The Best Backer Upper in South Dakota

“Clear,” I said, out loud, and pulled across in a low gear without shifting on the tracks.

There was a right turn in a little town tighter than I liked. I swung wide without swinging too early. The trailer tires missed the curb by a hand’s width.

Mr. Hagen didn’t say anything. He wrote.

When I pulled back into the lot and set the brake, he wrote for a long minute. I could see the window from where I was parked. Three faces. One cardigan.

“You passed,” he said.

I had to hold the wheel for a second before I could climb down. I am not a crier. I did not cry. But I held that wheel.

“Thank you,” I said, finally. “Thank you, sir.”

“You did it,” he said. “I didn’t do anything. Your straight line was as straight as I’ve seen this year.”

Then he looked over at the building again. “Those yours?”

“All three,” I said.

“Bring them out,” he said. “I’ve got to sign a couple things.”

Mrs. Ostby brought them out. Mira had Lula by the hand, and Cal ran straight at me and wrapped himself around my legs so hard I almost sat down on the asphalt.

“You didn’t hit any,” Cal said. “Not even one. Mira counted.”

“I counted,” Mira said. “Zero cones.”

Mr. Hagen crouched down in front of them, which took some doing, because he was not a small man and his knees were not young. He held out his clipboard to Mira.

“You’re the oldest?” he asked.

Mira nodded.

“Then you hold this,” he said, “while I find my pen. It’s important paperwork. That’s your mother’s test sheet.”

Mira took that clipboard with both hands like it was made of glass and held it flat against her chest. She did not look at it. She looked at me.

Then Lula, who had not said one word all morning, tugged on the man’s coat sleeve.

“My mom is the best backer-upper,” she told him. Very serious. Like she was giving testimony.

Mr. Hagen looked at her for a second. Then he nodded slowly.

“Young lady,” he said, “I have tested a lot of drivers. I believe you are right.”

Mrs. Ostby pulled a tissue out of her cardigan sleeve and dabbed at her nose. I pretended not to notice, and she pretended not to notice me pretending.

I tried to pay her for the cocoa. She would not take it. I tried to thank her properly, and she waved me off.

“I had four of my own,” she said. “My mother watched every one of them so I could finish my degree. Somebody owed somebody. Go get your license.”

In South Dakota, when you pass with a third-party examiner like the college, you take your paperwork to a driver exam station and they issue an interim license. The plastic card comes in the mail.

The exam station in Sioux Falls was on the way home. The lady at the counter looked at my three kids lined up on the plastic chairs and said, “Big day?”

“Big day,” I said.

She took my picture with my hair still in the braid under the ball cap. She slid the interim license across the counter, and there it was. Class A.