"A Heroine for All Time" by Margie Benedict / 1st Chapter / Women's Fiction, Book Club Fiction

I knew—because Mom was involved—that my first car-buying experience would be painful, but I couldn’t imagine how close it would come to killing me.

Dad was a professor of mathematics at Boston University and probably never held a torque wrench in his life, whereas Mom grew up in Grandpa’s repair shop and could tune up an engine by the time she turned eight. Meaning there wasn’t any question who would “help” me pick out my twenty-first birthday gift.

We set out in her shiny, hatteras blue Cadillac Seville on a Saturday morning in October. You would’ve thought Mom was going to the symphony, not a used car dealership. For her, every excursion was an excuse to dress up. She wore a light wool coat for the fall weather, a hat that was popular at the time—shaped like an upside down dog food bowl—and high heels.

She pulled into Pro Ride on Washington Street first, but when the salesman gave her a sideways glance and asked where her husband was, we drove away. 

We went to Best Value Used Cars next but burned rubber on our way out after the salesman began explaining how the carburetor worked to Mom, who certainly hadn’t asked him. I was wishing I could have gone alone or even with Dad, who couldn’t tell a Chevy from a Datsun, when we sidled into the third place, Manny’s in Pembroke.

I winced at Manny’s signature billboard with the slogan, “Prices that will blow your mind.” The artwork pictured seven or eight people from the neck up wearing shocked expressions, which wasn’t surprising given their heads were blown open at the top, with smoke and flames coming out of them.

“Classy, Mom,” I said.

“Hush.”

“Can you ignore the salesman’s comments this time?”

“I don’t trust any business that condescends to women,” she said.

I sighed and followed her inside the showroom, where a young man who looked not much older than me approached. At first he reminded me of that Jehovah’s Witness guy who, when he came to our house the year before with a brochure, Mom slammed the door in his face. Like him, the salesman was clean-shaven, his hair was parted like he took a ruler to it, and he wore a suit and tie. In those days, not like now, there would’ve been a dress code on the job, especially if you were in sales.

The slick outfit couldn’t hide that the salesman was a hunk as we used to say, with black hair, broad shoulders, and a mischievous smile that made me go all melty inside. Don’t say anything to demean women, I quietly prayed.

“We’re looking for something reliable and reasonably priced for my daughter’s first car.” Mom gave him a fierce look that challenged him to question her qualifications as anyone’s car advisor.

Thank god he didn’t. Instead, he introduced himself and offered us coffee. Unlike the previous two salesmen, he made polite conversation by complimenting Mom on the Seville and asking if I was in college. When I told him I had graduated, he asked what kind of work I would be looking for.

I said something along the lines of, “I love art.”

“He means a career, Viola,” Mom said. “She took computer classes. It will probably be a job related to that.” She made it clear she wasn’t interested in chitchat by leading us back outside.

As we walked behind Mom, the salesman asked what kind of art I liked. 

“Murals are my favorite.” Remembering I had a photo of one I worked on in college, I pulled it out of my purse to show him.

“That’s really powerful. You’re very talented.” His words caused a sort of glow to spread through me, though I understood he might just be buttering me up for the sale.

“How big is it?” he asked. 

Mom’s disapproving glance silenced us and reminded the salesman to get back to business. “What kind of car are you looking for?” he said. 

I jumped in before Mom had a chance. “A VW Beetle.” I had spotted an adorable red one when we turned into the lot.

Mom was aghast. “A Beetle?”

Its shade had drawn my eye like a pyromaniac to flame. Crimson was the color of sunsets, roses, and revolution. It would perfectly encapsulate my image of myself as nature lover, artist, and nonconformist. Plus the car was small enough not to tax my parallel parking skills.

“The red one is in terrific condition. Hardly any miles on it.” The salesman turned toward where it was parked.

I matched his pace with enthusiasm, but now Mom trailed behind. A moment later she paused and said, “I’d like to take a look at this Dodge Dart.”

I followed her gaze to a puke green car that strongly resembled whatever Grandma owned and sometimes drove through town at fifteen miles per hour.

A flicker of apology flashed in the salesman’s expression before he shifted his attention to Mom. He must’ve been sure he’d lose his job if he didn’t follow the most likely source of payment.

“The Dart received a perfect five-star rating from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration,” Mom said.

“I like the Volkswagen better,” I said.

“The Beetle has a good reputation for safety too,” the salesman hedged.

Mom ordered me over to the Dart and insisted I look inside. The salesman opened the door and showed us its features. “Would you like to take it for a test drive?”

“Yes,” Mom said. We took turns driving around the block, then Mom popped open the hood to examine the engine compartment. While she questioned the salesman about everything from gas mileage to when the tires were last rotated, I wandered over to stare at the red Bug. It had a soft gray cloth interior and a decal of a dove on the dashboard.

Mom came from behind and put an arm around me. The salesman hung back, giving us privacy to discuss the purchase. 

“The Dart is in good condition and I managed to talk the price down,” Mom said. “I know you like the VW, but they have some issues. Poor safety features, limited crash protection… the engines aren’t very powerful, the car handles poorly at higher speeds, there are concerns about its electrical systems… and they have rust problems.” She pointed out a small section of rust behind the right rear fender.

“I love the color,” was all I had.

“Reminds me of the lollipops you always picked at the doctor’s office,” she said.

Her statement had the intended effect of establishing who was the child here. I bowed to her sound reasoning and agreed to let her purchase the Dart. 

When we turned back to the salesman, he was staring at an older man in a plaid suit who gave him a come-back-here wave through the showroom window. 

“Can we go to the office now?” the salesman asked us. 

“I’d like to get a picture first. It will just take a moment.” Mom kept albums of photos marking first events, like when my brother and I took our first steps, ate solid food, said our first words, started school, and on and on. Since this was the first car buying event, it would be important to include the salesman.

She positioned herself to the side to get the full length of the car in the photo, while the salesman and I were to stand by the driver’s door shaking hands on the deal. “Sorry about my mom,” I said under my breath. The moment could not have been more awkward, with me feeling ridiculous and him looking worried, watching the man in plaid come out the door and head toward us with furious steps.

The rest is a blur. There was the vroom of an engine, and the sight of a car speeding toward us. The feel of myself being yanked to the side and landing briefly in the salesman’s arms. The sound of an explosion, the stench of burning oil. The confusion of police and EMTs arriving, directing us out of the way and arresting the driver who miraculously stumbled out of his fractured car. The flash of a photographer’s camera—not Mom’s this time—taking our pictures.

My mother remained frozen across from me, her mouth open in an expression of horror. No doubt she was imagining what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been whisked out of the way.

We learned later that the intended victim had been our salesman, who was also a manager despite his youth and had recently fired the driver of the car that nearly obliterated us. While we were on the lot, the ex-employee had called the dealership, threatening to kill his former manager. Police had been notified, and the older salesman had tried to wave our guy back into the showroom without jeopardizing the sale, naturally.

The dealership offered to gift us another Dodge Dart, matching the one that was totaled in every way, right down to the puke green color. I tried to convince Mom the car was a bad omen—she fully believed in signs and omens—but she was so delighted over the prospect of a free car, she insisted the Dart actually saved our lives. Her explanation was that posing in front of it had allowed the salesman to be looking in the direction of the approaching murderous car.

In exchange for their generosity, we had to sign a document pledging never to sue them for our having almost been killed on their lot. And for the next fifteen years, I owned a vehicle that gave me flashes of PTSD every time I climbed into it.

I ask myself now, if I’d been more assertive and insisted on that funky, free-spirited Bug, would I still have ended up—at the age of sixty-three—questioning the entire trajectory of my life and wondering if there’s still time to start all over?