The thing about the Pontiac,” said Iola when Beverly was sitting across from her at the tiny little table in the tiny little kitchen, “is that I promised my children I would not drive it. I signed a piece of paper, a — thingamajig.”

“A contract?” said Beverly.

“That’s it,” said Iola.

Beverly picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It tasted like fish, but it also tasted good. Iola had toasted the bread and melted cheese on top of the tuna, and the sandwich was warm in Beverly’s hands.

For some reason, she felt like she might cry.

She took another bite.

“I signed a contract,” said Iola. “That’s exactly what I did. It was Tommy Junior who made me do it. He’s a lawyer. He had me sign it, and it says that I will not, under any circumstances, drive the Pontiac until further notice. Or some such.”

“Why?” said Beverly.

“Why what?” said Iola. She blinked. Up close, her eyes looked even bigger and owlier.

“Why did he make you sign a contract?”

“Pshaw,” said Iola. She waved a hand through the air. “It wasn’t nothing much. I mixed up the reverse and the forward is all. I ended up driving the Pontiac into Bleeker’s Insurance. I knocked a few bricks off the building — that’s all, a few bricks. But my land! You would have thought that I had knocked the whole building down the way everyone went on about it.

“You know, those insurance companies deal with catastrophes all the time, and this was not a catastrophe. No, it was not — it was a few bricks. Ten, at most. And the front of the Pontiac got crumpled up some. It still runs! It’s a wonderful car, and it still runs. But I can’t drive it because I promised I wouldn’t. Me, not driving! Why, I’ve been driving practically my whole life.”

“I’ve been driving since I was in fourth grade,” said Beverly.

“Fourth grade?” said Iola. She blinked.

“My uncle taught me. My mother was drunk all the time, and so he figured it was a good idea for me to know how to drive.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Iola.

Beverly shrugged. “All I’m saying is that I’m a good driver.”

“The Pontiac is very large,” said Iola. “It’s a large car.”

“It doesn’t matter what size the stupid car is,” said Beverly. “I can drive it.”

When Beverly was done eating, they went outside to the carport.

The Pontiac was huge and olive-colored. Its front end was smashed in.

“Are you sure it still runs?” said Beverly.

“It runs,” said Iola. “And I tell you what. I should just get in there and start it up and drive on out of here and go to the VFW on my own. I don’t care about the contract. I don’t! I’m happy to lie to the children. They lied to me all the time, growing up.

“But here is the truth: I’m afraid. I’m afraid of my own capabilities. I mean to say that I am afraid I’ve mislocated my capabilities.” Iola sighed. “What it comes down to is that I don’t know if I trust myself anymore.”

“Give me the keys,” said Beverly.

Iola went into the trailer and came back with the keys and a big black purse. Beverly got in the driver’s seat, and Iola got in the passenger seat.

The Pontiac started right up.

Beverly backed it out of the carport.

“Well,” said Iola, “you’re good at backing up.”

“I’m good at going forward, too,” said Beverly. She put the Pontiac in drive, and they went down the little seashell road of the trailer park and out onto A1A.

Beverly smiled. She looked over at Iola. She was smiling, too. Her black purse was balanced in her lap.

Beverly went faster.

“Oh, my,” said Iola. She put both hands on top of her purse. “Now, you have a driver’s license, don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Beverly. She was only a year away from her learner’s permit — less than a year, really. A learner’s permit was a license, wasn’t it?

She put her foot down on the gas. They went faster still.

This was what Beverly wanted — what she always wanted. To get away. To get away as fast as she could. To stay away.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds.

That was a line from a poem they had memorized in school.

Beverly didn’t think the poem was that great, but she loved the words about the surly bonds, about slipping them. Those words made sense to her.

Iola cleared her throat. Beverly thought that she was going to tell her to slow down.

Instead Iola said, “Who do you belong to, child?”

“No one,” said Beverly.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” said Iola.

“It’s true,” said Beverly.

“Where are you living?”

“None of your business,” said Beverly.

But where was she living? She hadn’t thought about that at all.

“When you get as old as me,” said Iola, “everything is your business. How about I make you a deal?”

“I don’t want to make a deal,” said Beverly.

“The deal is you can stay with me. You can drive me to bingo at the VFW. And to the grocery store. We can help each other out until you’re ready to go back to where you belong.”

“You don’t even know me,” said Beverly.

“I do not,” said Iola.

“I could be a criminal.”

“Are you?” said Iola.

Beverly shrugged.

“My husband always did say that I was a fool for trusting people. He said, ‘Iola, you would trust the devil to sell you a pair of dancing shoes.’”

“Why would the devil be selling shoes?” said Beverly.

“The devil gets up to all sorts of nonsense,” said Iola. “That’s why he’s the devil. But still — people got to go on their instincts sometimes, don’t they? We got to trust each other in the end. Don’t you think?”

Beverly could think of all kinds of reasons not to trust.

People leave — that was one of the reasons.

People pretend to care, but they don’t, really — that was another one.

Dogs die, and your friends help you to put them in the ground.

That was a big one, right there.

“You can stay with me,” said Iola. She reached over and patted Beverly’s arm. “We will help each other out. We’ll trust each other.”