Enormous Wings

Chapter One

You know how it ends.

Everyone in the whole world knows how it ends.

Of course that’s true anyway for all of us, no matter what.

Ironically, stories rarely start at the beginning, mostly because the beginning’s so much harder to find.

This story, however, started quite abruptly one June morning when I hit a priest with my car.

I didn’t mean to, and it was just a tiny fender bender, and no one got hurt.

Also, if you think about it, bending is the entire point with fenders.

But it’s true that this fender had been shiny and flawless, like a mirror you would find in a mirror store.

Then I ran into it, and all at once it became crumpled and scratched and nonreflective. Like a mirror you would find in hell.

I have learned, after fifty-two years in Texas, that it’s the big white men in big white hats you have to watch out for, but under this hat I spied a clerical collar.

Notwithstanding I had just been concocting a metaphor featuring hell, I thought probably he’d go easy on me because yelling at an old woman isn’t very Christian.

Mind, neither am I, but I was hoping it wouldn’t come up.

I waited while he picked his way along the shoulder over two empty takeout containers and another that was spilling leftover pad thai onto the road.

There were some geese in the median strip, honking at us for stopping or maybe warning us away from their noodles.

When the priest arrived by my side finally, what he said was “So is it a special day, or are you always out here driving around like some kind of asshole?”

I was so relieved.

“Oh!” I said. “Flatbush.”

“What?”

“I’m from Brooklyn too.” I laid a hand on my chest. “Flatbush. Born and bred. How about you?”

He looked taken aback. “Bay Ridge. How’d you know?”

“Recognized your accent,” I said. “Also your vocabulary.” Then I added, “Please forgive me for damaging your bumper.”

I thought maybe if I emphasized that the only part of his truck that was harmed was the part put there for that purpose, he might be less upset, but what he said was “Not Catholic.”

“Pardon?” I’d turned seventy-seven the week before, but my hearing was still fine. This just didn’t make sense.

“Don’t let the dog collar fool you. I’m an Episcopal priest.”

“I see,” I said. But I did not.

“So confession is a lesser sacrament. Plus ‘Forgive me for damaging your bumper’ doesn’t really count.”

“I’m Jewish,” I explained.

“Ahh,” he said. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

“Jews are fine drivers!”

“Many of them. Not you. Give me your license.”

“We’re only supposed to exchange insurance information,” I protested. “You’re not a police officer.”

“Higher authority.” Then he took a knife out of his pocket, so I handed over my entire wallet. He deployed a scissor and cut my license into tiny pieces, then let them fall onto the side of the road.

“You shouldn’t litter,” I called as he picked his way back over the takeout containers.

He made a hand gesture I remembered well from my Brooklyn days. It didn’t seem very Christian to me, but then I’m not an expert.

My middle child, Alice, is a lawyer, so I thought maybe we could sue, but after I drove home—unlicensed—and told her this story, she said, “He’s right. You shouldn’t be driving.”

By September, my house was sold, my car was gone—along with my license, my independence, and a state of affairs in which I told my children what to do instead of the other way around—and I stood before the automatic sliding doors of the Vista View Retirement Community, contemplating my new home.