The two Boat Tails remained outside only as long as the collection's agreed schedule allowed. When the drivers prepared to return them to the exhibition facility, Eleanor asked for one more look at the blue car. She walked along its side without touching the paint and admired the way the lines seemed to move even while it was parked. Walter stood beside her with his old hat in one hand. Several passersby stopped on the sidewalk to take photographs, careful to remain beyond the barriers the transport team had placed around the vehicles.
"They are beautiful," Eleanor admitted. "I'm glad we had the chance to ride in them."
Michael looked at her. "Was it worth the fuss?"
She considered his question before answering. "The drive was lovely. Seeing that salesman recognize us was satisfying for about three seconds. But I think the most important part happened after we went inside, when we spoke and people finally listened. I wish we could have had that conversation without needing these cars."
"So do I," Michael said.
Walter placed his hat back on his head. "We can enjoy a little drama without confusing it for justice. Your mother has always appreciated an entrance."
Eleanor gave him an incredulous look. "I'm the one who appreciates an entrance? You're the man who wore a bright red tuxedo jacket to your cousin's wedding."
"It was fashionable."
"It was visible from three blocks away."
Michael laughed, and the laughter felt necessary. The family had spent too many hours discussing cruelty, management failures, and evidence. Their private humor reminded them that the incident did not own the rest of their lives. They had come to the gallery as a married couple looking forward to an anniversary. Even if the morning had turned into something larger, they were still entitled to look ahead with pleasure.
The drivers left shortly after ten thirty. The unusual sight drew curious looks from people along the boulevard, but the cars soon disappeared into ordinary traffic. The Bennetts did not remain to watch the reaction inside the showroom. Michael had a driver bring their familiar silver sedan around, and Walter insisted on taking the wheel. Eleanor settled into the passenger seat and adjusted the window that had worked perfectly for more than a decade.
"Are you sure you don't want to ride home with me?" Michael asked.
"We got here on our own yesterday," Walter replied. "We can get home on our own today."
Eleanor reached through the open window and squeezed Michael's hand. "Thank you for coming with us," she said. "Not for the cars. For sitting down and listening before you did anything."
Michael watched them pull away. The sedan blended almost immediately into the afternoon flow of vehicles, and no one on the sidewalk turned to stare. He found himself wondering how many people had mistaken that ordinary appearance for evidence about who his parents were. Then he realized that the better question was how many people had been taught to make those judgments without ever questioning why. He stood beside his car for another moment before returning to work.