Corvette Mamma

Part I: Two for One

What is worse than telling your husband that you wrecked his prized corvette? Not much, unless its telling him that you wrecked both his corvettes, in one sweep, in the driveway! How, how could such an event happen? It was so quick, so completely without warning. But happen it did! That sunny June afternoon was like a thousand others. Dave was out of town, due back that evening. I had a few errands to run, and I needed to move his classic ‘71 corvette convertible, which he had recently taught me to drive, in order to get my car out of the garage. Always conscientious, I carefully backed it down the driveway, then slowly up the other side of the driveway. Slow, careful on the clutch, the huge 450 h.p. engine straining to be released! Careful, gas, clutch. Just a few more inches would give me an extra margin of comfort when I backed my car out. Careful, gas, clutch, ease it even closer, nose to nose with the red corvette under restoration. Careful, gas, clutch...WHAM! It jumped! It jumped into the red vette! Crash! The sound of fiberglass buckling and parts smashing is nauseating! One ‘vette, his prize, had a wrinkled nose. The other, the ‘vette under restoration, fell off the blocks as parts scattered across the driveway - red fenders, chrome accents, parts and pieces as if a giant spring holding the car together sprung, just like a toy my brother once had.

After the initial shock wave faded, a deeper, more insidious realization came forth: How do I tell him? No fantasy on Earth could excuse my actions. I’d have to confess, tell the truth, and accept the blame, all of it. It was all mine. But when? How? Should I tell him when he called from Boston, before getting on the plane, a...

... middle of paper ...

...nkles landed on and in the car. But when inches of water spilled out of the glove compartment, he too knew the nightmare continued. This time, he put me on restriction, taking my car from me and driving me to and from work every day while he struggled to replace or repair the waterlogged instruments. Finally, he decided to do something he had talked about since the first wreck: a complete restoration of the car, even removing the body from the frame. He bought a truck, returned my car to me and began the laborious process of taking his trophy apart, piece by piece, bolt by bolt. That was three years ago, and although he is now in the process of putting it back together, it is still in parts. And me? I’ll never drive it again, a mutual decision! After all, I have secured a permanent, if unrecorded, reputation as the most infamous corvette driver of all time!