saw something in Diane’s eye just before she turned forward again. Something was wrong. Diane muttered under her breath to her father.
“What?”
“Next left.”
“You don’t have to tell me, for chrissake.”
“You passed the street.”
For a split second it occurred to René that her father was joking, that this was one of his elaborate charades to twist Diane’s tail—something he’d do when she was in a bad mood. It was slightly perverse but it always got her laughing. Like when he’d pretend that his leg had fallen asleep and that he’d have to limp to the movie or restaurant, stopping every so often to whack his thigh awake, then suddenly stop limping as if he were one of those miracles at Lourdes and look up to the sky in a gaze of beatific gratification. It would send both of them into laughing jags. Or the time he spent the entire evening speaking like Peter Sellers’s Inspector Clouseau because René was taking French lit. And the more Diane asked him to stop, the more he pretended he didn’t understand English until she cracked up. That was it: One of his routines — playing Daddy Dumb-Dumb.
“Christ!” He hissed and he slammed his hand on the wheel.
René felt her insides clutch. No, something else.
He pulled over to the side to let traffic pass. He had driven by the turnoff. For several seconds he stared through the windshield as silence filled the car like toxic gas.
“What’s wrong?” René could hear the fright in her voice. Ever since her arrival, she had detected a low-grade anxiety — her mother’s nervous distraction, her father’s forced cheer. A horrid thought slashed across her brain: Her mother’s cancer was back. During a regular check-up they had found a spot on her lung.
And Dad was so distracted by worry that he got confused on a route he could navigate in his sleep.
“Everything’s fine,” her mother snapped.
“I’m just a little tired, Honey.” When the traffic cleared, he made a U-turn, approached the intersection again, then turned.
“Dad, it’s the other way!”
He slammed on the brakes and nearly collided with an oncoming car. Horns blared as they sat in the intersection, her father looking stunned. “Pull over. Pull over!” her mother shouted. He pulled over, the car facing the opposite way and on the wrong side of 6A. René’s chest was so tight she could barely breathe and her mother was crying. Her father sat staring straight ahead. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m getting senile. I forgot how to get there.”
“You’re not getting senile. You’re not.” But she could sense the ugly snout push its way up. “You just got a little confused, people blowing their horns like that. We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”
“We’re going,” her mother snarled. “You can turn now.”
Her father checked the road. “What happens when you get old.”
“You’re not old. Seventy-two is not old,” René insisted.
“Straight,” Diane said under her breath. “Straight.”
And her father pulled through the intersection up toward the restaurant.
And in the backseat René uttered a silent prayer. Please, God, no.
Seven years later they buried her father under that stone. By then he had forgotten he had once been a full human being.
René finished cleaning the headstone. “I’m doing better, Dad,” she said. “Making an effort to stay active. Even Nick is after me. ‘You’re too holed-up with your computer.’ ‘You have to end this self-exile,’ he says. ‘Meet a nice guy.’ Well, I’m going to a party tomorrow. Should be some interesting people there besides Nick.”
Birds fluttered overhead and changed direction with a flick. She watched them swirl around and return overhead, then blow away toward the west.
“Remember the time we went fishing off the pier at Scusset Beach? Caught a striper the size of my leg. Missed being a keeper by two inches, but you let me bring it
“What?”
“Next left.”
“You don’t have to tell me, for chrissake.”
“You passed the street.”
For a split second it occurred to René that her father was joking, that this was one of his elaborate charades to twist Diane’s tail—something he’d do when she was in a bad mood. It was slightly perverse but it always got her laughing. Like when he’d pretend that his leg had fallen asleep and that he’d have to limp to the movie or restaurant, stopping every so often to whack his thigh awake, then suddenly stop limping as if he were one of those miracles at Lourdes and look up to the sky in a gaze of beatific gratification. It would send both of them into laughing jags. Or the time he spent the entire evening speaking like Peter Sellers’s Inspector Clouseau because René was taking French lit. And the more Diane asked him to stop, the more he pretended he didn’t understand English until she cracked up. That was it: One of his routines — playing Daddy Dumb-Dumb.
“Christ!” He hissed and he slammed his hand on the wheel.
René felt her insides clutch. No, something else.
He pulled over to the side to let traffic pass. He had driven by the turnoff. For several seconds he stared through the windshield as silence filled the car like toxic gas.
“What’s wrong?” René could hear the fright in her voice. Ever since her arrival, she had detected a low-grade anxiety — her mother’s nervous distraction, her father’s forced cheer. A horrid thought slashed across her brain: Her mother’s cancer was back. During a regular check-up they had found a spot on her lung.
And Dad was so distracted by worry that he got confused on a route he could navigate in his sleep.
“Everything’s fine,” her mother snapped.
“I’m just a little tired, Honey.” When the traffic cleared, he made a U-turn, approached the intersection again, then turned.
“Dad, it’s the other way!”
He slammed on the brakes and nearly collided with an oncoming car. Horns blared as they sat in the intersection, her father looking stunned. “Pull over. Pull over!” her mother shouted. He pulled over, the car facing the opposite way and on the wrong side of 6A. René’s chest was so tight she could barely breathe and her mother was crying. Her father sat staring straight ahead. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m getting senile. I forgot how to get there.”
“You’re not getting senile. You’re not.” But she could sense the ugly snout push its way up. “You just got a little confused, people blowing their horns like that. We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”
“We’re going,” her mother snarled. “You can turn now.”
Her father checked the road. “What happens when you get old.”
“You’re not old. Seventy-two is not old,” René insisted.
“Straight,” Diane said under her breath. “Straight.”
And her father pulled through the intersection up toward the restaurant.
And in the backseat René uttered a silent prayer. Please, God, no.
Seven years later they buried her father under that stone. By then he had forgotten he had once been a full human being.
René finished cleaning the headstone. “I’m doing better, Dad,” she said. “Making an effort to stay active. Even Nick is after me. ‘You’re too holed-up with your computer.’ ‘You have to end this self-exile,’ he says. ‘Meet a nice guy.’ Well, I’m going to a party tomorrow. Should be some interesting people there besides Nick.”
Birds fluttered overhead and changed direction with a flick. She watched them swirl around and return overhead, then blow away toward the west.
“Remember the time we went fishing off the pier at Scusset Beach? Caught a striper the size of my leg. Missed being a keeper by two inches, but you let me bring it
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