Taking It by Michael Cadnum Page A

Anna doesn’t want an antique walnut dresser, Adler would say. She doesn’t want a big pink bowl of cloves and crushed rose petals to make her room smell nice.
    Adler would be right.
    I put on a sandwashed silk sundress, sleeveless, with a button front. I wore shoes I had found under a sign that read FLATTERY FOR YOUR FOOT , navy blue slip-on espadrilles, imported, handmade, not cheap.
    The purse I tugged off the shelf in the closet was a tight-weave straw classic, wide-bottomed, with coiled straps. I had money—a little—aspirin, Tums, cigarettes.
    I put some panties and some roll-on deodorant into a gym bag. I made myself not look back at the house. I got into the car, started it up, and rolled down to the end of the street.
    A dog ran from the sidewalk, bounding in front of the car. My foot was slow, my reaction time terrible, reflexes rusty.
    I found the brake pedal and the wheels locked. The car slid briefly, and then came to a rocking stop.
    â€œLincoln!” I shoved against the door until it opened.
    I stood in the street. Lincoln was unhurt, gazing at me with mild, friendly curiosity. His mouth was open, tongue hanging. He was trailing his long length of gray rope.
    â€œLincoln, get in the car,” I said.
    He obeyed at once, not even hesitating. He even knew where to sit, the passenger’s side, eager to go for a ride.

20
    It was early evening, the traffic jam a mess of brake lights.
    The radio didn’t work very well, a connection loose, Dad had said, between the antenna and the dash. I could barely pick up KGO, trying to find out if this was all the way to Hayward or just through Oakland. A dump truck had spilled some gravel out across all the lanes, and everyone slowed down to go over the little blue rocks.
    Lincoln put his nose against the window on his side, smearing it with dog sweat.
    Then I was past the gravel, and I headed east, past Castro Valley, feeling that little bit of excitement and happiness that going somewhere gives.
    Sometimes I hate cars. You sit there in a box, looking at the scenery through glass. A car is like television, hour after hour on the same channel, except you can run into something and get killed.
    I’m not that experienced at driving on freeways. The car floats. You think you’ll be aiming the car between the lines and the car will roll straight. But it doesn’t, the car floats one way or another. I had to make minor adjustments, moving the steering wheel a little bit this way, a little bit that way.
    I was having imaginary conversations. I have a Porta-Mom in my head, and when I get bored or tired I have my own talk show: Anna Teresa Charles and her guest visitor, the same one she has every night.
    You know a lot about yourself, but nothing about life , said the Mom-voice. You mean I don’t know what it’s like to work in an office with no windows , I said back. You mean I don’t know what it’s like to sit in a meeting and tell the weatherman what kind of neckties he ought to wear .
    I could imagine her eyes bright, the shake of her head, her sad, bitter You’re so sure of yourself .
    I never get bored with this kind of talk in my head, even though it’s tedious and painful. It just plays on and on, a radio that won’t turn off.
    Lincoln put his nose at the top of the window, savoring the traffic smells, and then the farms and orchards. I couldn’t see the land, but we both knew it was out there. I had traveled to Disneyland with my parents years before, and this was how we went, down Highway 5, past the farmland and the foothills, cattle, orchards, but most of all vacant land with nothing much on it.
    The Mustang held steady, a little vibration in the steering wheel, what Mr. Friedlander, the auto shop teacher, would have diagnosed as bad front-end alignment. I don’t usually drive fast, though, fifty-five is all right. I didn’t like the way the car started to shake even worse when I passed a few