Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [20]
The last time it happened, only a couple of months earlier, we were driving home late at night. We were on the long stretch of two-lane highway between the shores of Lake Minnetonka and our home in Minneapolis. The landscape offered little for miles, other than the dark-shrouded trees on either side of the road and the bright stars overhead. Our headlights cleared a path through the otherwise pitch-darkness of that little-traveled route.
Daddy was driving, of course, while Mom held Valerie on her lap in the front seat. Wally and I sat behind them on the vinyl bench seat of Dad’s 1963 Chevy Impala. All was quiet save for the whirling of the tires over the asphalt. Exhausted from a long day in the sun, Wally and I laid our heads back against the seat and began to doze.
That’s when it always started, when we were right there on the edge of sleep. It started with a slight acceleration, almost imperceptible at first, but growing greater until, jerked awake, I saw the trees whiz by at an impossible rate.
“Alan, please . . .” Mom said as she clutched Valerie tighter. “Please . . .”
Daddy’s face was lighted up like he had front-row seats at a Minnesota Twins game. “Come on, Janis, it’s fun. This road just begs for a game of chicken. Everybody ready? Anybody screams, I’m heading straight for the next tree.”
I watched in horror as the needle on the speedometer climbed higher. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out.
“This isn’t funny, Alan,” Mom said. “Please don’t do this.”
Wally sat up straight in the seat, his spine a ramrod, his hands curled into fists. “Stop it, Alan,” he said, his jaw tight, teeth clenched.
“What’s the matter, Wally? Chicken? Buck-buck, buck-buck!”
The needle climbed. Daddy laughed. He laughed so hard he cried.
“Alan.” Mom was trying hard but failing to keep the panic out of her voice. “Alan, you’re going to kill us. Please slow down.”
“I promise not to run off the road unless somebody screams. Anyone screams, well . . .” He tugged at the wheel enough to send the car swerving onto the shoulder of the road. We bumped over the gravel for a few terrifying moments until Daddy pulled the car back into the lane.
By now, Valerie was awake and whimpering. Mom held a hand near Valerie’s mouth, ready to stifle her cries. I had a firm two-handed hold on the armrest of the door, bracing myself for impact. Mom was at least secured by a lap belt but, without seat belts in the back, Wally and I were on our own. I imagined the car careening off the road and rolling over, Wally and I tossed about inside like a couple of rag dolls in a dryer.
I trembled. The Chevy trembled. I lifted fearful eyes to Wally. The muscles on the side of his face rippled, and his fists were on the back of the driver’s seat, just behind Daddy’s neck. “Slow down or I’ll kill you, Alan,” Wally said. “I swear I will.”
Daddy laughed. “Yeah? And who’s going to grab the wheel when I’m dead?”
Mom looked at Daddy, and I could see the tears running down her face. “These are your children, Alan,” she pleaded. “Please don’t hurt them.”
At long last Daddy decelerated, letting the car slow down to the posted speed. He chuckled, shook his head, called us names I can’t repeat. He took off his fisherman’s hat, used the palm of one hand to wipe his eyes, tossed the hat back on the crown of his head.
And then he went on driving homeward through another dark Minnesota night.
And now, because I’d overheard Mom and Tillie’s conversation, I had one more weed to try to uproot as I waded through that field of memories.
chapter
7
Tillie and I were in the kitchen making spaghetti for supper when the doorbell rang and someone hollered through the screen door, “Mother!”
“That you, Johnny?”
“Can I come in?”
“Door’s open.”
Tillie stopped stirring the tomato sauce, wiped her hands on her apron, and smiled at her son as he walked into the kitchen. “Stay