my parents might someday not love each other, or me. And now I could add that Nell had something wrong with her.
If I had known how bad it actually was, that would have been all I would have thought about the rest of that summer.
I had begged Daddy for weeks to let me go to work with him.
For some reason, that morning he let me sit on his lap and steer the truck, although he kept one thumb hooked on the lower corner of the wheel, to make sure I didn’t wreck us. He turned up the radio and tapped his thumb in beat to the song, and I felt as if I were driving all alone, a grown boy in control of the world. After a time he kissed the back of my head, his signal to me to slide off his lap and let him drive the rest of the way. He always said if I drove too far, the cops would get us.
I hadn’t been kissed by my father in ages, so after moving, I sat there and looked at him for what seemed a long while before I rolled down my window and let my hand float up and down on the rushing air as the hills and river sped by.
When we came to the high bridge where the little boy had died, Daddy slowed, as if paying respect. I started to ask him what he knew about the dead boy, but there was something about his face that told me to not speak. He was peering over the railing of the bridge, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes slow to blink. I thought I saw him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple rising in a gulp. Maybe he saw the child’s ghost and didn’t want me to know. His whole body changed — tensed, became bigger, more solid — when we passed over the bridge. But then we were back on the road and he was speeding up again, and it didn’t feel right to mention anything. I was having such a fine time that I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up a dead boy. Before long we arrived at the station.
I loved everything about the Ashland station: the smell of oil in the garage, the long black tube that ran across the pavement in front of the gas pumps, the bell that rang when a car drove over this tube, approaching for gas. I admired the way the wide metal shelf had been attached to the ceiling over the cash register. This shelf held brightly colored packs of cigarettes that were gotten to by reaching up and snatching one down. When one pack was removed, another slid down into its place, which struck me as ingenious. I loved the three separate boxes of candy bars that stood on the counter. The orange box for Reese’s cups, the brown one for Hershey bars, and the red one that held Zagnuts. There was no store at my father’s station, only these boxes of candy, along with the cigarettes, a glass jar that held Blow Pop suckers, and the oil filters, air hoses, and timing belts that hung on the wall behind the counter. There was a Pepsi machine out on the curb in front of the station that ticked especially loud when it was hot, struggling to keep the bottles cold.
My father owned and operated the gas station with only two helpers. One was an older man — called String because he was so tall and skinny — who was an expert at repairing engines. People brought their cars from miles around so he could work on them. String did not say much but always winked at me and produced a stick of Fruit Stripe gum from his shirt pocket, offering it with greasy fingers. Then he’d wink at me again and give his own wad of gum a loud chomp. The other employee was Jack, who had been the valedictorian of his senior class but wanted to work awhile before going to college. My father said that Jack was all book sense and nothing else, since he was dumb as Nixon when it came to practical matters. He tended to smaller jobs like pumping gas, cleaning windshields, rotating tires, plugging flat tires, or changing oil. Any new task had to be explained to him in such great detail that my father usually just gave up and did whatever had to be done himself. Jack was eager to please, though, and was good to me, often talking to me at length about books. That summer
If I had known how bad it actually was, that would have been all I would have thought about the rest of that summer.
I had begged Daddy for weeks to let me go to work with him.
For some reason, that morning he let me sit on his lap and steer the truck, although he kept one thumb hooked on the lower corner of the wheel, to make sure I didn’t wreck us. He turned up the radio and tapped his thumb in beat to the song, and I felt as if I were driving all alone, a grown boy in control of the world. After a time he kissed the back of my head, his signal to me to slide off his lap and let him drive the rest of the way. He always said if I drove too far, the cops would get us.
I hadn’t been kissed by my father in ages, so after moving, I sat there and looked at him for what seemed a long while before I rolled down my window and let my hand float up and down on the rushing air as the hills and river sped by.
When we came to the high bridge where the little boy had died, Daddy slowed, as if paying respect. I started to ask him what he knew about the dead boy, but there was something about his face that told me to not speak. He was peering over the railing of the bridge, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes slow to blink. I thought I saw him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple rising in a gulp. Maybe he saw the child’s ghost and didn’t want me to know. His whole body changed — tensed, became bigger, more solid — when we passed over the bridge. But then we were back on the road and he was speeding up again, and it didn’t feel right to mention anything. I was having such a fine time that I didn’t want to spoil it by bringing up a dead boy. Before long we arrived at the station.
I loved everything about the Ashland station: the smell of oil in the garage, the long black tube that ran across the pavement in front of the gas pumps, the bell that rang when a car drove over this tube, approaching for gas. I admired the way the wide metal shelf had been attached to the ceiling over the cash register. This shelf held brightly colored packs of cigarettes that were gotten to by reaching up and snatching one down. When one pack was removed, another slid down into its place, which struck me as ingenious. I loved the three separate boxes of candy bars that stood on the counter. The orange box for Reese’s cups, the brown one for Hershey bars, and the red one that held Zagnuts. There was no store at my father’s station, only these boxes of candy, along with the cigarettes, a glass jar that held Blow Pop suckers, and the oil filters, air hoses, and timing belts that hung on the wall behind the counter. There was a Pepsi machine out on the curb in front of the station that ticked especially loud when it was hot, struggling to keep the bottles cold.
My father owned and operated the gas station with only two helpers. One was an older man — called String because he was so tall and skinny — who was an expert at repairing engines. People brought their cars from miles around so he could work on them. String did not say much but always winked at me and produced a stick of Fruit Stripe gum from his shirt pocket, offering it with greasy fingers. Then he’d wink at me again and give his own wad of gum a loud chomp. The other employee was Jack, who had been the valedictorian of his senior class but wanted to work awhile before going to college. My father said that Jack was all book sense and nothing else, since he was dumb as Nixon when it came to practical matters. He tended to smaller jobs like pumping gas, cleaning windshields, rotating tires, plugging flat tires, or changing oil. Any new task had to be explained to him in such great detail that my father usually just gave up and did whatever had to be done himself. Jack was eager to please, though, and was good to me, often talking to me at length about books. That summer
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