Drives Like a Dream Read Online Free

line.
    "I don't care much about sales," Lydia said. "I'm just happy to see it reviewed."
    "So sales don't matter?" Bobby asked. "They sure matter in my business. My business is all about sales."
    "Don't I know it," Lydia said, and though her tone was probably more joking than critical, Bobby took it the wrong way.
    "I don't read many books. I'm too busy for books." He shifted in his seat. "But I did read yours, Lydia. You're a fine cook, but you're not so hot at
getting
your facts right. You've got some nasty things to say about some good people."
    Jessica had looked across the table at her father. He seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek.
    Lydia cut into the pie. "Like who?" she asked.
    "Henry Ford, for one." Bobby raised his voice. "I don't care what you write. He was a great man."
    "Henry Ford was a terrible anti-Semite. And I'm by no means the first to say that." Lydia put a piece of pie on a plate and passed it to Cy, who immediately began eating. "He wrote a tract against Jews in the twenties that Hitler said was his greatest influence. The Führer had a picture of Ford hanging on his office wall."
    Jessica had never seen her mother in a confrontation like this. Lydia spoke in calm, measured sentences, which only made Bobby more agitated.
    "I'm not talking about the man's beliefs," he said. "The world is a better place because of the assembly line. That's my point."
    Lydia picked up a plate. "How about some pie?"
    Bobby took his piece of pie and began to have a bite, then put his fork down. His face glowed in the candlelight. "Ford did a lot of good for a lot of people, Lydia. My grandfather came to this country without a pot to piss in, and Ford gave him a job in tool and die with a decent salary and put him through language school, where he learned to speak English. He and my grandmother raised six great kids and my father was one of those, and by God
he
worked for Ford. You have a lot of nerve living in this city and writing the things you write."
    "Look, I just tell what happened," Lydia said. "Some of the stories are nice, some not so nice. Do you know what Ford did at graduation from that language school? He put a replica of a melting pot onstage, a huge vat that he wheeled out for all the graduations back then. The immigrant workers would walk into it wearing their old-world clothes, the English instructors would stand above them stirring the pot with giant spoons, and a couple of minutes later the new graduates would emerge in American suits waving American flags. That actually happened, and it says a lot about Henry Ford's 'good' intentions. It didn't matter to him that these people were leaving a culture behind in order to become his worker bees. We live in a world where certain people seem to know what's best for the rest of us."
    Bobby pushed his plate away. "Look, my grandfather had no regrets. He was a full-blooded American and proud of it. I don't know where I'd be without Ford—or where you'd be, either. Your husband is a Ford employee, need I remind you?"
    "And you're his boss," Lydia said. "Which is why you feel entitled to launch into this speech at dinner at my house and insult me in front of my children. You might have chosen a different time to air your complaints. This is hardly my idea of a family Thanksgiving."
    Jessica had watched Cy lower his head and finish the rest of his dessert without comment. He sat between his wife and the man who paid his salary, and Jessica saw that he would do nothing to stop their dispute. Cy took a large mouthful of coffee, ran his finger over his plate collecting what crumbs remained of his piecrust, then licked his finger. He had a sheepish look on his face. He couldn't defend his wife because she didn't need defending, nor did he have the ability to finesse the argument to a peaceful end. By the time it was over, Cy had retreated into his own secluded space. Jessica had wanted to reach across the table and pull her father back into the conversation.