.

Two days later, Sara stopped by for a visit. I was cleaning out Brad’s closet and feeling pleasantly unemotional about it.

“Where’s dad’s car?” Sara asked.

“Sold it,” I said as if daring her to question why.

I was surprised when she came to me and hugged me.

“I’m sorry, mom. I know how much you and dad loved that car.”

I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to keep the tears at bay. My throat tightened as I whispered, “It was just a car.”