The Paris Review Daily

Fiction

Green Car, Nightfall

November 14, 2011 | by

Photograph by Boosbob50.

One day when my father’s car overheated down in Chula Vista, he came home with beans in a can the size of an oil drum. “This is what the real Mexicans eat,” he announced. That sounded suspicious. We ate beans our mom cooked on the stove and supposed real Mexicans did the same. We gathered skeptically as my dad opened the can. “Look at these beans!” he beamed. He was ready to dig in without even heating them up. We stared into the murky depths. Nobody else wanted to try them.

One day as we headed north on Interstate 5, a radiator hose burst right by the big, hollow globe, tilting on its axis in El Toro. Two hippies hitchhiking on the on-ramp kept offering us their ten-gallon bottle of water. “Water won’t do it,” my father said. “It’ll run right through.” There was an Episcopal church there across the street, and the priest took us in for the afternoon. It was 103 degrees that day, but cool in the church. My brothers and I walked up and down the adobe halls for hours. We drank chocolate milk from cartons. The hippies and their dog and their baby and their ten-gallon bottle of water got a ride in a Volkswagen heading for Oregon, but we were there in El Toro till nightfall. I don’t know how my father fixed the car.

The day I first saw snow falling from the sky, as we were driving back from Pine Valley in the station wagon that smelled perpetually of vomit, our left rear wheel came off entirely. Luckily my dad had felt it start to wobble, and we were on the off-ramp when the back corner of the car plummeted, and we scraped to a halt on the axle, leaving a long gouge in the road. Down there at sea level in El Cajon, it was raining, and we waited in a gas station. It was the end of the day. A man came into the office with a bundle of money, unscrewed a tile from the floor, reached into the dark space down there, and brought out some sort of canister. He stuffed the money inside, put the canister back in the floor, and screwed the tile back into place on top. When my brother strolled over to take a gander, the gas station man yelled at him to get away. We got to ride home in the tow truck.

In Burbank one smoggy summer, when my grandfather was dying, my mother took us in the Chrysler to the movies to get out of the heat. When we got to the theater, the car wouldn’t turn off. As the motor raced and raced it became clearer and clearer that we would never see the movie. No one at the gas station could turn it off either. We sat in the blasting sun on a red vinyl bench, waiting for my grandfather’s car to run out of gas and my father to come home from the hospital. We stared at the coke machine, where each cold bottle waited in its own icy compartment behind a little glass door.

One summer when we rented a camping trailer and started driving across the desert, the wind blew so hard it shattered all the camper windows. We walked across London Bridge at Lake Havasu, in sun that blazed down on us and back up from the crinkled turquoise of the reservoir. The bridge seemed to go nowhere, just to a small island. We walked back. Then we read in the brochure that even the island was man-made. At the Grand Canyon, the wind whipped our hair across our faces, into our eyes and mouths. We stood at the edge. Our little cat, too young to leave at home, lay in the car’s shadow and panted. She wouldn’t walk under the weight of the miniature harness we’d bought her for the trip. It was so hot we turned back long before we reached Utah, which was where we had wanted to go. On the way home, somewhere in Arizona, we stopped at a gas station to let the engine cool down. It was dusk, and the wind was still blowing hot, and when we got out of the car the whole state stretched out before us like a white bone. We saw a blurry green car approaching on the flat road for a long time. When it pulled into the station, we could see it was one of those cars worse, even, than ours. It was one of those cars filled entirely full of things, full of everything. Pillows. Plates. Pie pans. Blankets. Underwear. A toaster. A squashed box of kleenex. A birdcage for some reason. You don’t like to see someone’s underwear like that. The man got out of the driver’s side and left the door yawning. His pants hung down around his hips. Behind him, the woman slid across the seat and stretched bare legs out the door. She dropped a pair of sandals on the gravel and put her feet on top of them. The man wiped his hand across his moustache, and, without turning around, began to yell at the woman. “You packed it all wrong!” he yelled. “I can’t drive like this! I’m gonna stand here while you take it all out and pack it again!” He had his hands on his hips, and he was yelling out across the hot twilight. The woman seemed not to hear him, or not to think he was talking to her. She lifted her straight blonde hair from her neck.

Once on Christmas Eve, my father fixed a leak in our gas tank with a bar of Ivory soap. There’s something adhesive about soap when it mixes with gasoline. But it has to be Ivory.

We were never allowed to take our shoes off in the car. Wherever we were driving, however long it would take to get there, however hot it was, we always had to wear shoes. You could never know, my father said, where or when you might have to get out and run.

Margaret Weatherford writes and edits on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

30 COMMENTS

26 Comments

  1. Susan Kjellberg | November 14, 2011 at 1:00 pm

    Everything one wants in a story. Beautifully crafted.

  2. Kathy Filatreau | November 14, 2011 at 1:30 pm

    Dear Margaret,

    I laughed, and winced. I’ve seen that desert road, and stood outside that gas station. Chevy Chase has nothing on any of us!

  3. Sean Coughlin | November 14, 2011 at 3:01 pm

    Awesome! Wonderful story!!!

  4. Siobhan O'Riordan | November 14, 2011 at 4:08 pm

    Funny how your memories resemble my own – hot, summers, never-ending waits, singular focus on a cold treat and hair blowing out the window, in my eyes, sweaty on my neck. Thanks for the trip. SAO xoxo

  5. Siobhan O'Riordan | November 14, 2011 at 4:09 pm

    PS – love the tags alone :)

  6. Raymond Ravaglia | November 14, 2011 at 4:24 pm

    Delightful.

  7. Paul Outka | November 14, 2011 at 6:20 pm

    gorgeous, perfect, funny – my thanks for it -

  8. John Weatherford | November 14, 2011 at 6:52 pm

    Thanks for the time tunnel, Marg. I love you.

  9. marty hipsky | November 14, 2011 at 7:51 pm

    I really, really enjoyed this.

  10. Philip J. Ivanhoe | November 14, 2011 at 8:18 pm

    Beautifully crafted, richly evocative. I agree with your father’s sage advice: we never know when we might have to get out and run.

  11. John Berray | November 15, 2011 at 2:00 am

    I enjoyed your piece, Margaret. The “murky depths” of the beans and the “icy compartments” of the isolated Coke bottles really delighted my brain with rich imagery. Lovely writing indeed.

  12. youna kwak | November 15, 2011 at 11:35 am

    Beautiful, haunting (& haunted) writing — a tale that itself lives on the “outskirts,” of town, family, home. I especially love the way this story expertly sews together the dense specificity of the small universe that is a family with the larger universe of city, highway, geography, place. I’ll look forward to reading more!

  13. Andy Wallis | November 15, 2011 at 11:48 am

    Beautiful work, Margaret. I feel I know these people and places. With a brief turn of the phrase all the moments come to life. Bravo.

  14. David Sloan | November 15, 2011 at 12:19 pm

    Beautifully simple and vivid. Congratulations and thank you.

  15. Mary Weatherford | November 16, 2011 at 1:28 am

    One of the greatest last lines written.

  16. Margaret | November 16, 2011 at 1:31 am

    I love your father, you, and all things Weatherford. Felicidades.

  17. Kelly Baggins | November 16, 2011 at 1:35 am

    Oops. I am Kelly, not Margaret.

  18. Desi | November 16, 2011 at 4:59 pm

    “like a white bone”
    This is great Margaret, thank you.

  19. Steve Wasserman | November 16, 2011 at 9:04 pm

    Loved It. Modern cars are too damned reliable.

  20. Teresa Christiansen | November 17, 2011 at 1:20 am

    Your dad is the man to take on a trip. I love it Margaret.

  21. christa corle | November 21, 2011 at 8:13 am

    This is truly beautiful. Especially the last line! I love your family.

  22. Amy W | November 28, 2011 at 3:43 pm

    Lovely writing. I am longing for the undiscovered in-betweens en route to the middle of nowhere.

  23. Chris | November 29, 2011 at 12:50 pm

    Thanks for reminding me about how much of our lives we live in, around, on, under(?!) our cars!

  24. Oliver | December 16, 2011 at 9:29 pm

    I’m a miser when it comes to complimenting other people’s writing; even more so when it comes to fiction.

    But I have to say: excellent job.

    (Grew up in El Cajon and Pine Valley in the ’80s, a childhood littered with similar memories of treacherous, junky cars, so the story really hit me emotionally too!)

  25. Robert Ganz | February 2, 2012 at 10:26 am

    As a father myself and one who drove my kids on many semi-disastrous trips like this one, I much appreciated the fine, nuanced portrait of dad.

  26. Stephen Westfall | May 7, 2012 at 12:21 am

    What beautiful writing. Know the territory well, inside the car and out. Margaret had perfect pitch.

4 Pingbacks

  1. [...] one at the gas sta­tion could turn it off either. #Go tickle your brain and read the whole thing: Paris Review : Green Car, Nightfall by Margaret Weatherford. I’ll be look­ing into what­ever else she’s writ­ten. # This [...]

  2. [...] Paris Review – Green Car, Nightfall, Margaret Weatherford Tagged with: [...]

  3. [...] To order see below.) Last fall Paris Review Daily published one of her signature miniatures, “Green Car, Nightfall.” She also worked on offprints, performance, and visual art in collaboration with her sister, the [...]

  4. [...] Weatherford’s work has appeared in Zyzzyva, Paris Review Daily, and Little Star. She died in March [...]

Leave a Comment