• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 451 0

times in movies and television, to be sure, but while Chuck Killion’s car was right for its part, no filmmaker in his right mind would have cast the doctor’s car—black, sleek, finned, and as long as a limousine—in this role. And in spite of the power of the Chrysler’s engine, Johnny Dunbar never raced on Chippewa Avenue. He was a cautious, responsible driver, and he was also critical—we both were—of our contemporaries who lived to hear their engines roar and their tires squeal. As it was, I knew more about horsepower, cubic inches, and carburetors than I’d ever cared to learn, but the simple fact of the matter was that in our town, knowing which boys had the hottest cars was as natural as knowing who the best-looking girls were, or how the Willow Falls Warriors had fared recently.

Yet there we were, Johnny gripping the steering wheel tight while the Chrysler approached the traffic signal at the Sixth Street intersection with the speedometer’s needle inching over fifty. The light turned yellow, but neither Johnny nor Chuck slowed. Yellow flashed to red, and only then did Johnny and Chuck Killion hit their brakes. The Chrysler dipped and swayed and its brakes squealed, but we finally slid to a stop.

“Okay,” I said. “That was interesting. Though I don’t know what the fucking point was.”

Johnny didn’t answer. To our right was Sandor’s Mobil, much favored by the town’s young drivers because gas there was always slightly cheaper than at any other station. Off to our left was Giff’s Drive-In, where many of the town’s teenagers docked when they ran out of gas money or tired of driving Chippewa Avenue.

Ordinarily we would have surveyed the lot at Giff’s, looking for familiar faces or cars. But this time Johnny just stared straight ahead down the avenue’s length, his hands clamped to the steering wheel. Next to us, Chuck Killion revved the Ford’s engine. “We’re not finished?” I asked Johnny.

He didn’t answer. The light turned green, and Chuck Killion jumped away from the intersection, having an advantage because of his Ford’s floor-mounted four-speed. But Johnny pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the Chrysler quickly closed the gap.

We passed Bonnie O’Brien, driving her parents’ Chevrolet station wagon, the vehicle full of our female classmates. We sped past Billy Woodyard in his black Volkswagen, and he bleated his horn as we went by. He probably didn’t even know who was in the Chrysler.

We raced through the town’s last traffic light doing fifty. Johnny passed an old humpbacked Hudson driven by an elderly man who was so startled by the black-asnight Chrysler flashing past that he almost swerved off the road.

The last of Willow Falls’ businesses was on the right—Kendall’s Automotive Supply, with its black stacks of traded-in tires behind a high chain-link fence. It was the last business within the city limits. And it was here that Chippewa Avenue became a country road.

The Ford was in the lead until Chuck Killion suddenly slowed, his engine growling as he geared down. In the meantime, Johnny was going over sixty on a street with a thirty-five mile-per-hour speed limit.

“Why don’t you count this as a win,” I said, “and slow the fuck down.”

But Johnny didn’t let up on the gas, and having left the last of the streetlights behind at Kendall’s, we sped on into the darkness. Tree trunks and fence posts close to the road, black against the snow, flashed by like iron bars. The road ran ruler-straight for a stretch, before curving south and crossing the railroad tracks. I gripped the armrest tightly, but Johnny kept the Chrysler under control through the curve. Had a train been coming he wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing to avoid a collision. As it was, we bumped over the rails with a jolt that rattled my teeth.

We’d traveled about a mile out of Willow Falls. I knew this because I recognized a set of familiar lights and structures up ahead. If Johnny didn’t turn, we’d enter the parking lot of Northland Screens.

The town’s only industry, Northland was a manufacturer of door and window screens. The factory had once