Sara Trotta
Vespa

When a man hits a certain age, he may get a divorce, a bad dye job, a new girlfriend with a superior dye job, a highly impractical sports car. At this age, a man may forsake his wife and family for a house at the shore, an early retirement, and a woman-child named Carlie. My father did all of these things.

I had long suspected my parents were not meant to be: my father was prone to a mostly benign form of narcissism, and my mother was prone to fits of flatware-flinging insanity. Once the divorce proceedings were finalized, my father bought toy after toy, gadget after gadget; my mother mowed the lawn in her wedding dress.

It was the summer of the year I turned seventeen. My brother and I packed up my dilapidated car with everything we would need for the next three months and headed to the shorehouse for the first time longer than a weekend. My mother, taking drags off a cigarette, waved us off from the driveway. She smoked about half before stubbing the smoldering butt out on the train of her dress. I turned the key, pressed the gas, and we drove off.

“Ready?” I asked him after a long sigh.

“Yup.”

“Excited?”

“Nope.”

A pause.

“Me neither.”

“Think Mom’ll be alright alone for so long?”

“I dunno. She keeps mowing the lawn in that dress, it’ll fall apart and she’ll have to do it naked.”

“Be serious,” he said, furrowing his brows at me.

“She’ll be fine, Andy.” I reached for the stereo knob and turned it to track 5 on the CD I’d made. Billy Joel. In the Middle of the Night. “You sing harmony.”

“No.”

“Do it or I’ll turn this car around and leave you home alone with mom for three months.”

“Bite me,” he responded. I punched him.

“Just shut up and do it.”

“Fine.”

*    *    *

We pulled into the driveway at about half past ten. It’d been a long drive. Through the front window, we could see our father asleep on the sofa in front of the tv as we hauled our suitcases up to the front porch. He snorted awake at the sound of the screen door slamming behind Andy and immediately motioned for us to be quiet.

“Hey kids,” he whispered, “be careful. Carlie’s asleep.” As if she were a baby. My brother and I mumbled a two-in-one greeting and goodnight before shuffling off to our respective rooms for the night. I never turned on the light, just kicked off my jeans, slipped off my bra, crawled under the sheets—pastel pinks and purples, Carlie’s idea, I’m sure—and lay staring at the ceiling for a few hours until my brain thought its way to sleep.

Dad woke us at 9 am for breakfast the next day. Saturday. 9 am on a Saturday. Bleary-eyed, my brother and I made our way to the kitchen table where Carlie was already sitting with a large plate of pancakes and fresh fruit.

“Good morning,” she chirped. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” The two of us only grunted in the affirmative. There was this thing about her voice—so sing-songy. Like all of life was the freaking Sound of Music. It was too much. My father and Carlie made a few vague attempts at starting conversation, but my brother and I pushed forkfuls of pancake into our mouths and said nothing. I cleared my plate and went back to bed.

I didn’t get up again until after noon when my father knocked on my door.

“Hey, kiddo. Hey, Jo—can I come in?”

“Yeah, Dad. What is it?”

“A surprise. I’ve got a surprise for you, kiddo.” He could barely contain his excitement.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you not call me kiddo?”

“Sure, ki—sure, Jo.” A pause. “But come on. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

“Okay. What is it?” He led me outside to the front yard, down by the curb.

“Well? Do you like it?”

“It…it’s hideous.” And it was. Cream and seafoam green polished to a high shine. One giant headlight at the front, staring me down. A mechanical Cyclops. A Vespa parked in front of our house.

“Nonsense. You haven’t even given her a try yet.”

“You want me to drive that thing?”

“Christ, no! That’s way too dangerous. I drive. You ride. Here, take the helmet.” He handed it to me and began to climb on the seat. “C’mon. Hop on back.”

“What about your helmet?”

“Only got one right now. All yours. Besides, we’re just going around the block a few times. Now get on.” I climbed up, straddling the seat, realizing for the first time how close I would have to be to my father. He revved her up, and I leaned in and awkwardly wrapped my arms around him. I don’t think I’d been that close to my father in years. A few hugs when demanded—always painfully awkward, always brief—that was the extent of our physical contact. The duration of the hug had gotten shorter as my breasts had gotten larger. I don’t think I’d been that close to anyone in years.

We whizzed down our street, around the block and up towards the beach. I could just barely make out the sound of the waves crashing above the buzz of the motor.

“How you doin’ back there?” my father shouted over his left shoulder.

“Fine,” I shouted back. My ass was starting to go numb. I had wrapped my arms around him even tighter as we picked up speed—around his great big belly, pressing myself against his broad back. We zoomed up and down a few side streets, waving at neighbors we didn’t know, passed the local school out for the summer, ghost children swinging on the swings, and finally pulled back up in front of the house. He parked and turned the engine off.

“What’d you think kiddo—”

“Dad.” I was annoyed he had forgotten but still reeling from the closeness. Now that we had climbed off the back of the beast, it felt like something was missing. My whole torso was tingling with the loss of him.

“Sorry. What did you think Jo-an-na?” He pronounced each syllable of my name.

“Well,” I started, taking off the helmet,” I never want to date a guy who drives a motorcycle.” It was all I could think to say.

“Good.”

I found Andy later in his room, playing a videogame. He didn’t pause it, didn’t look away from the screen as I came in.

“Did Dad show you his new toy yet?” I asked.

“Yeah. He took me with him to get it while you were in bed.”

“Did you ride it?”

“Nah. I’d’ve had to hold on to Dad. Seems a little gay, don’t you think?” He responded. I moved in front of the tv, blocking his view.

“Don’t use gay like that.” In response he paused the game and looked up at me.

“What? Two men clinging to each other. Sounds pretty gay to me.” He picked up the controller as I shrugged. “He said he’d teach me to drive it. He rented it for the whole summer.”

“Oh?”

*    *    *

I found Dad later that night on the couch asleep in front of the tv. He woke up just as I was changing the channel with the remote.

“Hey. I was watching that.”

“Oh yeah? What was on?” A lifetime made-for- tv movie.

“International intrigue” he said, sleepily.

“Close, but no cigar.” We sat in silence for a few minutes. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yes, Jo?”

“Can we go for a ride again?”

“Sure thing. Where do you want to go?”

“Just around the block, Dad.”

_ _

Sara Trotta, a native of Maryland, is studying English and Anthropology at Boston University. In the 2008-9 academic year she was the director of the BU Writers’ Workshop.

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