Back then, riding in the car was special for her. She walked to school and sometimes rode her bike to a friend’s or to the store. But the car was for occasions—like visiting Aunt Lois in her new house in Highland Park, a trip that took her away from the endless, identical bungalows of the south side of Chicago and into the lush, tree-lined streets of this other world, where it seemed only rich people lived. Some of them even had two cars. Once, driving home from her aunt’s house in a snowstorm, they came to the foot of a steep hill. The cars in front of them were sliding hopelessly, trying to make it up the hill. She was terrified—of slipping into the other cars, of sliding off the hill into some dark hole. She closed her eyes and crouched in the back seat. Her grandfather was calm as he slowly drove his blue care up the hill, leaving the other autos behind. It was miraculous. She was safe.
Some steamy summer nights they would all go to a movie; then afterwards, if grandfather was in a good mood, they would stop at Mitchell’s for ice cream. Nobody dared ask him if they were going to stop there; they just waited to see whether the car would take them into the brightness of 79th Street and the sweet icy coolness of Mitchell’s or straight down darkened 81st Street into the too-narrow driveway that only grandfather could navigate. Many years later, when he died, she had dreams in which she planted rows of marigolds on an empty driveway where there was no blue Buick.
A Pontiac convertible was her next blue car. It wasn’t really hers, but she felt she owned it. She learned to drive in that car, which endured her jerky stops and starts and complained only mildly about her sudden braking at yellow lights. She loved that car. Yet she also feared its incredible power and wondered if she could keep it from careening wildly down the road, destroying everything in its path. But she also imagined that the car would not betray her, that it would magically protect her from any harm. And what memories were formed in that car! Secrets shared with her best friend that she swore never to divulge. Tears shed about unrequited love and unrelenting parents. The car was her getaway. She would always remember the delicious sense of freedom she had on the first warm day of spring when she cranked down the top and sped recklessly down Stillwater Road. For a few moments, there were no parents, no teachers, no fickle friends or brash boys; it was just her, fearful and fearless, in the blue Pontiac convertible.
Next came his car, another blue Buick, this one with a backseat that never seemed large enough. She was tall, but he was taller—almost 6’5”. “Parking” was part of the agenda of most dates, and there was always some question of where all the long limbs would go. She had heard that some people even “did it” in the back seat, but she was unable to fathom how that was possible. In any case, “it” was never a remote consideration–for her, anyway. Riding home, feeling warm and disheveled with his arm around her(in a time before seatbelts were mandatory), she would wonder: Is there someone at college that he likes better? Why is he so quiet? When will I see him again? Is this what love feels like? She wished she were “in love” and tried to convince herself that she might be. In truth, she loved him mainly for choosing her. Before he arrived to pick her up for a date, she would stand by the window waiting for that blue Buick to round the corner, her excitement and anticipation surpassing many moments spent with him. He’s here. He’s come for me. The moment lasted perhaps a split second, for by the time the car had entered her driveway, she was already smoothing her hair and running to get her coat. But in that glorious moment, when she was sixteen and he was eighteen, and his blue car turned the corner, he had chosen her and everything seemed possible.
A noisy, blue VW beetle belonged to the next “him” in her life, a twenty-six-year-old man who rented his own apartment and owned his own car. She was twenty-one and finishing her senior year in college. Having taken the MTA to Harvard Square once too often and ridden in borrowed fraternity brothers’ cars more times than she cared to remember, she was ready for a man with a car of his own. He drove the VW with a careless confidence, and, never having driven a stick-shift, she marveled at the ease with which he shifted. She imagined that one must have superlative dexterity and talent to juggle all the instruments. When he drove, she felt secure: he followed the speed limit and didn’t recklessly change lanes. This was an adult. He took care of the car, checking its oil and washing it twice a month. She loved to watch him polish each chrome surface. “When you take care of things,” he said, “they last a long time.” She wanted this man to take care of her. He told her, in that car, that he loved her; later, parked alongside a row of blazing pink azaleas, he asked her to marry him.
The blue Honda. It’s a station wagon (which she vowed she’d never own), and it’s a stick shift (which, in a complete turnaround, she vowed she’d never be without). Now her first-born child is set to become a driver. It’s not her choice. She fantasizes everything she can do that might prevent him from taking to the road. Maybe they could move into the city where no cars are needed. Maybe she could bribe him with a new European-style bike, if only he’d put off getting his license until he was older, wiser, taller. Yet she knew she would do none of these things. He was sixteen, and it was his fate to become a driver along with millions of other sixteen-year-olds.
Who would teach him? Certainly she wouldn’t. She still worried when he took off on his bike, certain some crazy teenage driver would come speeding down the street and destroy him. Now she realized that her son could actually be that teenage driver. She reminded herself of how sensible and cautious he was—of how nobody had tried to prevent her from getting her license, and how defiant she would have been if they had. The day arrived: he passed his driver’s test with ease and made plans to drive to a friend’s house. Standing by the window, watching him get into the blue Honda, she made a bargain with God: if he makes it out of the driveway and onto the street, I’ll give money to every homeless person. If he makes it down our street and onto Golf Road, I’ll write my mother every week. If he comes home alive, I’ll never complain about my life again. When she was out of sight of him, she begged the Almighty, “Oh God, please don’t take him. He’s my first born!” It was only then that she realized that her second-born son was in the room with her.
“What’s wrong with you, Mom?” he asked. “Are you afraid he’s going to mess up the car?”
She looked at him blankly. “The car? No, not the car,” she sniffed. “It’s him. I’m afraid he’ll get hurt.”
“You’re acting crazy.”
“Well, maybe, when your turn comes, I won’t be quite so crazy.”
“Oh yes you will,” he said. “There just won’t be anyone here to see you.”
She laughed and felt calmer. And she remembered: the big blue Buick struggling up the snowy hill; the wind blowing in her hair in the blue Pontiac convertible. Suddenly she had a vision of all those blue cars, and she knew what they were about: being safe and being scared; being a child and being grown up; being alone and being with someone. She knew that he would be all right.
Growing up in the shadow of a brilliant older sister, with a father who dismisses her ambitions, music is the one place Ernestine belongs. Her flute teacher sees what no else does: talent, fire, and potential. For years, he is the father she never had. She excels in competitions and dreams of being a professional musician, but her father ridicules her plans and insists she attend Emory University as a math major.
At twenty, she wins a seat in the Atlanta Symphony, sitting beside that beloved mentor. It is everything she ever wanted. After her successful first year, however, the mentor turns against her and tries to get her fired. He chips away at her confidence with relentless verbal attacks, sending her spiraling into depression.
Confused and isolated, she faces a choice no young artist should ever have to make: whether to leave a prestigious job with no guarantee of finding another or stay and face further abuse from her mentor. In the fiercely competitive world of classical music, Countermelodies is a story of betrayal, resilience, and the stubborn love of music that refuses to be silenced.
Winner, NYC Big Book Award (2024) and Indie Reader Discovery Award (2025)
“A disturbing and compelling tale of resilience, determination, and musical passion.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“Whitman explores power dynamics, patriarchal oppression, and music as personal salvation. … a story of persistence and survival in a world at the mercy of toxic misogyny.” — BlueInk Review
https://ernestinewhitman.ag-sites.net/index.htm
Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent bookstore.
Susan Zemelman is a retired adult educator who has worked at universities and in the business world. Her poetry and prose works have been published in the Chicago Tribune, North Shore Magazine, The English Journal, and Voices: the art and science of psychotherapy, among others.
Born in 1952, Moriat Gary McNamara grew up in Florida but spent most of her adult life in New York City, where she pursued a career as a modern dancer. She later returned to university and earned a Master of Social Work (MSW). Her art education was shaped by exposure to various art forms and the study of art history. In 2021, after moving to Williamstown, MA, she enrolled in an oil painting class despite having no prior experience. Since then, she has been creating abstract images.
I love the way you told the story if a life in blue cars.Brilliant!!