Page 18 of Forever Christmas
“The chicks seem to dig that look on you.”
I shrug. This is one of the reasons I don’t hang with Mario since Corabelle came back. He doesn’t recognize that my priorities are completely rearranged.
“I’m going to bring her car around,” he says. “Bay three.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” I tell him. I’ll have one of the grunts take theMazda for a drive to make sure it’s all working.
I clear the tools from the area and drop the hood. A towel gets caught in the latch, and I have to lift it again to clear it. My head betrays me, flashing back to a morning a long time ago, working on Mom’s car with Dad. He had me do that a lot, insisting I learn a trade.
I was probably ten or so. Normally Corabelle hung around when I was withDad, as he wouldn’t hit me when she was watching. He felt like the Rothefords were nosy and would call the cops even though he had every right to discipline his son. But that day Corabelle was shopping with her mom.
That morning I closed the hood on the shop towel, just like I did today. It shouldn’t have been any big deal. It’s just a crappy old rag, and lifting the hood a second time took allof five seconds.
But Dad was already frustrated and annoyed that he’d had to buy a new battery for the car. He blamed Mom for it, since she only ever drove to church and back, and he was sure those short trips were killing the alternator or the battery or both.
It was stupid, and we both knew it. He tried to make her walk instead, told her she could use the exercise anyway. This was his wayof berating her, keeping her down. I only knew he was wrong because I practically lived at Corabelle’s house, and I saw the way a man ought to treat his wife.
But I couldn’t do anything about it.
I pulled the towel out and lowered the hood, hoping he wouldn’t say anything about my mistake.
But of course he had. He snatched the towel from me and snapped it at my head. The corner whipped againstmy cheek, causing a sharp sting.
I turned away to pick up the tools, but he was just warming up.
“You can’t do a single damn thing right the first time, can you, boy?” His voice had that low threatening quality I knew meant I better split fast. I could run, hide somewhere for the day, wait for Corabelle to come home. Most weekends I stayed over there until late, when I could sneak in, my fathersnoring on the recliner.
I dropped the wrench in the toolbox and headed past the car to the sidewalk. My father was strong but not fast. I could outrun him if I got a chance.
He knew it, stepping between me and the car. I was blocked.
I could go back through the garage into the house and cut through the kitchen. But he’d know I was running then. It would only make things worse later, tomorrowor whenever it caught up to me.
For some reason, that day I decided I was done running. I stared him right in the eye and stood up straight.
I would take this blow and move on.
His face was a sneer as I did my best to square my shoulders. We glowered at each other, seconds ticking. I waited for the blow. He didn’t do it.
So I asked, “You want me to start it up?”
This caught him a bit bysurprise. He expected me to cower, to run. He wiped the battery crud off his hands onto the towel. His squinty eyes took me in. “Yeah,” he said. “See if you even connected it right.”
No blow.
I scooted past him and he cuffed my head as I passed, but that was nothing. I climbed into Mom’s car and turned the key. The engine hesitated, uneasy. But after a catch or two, it fired up.
My father stoodthere, frowning at the car, hands on his hips. He seemed less intimidating with the car between us. I could close the door and lock it. If I dared, I could put the car in reverse and just take off.
Or put it in drive and run him over.
But it was a big moment. I hadn’t backed down.
The towel has reminded me of this moment, this knife-edge of wanting to be gone, or him dead.
Now I’m grown, andI’m gone, and he might die.
And by God, I simply can’t find any sympathy in my heart.
