Most normal families would not have a lengthy debate about whether to fix the car’s faulty brakes and most normal families would not consider me a troublemaker for refusing to drive a car with bad brakes. But then my partner’s family is anything but normal.
I was working in Manhattan on a rainy Saturday afternoon and on a whim I called my partner’s Mom, Duckie, in New Jersey to see if she wanted to go to dinner, and she was delighted to accept. I got to Jersey two hours later after taking the subway to Penn station, a train to New Jersey and a taxi to Duckie’s house. I arrived soaking wet and in a foul mood.
Duckie wanted to go to Chili’s for dinner, which did not improve my mood, but I didn’t say anything and by unspoken agreement I took her car keys: Duckie is 86 and after the last time she drove me somewhere, when she almost took out the high school cross country team, I now insist on driving, which irks her.
Duckie lives on top of a small hill and since she can no longer back out of her driveway, because she can’t turn to look over her shoulder, she parks on the street. Now, I pulled away from the curb and headed down the wet hill towards the stop sign. I hit the brakes and the car never slowed. Only after pushing the brake pedal to the floor with both feet and pulling frantically on the emergency brake did we eventually stop several feet beyond the stop sign. I said something I would not usually say in front of an 86 year old woman but Duckie was looking out the window. “The Montgomery’s forsythia is lovely this year,” she said.
“Duckie,” I said, “What is the matter with your brakes?”
“Nothing,” she said.
A tense negotiation followed, the gist of which was that I refused to drive the car any further and Duckie staunchly maintained that the brakes were fine. “I don’t drive fast,” she told me, “and they stop eventually.” She paused while I digested this. “Besides, Louis says that this is normal for an old car.”
“Duckie,” I said with some heat, “this is not normal.” Heart beating wildly, I slowly drove back up the hill and we took a taxi to Chili’s for dinner. It was a silent ride because Duckie was annoyed and I spent the whole time texting Louis, my partner’s brother, who lives 2 miles away.
“Her brakes are shot but she doesn’t want to spend the money to fix them,” he responded, unconcerned. “Besides, they stop the car eventually.”
Feeling like I was in a parallel universe, I texted my partner and asked what he wanted me to do. “Don’t drive the car,” he advised. “Hide the keys under the sofa. Flatten a tire.” There was a pause. “You know Duckie won’t do something she doesn’t want to do.”
I am a glutton for punishment. Three months later I was back in Jersey on another rainy day. “Did you have the brakes fixed?” I asked Duckie when the taxi dumped me in front of her house.
“My brakes are fine,” she said testily. “Louis said so.”
“That’s not what Louis told me,” I said, just as Louis pulled up to drive the three of us to Chili’s. “Louis,” I said, “I can’t believe you haven’t had the brakes fixed.”
He stood next to his mother and the two of them folded their arms. “The brakes are fine,” he said, not looking at me.
“Stop trying to start trouble,” said Duckie.