Noah Goldzer
Pentimento My terrific husband left alone up I-15 north leaving Salt Lake City at six in the morning on November the 26th. It hadn’t snowed but an unseemly chill condensed his breath and fogged up the windshield of his paradise blue Toyota Tacoma. He rubbed the glass with his hands, cozy and warm in the burgundy gloves my mother had knit from a double skein of Bernet’s baby blanket tiny. As the cab of his truck warmed in the light of the rising sun, he began to shed his winter clothes; overcoat, hat, scarf—also gifts from my mother—onto the passenger seat. He’d decided in haste to cut his distinct long hair and shave his familiar goatee, the absence of which let his boyish cheeks and playful green eyes shine like I hadn’t seen since before we were married. As he checked the lane behind him in his rear-view mirror, he spotted a blotch of red on his otherwise uniform teal collar, which could not be lifted with saliva alone. The Tacoma’s right-side brake light was busted—he already knew that—with a crack down the face of its transparent protector. The lights looked funny that way; like two narrow, angry eyes on the opposite ends of a wide face staring backwards, one flared red and the other shut for good. But my husband couldn’t stop: he had a long drive ahead of him, little time and, after all, it was Thanksgiving. The first cop to pull him over was an Ogden City officer on his way home, having finished the nightshift. He flashed his cruiser’s lights but let the siren sleep and the two cars drifted a mile or so down the road until a wide enough shoulder presented itself to lean on. No doubt longing for the scents of sweet yams and a stuffed turkey in his oven, the officer, an older, rather portly gentlemen, scampered toward the Tacoma to conclude his duty. “Good morning officer, and Happy Thanksgiving,” my husband announced, looking back at the policeman’s approach. 55
