I wanted to know when you were going to marry Miss Rodriguez.” “That doesn’t preclude asking,” Michael said. “Jerk!” I howled out the driver’s window. “You know I’m just going to say no.” Someone in a red Taurus cut me off, and I had to swerve around him, into the turn lane, and then ahead of him again. “Don’t ask me to Mass again,” I told him, uncomfortable. “Harry, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” I felt a stirring of something powerful, placid energy around him-the power of faith. “Lord be with us,” Michael said, and crossed himself. “If he said the ghost would be there, it will be there.” “Bob is annoying, but rarely wrong,” I answered, jamming on the brakes and dodging around a garbage truck. ” his mouth twisted with distaste, “Source?” “If God wills it, we’ll be there in time. “We’re doing all we can,” Michael assured me. I squinted out the Beetle’s window at the fading light. “I don’t know, for certain,” he answered me. His broad, lined hands rested upon his knees, which were scrunched up due to the dashboard. There were worry and laugh-lines at the corners of his leathery face. He had that kind of salt-and- pepper hair, dark against silver, that some men seem lucky enough to inherit, though his beard was still a solid color of dark brown, almost black. The big man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “Only if the wind gets behind us or we start going down a hill,” I said. The old car growled gamely, as though it sensed what was at stake, and continued its valiant puttering. The Beetle’s tires screeched in protest as we rounded a corner, clearly against the No Left Turn sign posted there. Anything manufactured after about World War II seems to be susceptible to abrupt malfunction when I get anywhere close to it.Īs a rule, when I drive, I drive very carefully and sensibly. For another, I don’t get along so well with technology. For one, the Blue Beetle, the mismatched Volkswagen bug that I putter around in, doesn’t usually manage anything above sixty miles an hour.
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