In the bath of silence my ears rang, felt plugged and full, like ducking under water. My father parked, set the brake, let the engine die. I added a new rule to my game - if I missed a sign, we would crash. My father glanced at his watch, downshifted. To win, I had to read aloud every sign we passed.īaskin Robbins … Baskin Robbins! Hey Dad! 31 -Flavors! The roar of the blower plus the blast of wind was satisfyingly deafening. The air cooled as we sped through the afternoon, and Dad snapped the heater on. I read aloud from the list: Kool cigarettes, a jar of instant coffee, chocolate cherries … I pulled a wrinkled list from my pocket, checked the paper bag between my shoes. He gripped the steering wheel, focused on the road. In the afternoon light, my face reflected in the glass looked like a scoop of ghost. Trees and houses flashed by, wind thumped the windshield. When we pulled back in, I’d let out my breath. We floated behind the car ahead, jockeying till the other lane opened up, then Dad downshifted hard, swerved into the passing lane and punched the gas. Passing on this two-lane road was exhilarating. He downshifted onto the exit ramp, pulled onto a two-lane state highway that shot through low-lying fields into rural countryside. My father veered from lane to lane, jamming the shifter through gears as we crossed into Maryland. One driver did, and my heart jumped up to my throat. I imagined myself having mind control, whispering into their brains, Look at me, look at me, look over here at me. The other drivers stared ahead expressionless, paid me scant attention. When a car passed us - a rarity - I made sure Dad knew. If this were a race we’d be winning, which made me feel proud, even as I cranked my seat belt tighter. I shot whatever got in our way - Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Squinting toward the Ford’s blunt nose, I saw a line of chrome trim running like a gun sight. I could rest my cheek on the window frame and let the road rumble through my cheekbone. If I leaned out the window, the blast of wind tore back my hair, pulled tears from my eyes. Our ’66 Ford Country Sedan roared down the lane like a cargo jet on takeoff, and slower cars vanished behind us. Feeling mute and stupid, I gave up trying.īetter to crank down my passenger window and look out - count the drivers we passed. If I tried to think of something to say, to ease my tension, to fill the vacuum, I’d blurt and stumble. He did this in silence - unusual for him, an easy talker - and his silence made me uneasy. I watched his arms and legs move in fluid rhythm - lever the clutch, pull the column shifter, check the mirrors, swing into the passing lane, mash the gas, pass the slower car beside us, recheck the mirrors, veer back into lane, stomp the clutch, shift into overdrive, and glide. He checked the rearview mirror and jammed the stick shift into gear. Peaceful, he said, where she doesn’t need to worry.
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