The Sports Car

The car was red, fire engine red, shockingly red, red like the sunset that promised delight and still gave rain, as red as the film that covered my sight with the rage I was feeling. I wanted a blue car, had dreamed of it in fact, and when someone had anonymously sent us a cheque for $5,000 that crinkled in my hand I was sure the blue car was just on the horizon. 1

My husband took the money once the cheque had cleared and insisted, insisted that he would choose the car by himself. After all what did I know of torque or gear differential, or even engine timing? No, he would go alone and choose a car that was suitable for both of us. We didn’t want a lemon for the money and he knew cars, whereas I was a woman and ‘the little woman’ as well.2

I was so angry I didn’t speak to him for three days, not that he noticed – he was busy ‘tinkering’ – something he did with anything new. The smell of grease and oil filled the air as he changed filters, tightened screws and generally played with the car. After a week he took me out for a test drive – for a picnic he said. I packed the eksy full of good things, chicken and avocado sandwiches on wholemeal bread, apples, mandarins, fudge slice, lemonade and beer - because I don’t drink and I might get a chance to drive if he does. 3

I also included a good book because I’ve been on picnics with him and too many times and more often than not we end up on the side of the road broken down. It was hell when the kids were little and they asked if we were having another freeway holiday. 4

He says I take a book to annoy him, because I don’t trust him. He’s right – but if we’d broken down less often I might trust him more. As it stands I’d gladly leave him on the side of the road and run off with the mechanic - as I once did. It wasn’t pretty when he dragged me back and if only I hadn’t missed with the steak knife things might have been different. Now I just fume silently knowing nothing changes. 5

We left three hours later than planned, because he kept adding things ‘just in case’
and we had more spare parts in the boot than we did personal items. I sat silent, he made inane comments about the rattles and thumps that always came after his tinkering. Then he said something that really set me off. He complained that the car was a lemon and why did I talk him into buying it. That was it! I made him stop the car – by screaming at full volume. Then I walked home. I was so angry I didn’t notice the distance. I went to bed still angry. He came home much later in the early hours of the morning and told me the car had broken down and he had had to have it towed home. I said nothing. When he came to bed I pretended to be asleep and he soon snuggled down. As soon as he started snoring I got out of bed and collected my packed suitcase from under the bed. Then I left.6

The car was parked in the street and still red as I looked back. The sky was red too – that could have been the sunrise but it was more likely to be a reflection of the flames as the car burned. I smiled and kept walking. This time I wasn’t coming back.7


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