They were not poor. Walter's contracting business had done well in its later years, and Eleanor had been careful with savings and investments before most of their friends considered retirement accounts worth discussing. Michael's success had added a cushion their younger selves could never have imagined. But neither saw any reason to replace comfortable clothes because a stranger might be impressed by the price of something newer. Walter wore his old hat because Eleanor had given it to him on their twenty-fifth anniversary. She kept the cream dress because it fitted well and had pockets deep enough for her glasses.
They had decided to visit Crownline after discussing a gift Michael wanted to give them for their anniversary. For months he had been talking about buying them a special car, something elegant and comfortable for the trips they still took to see old friends and relatives. Walter, who thought a well-maintained sedan could carry a person anywhere worth going, had resisted. Eleanor, who had spent forty years making her family's wishes fit around everyone else's, had surprised him by saying she wanted to look.
"I don't want a car because people will turn around and watch it," she had told Michael over Sunday dinner. "I want to see what it feels like to choose something beautiful without calculating what else we have to give up to afford it. We never got to do that when we were young."
Michael had gone quiet at the statement. He could remember those calculations because he had watched his parents make them. He remembered the month his father put off replacing his work boots so Michael could attend a science program. He remembered Eleanor returning a coat she loved because his younger sister needed braces. When he finally spoke, he told them to choose whatever they liked and offered to arrange a private appointment.
Walter declined the private appointment. "If it's a store, we'll go in like anybody else," he said. "I want to look at cars, not walk into a ceremony." Michael let the matter rest, not understanding yet how much those words would come to mean. His parents had agreed to browse Monday morning while he attended meetings and had promised to call him if they found anything interesting.
At eight thirty, Eleanor made sure she had her reading glasses and a small notebook. Walter checked the weather, found his keys on the hook beside the back door, and opened the passenger side of their twelve-year-old sedan for her. The car was clean, reliable, and an unremarkable silver that disappeared into parking lots. Walter had polished its headlights the week before, partly out of habit and partly because he liked a machine to look cared for. Neither of them imagined that the car in which they arrived would become one of the first things used against them.