Retirement Plan by Martha Miller Page A

three thousand dollars. Sophie had immediately replaced her worn-out 1956 Chevy. She’d traded it and the three thousand in on a new, bright-red Impala. The car was longer than her ’56, and she was still having trouble parking—especially parallel parking.
    Sophie was running late that day. When she let Caesar, her eleven-year-old Lab/collie mix, out in the morning, he’d jumped the fence. She never lost sight of him, but every time she was close enough to put her hands on his collar, he ran away. Finally she’d gotten his leash and called, “Caesar. You want to go for a walk?” He came immediately. She walked him (she was sure if she didn’t, that trick would never work again) and put him in the breezeway, where he spent his days. So it was ten minutes before the last bell when she pulled up to the school.
    The only parking spaces were on the side streets—parallel. Sophie selected what looked like the largest one and pulled in. The rear of the car was still out in the street, and she didn’t have any room to maneuver. She backed out and pulled up next to the car in front of the space, then craned her neck and slowly backed in. Now the front of the car was at an angle. She thanked God for power steering as she backed up and pulled forward several times.
    At last the car was straight, but when she got out, she discovered she was four feet from the curb. She got in the car again, pulled out, tried a sharper angle, and clipped the bumper of the car ahead of her. In the distance she heard the final bell. Thirty-five fifth graders would be waiting for her. She held her head in her hands.
    A tap at her driver’s side window startled her. A woman motioned for her to roll it down.
    Sophie complied.
    “Watch me and I’ll help you.”
    Sophie agreed.
    The woman walked up in front of the car and circled with her left hand, motioning for Sophie to pull forward. Sophie pulled out of the space.
    The woman came to the window again. “I meant for you to turn your wheels before you moved forward.”
    “Sorry. I’m so upset.”
    “Do you want me to do it for you?”
    Sophie sighed. Sweat was running down her forehead. “I’m late already. I might as well learn this.”
    The woman walked back to the spot in front of the car and circled her hand in a clockwise motion. Sophie cut the steering wheel as far as it would go. The woman indicated that Sophie should back up. Sophie did. The woman held up her hand and said “Stop” when Sophie was halfway into the parking space, then motioned for Sophie to turn the wheel counterclockwise and keep backing. Sophie did.
    Suddenly her front tires hit the curb. She was in. That was when she noticed that she’d drawn a crowd—including the school janitor and Sister Anne, the school principal. Several people from the coffee shop across the street cheered and clapped. Sophie blushed.
    By the time Sophie got out of the car, the woman had moved to the sidewalk and was standing next to a little Asian girl. She extended her hand to shake and said, “I’m Lois Burnett. This is my daughter Ruby. It’s her first day of kindergarten, and I’m afraid I’ve made her late.”
    “I made her late,” Sophie said. “Come with me. I’ll help you explain to Sister Mary Margaret.”
    Sophie and Lois had been different in a lot of ways. But like old married couples, between them they functioned well. One or the other of them had a talent for just about everything they needed to survive—and a few totally unnecessary skills. Sophie remembered her parents telling her two things when she was a child that turned out to be dead-on accurate. Her father said, “You never get something for nothing,” and her mother told her, “Love is being comfortable with someone.”
    It turned out her mother was right. Love was the peaceful feeling Sophie had when she and Lois sat across from each other over dinner, not talking. It was knowing what would happen when she threw away an empty coffee can—Lois kept