Read Online For Your Tomorrow by Melanie Murray - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie Murray
Ads: Link
gap-toothed grin. “My birthday is only six days away you know.”
“That would be fun,” she says, getting up to go into the living room. “Let’s see if Jack will drive us there.” Jack is lounging with his feet up in his brown velour La-Z-Boy, eyes glued to the TV—the Saturday afternoon football game.
“It’s a tie game,” he says. “I can’t miss the last quarter.”
Alma glares at him, hands on her hips. She has her licence, but hasn’t driven a car for many years. As a young woman she learned to drive on rural dirt roads, but only got behind the wheel to drive a few miles to the shore in Malagash. She looks at Jeff’s deflated face.
It’s only six miles into Fredericton
, she thinks.
And there’s not much traffic on this road
. “Well, then,” she says, “I guess I’ll just have to take the car myself. What do you think, Jeffy?”
“Yeah! You can do it, Granny,” he says, eyes sparkling. “You’re a good driver.”
“Okay,” she says, “let’s go.” They climb into Jack’s new maroon and tan Oldsmobile sedan, two pals off on an adventure. She drives slowly down the long driveway onto the main road, her moist hands gripping the steering wheel. She isn’t accustomed to the car’s more modern features—power steering, power brakes, automatic locks, push-buttonwindows. But the road is traffic free, and she’s going well below the speed limit. There’s just that one busy intersection with traffic lights where they have to turn left onto Prospect Street, she thinks, then the mall is right there on the corner.
Jeff is fingering all the shiny silver buttons on his door, curious to see what they’re for and how they work. “Granny, I’m hot,” he says. “Can I put my window down a bit?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” she says, her eyes fixed on the road, hands white-knuckled in the ten o’clock—two o’clock position. Jeff presses all the buttons, but nothing happens. So she reaches over with her right hand, across the wide bench seat to help him. Her left hand jerks the steering wheel towards the side of the road. The car swerves. Tires crunch onto the gravel shoulder. The Olds careens down a steep six-foot embankment, and lands nose-down in the ditch.
Dear Granny
,
I’m sorry about the accident. It was my fault
.
You were only trying to help me
.
Thank you for the delicious roast beef you made for supper
.
I LOVE YOU
I LOVE YOU
I LOVE YOU
X O X O X O X O
X O X O X O X O
Jeff
Twenty-two years later, we found the letter tucked away in her cedar chest. At the bottom of the blue-lined notepapershe’d written,
Nov. 5 th 1978
—
Oldsmobile went in a deep ditch in New Maryland
. It’s one of the stories engraved in our family’s collective memory. It encapsulates their relationship—his grandmother’s helper role and Jeff’s appreciation of her unwavering assistance. This letter was the first of many that Jeff would write to his grandmother over the years, all of which she saved in the chest that kept her cherished possessions. These letters trace Jeff’s growth throughout childhood, then his struggles with school during his stormy adolescence:
Dearest Granny
,
I haven’t written you in a long time but you were a kid once you know how it is, lots to do, lots on your mind. I know I should write you all the time coz you’re on my mind all the time, but as you can see I can’t write to good. It’s probably because I’m failing English cause it’s really boring, but I’m going to need that credit at the end of the year. High school is alright, I like it
.
Jeff lost interest in school after the elementary years, and his boredom led to disruptive behaviour. At a parent-teacher interview, his high school English teacher confessed to Marion, “We just let him sit at the back of the room and read.”
Mica is in grade two. She’s marching with her class, two by two, down the school corridor. The only sound is the hollow echo of their shoes clicking on the cement tiles.
“That would be fun,” she says, getting up to go into the living room. “Let’s see if Jack will drive us there.” Jack is lounging with his feet up in his brown velour La-Z-Boy, eyes glued to the TV—the Saturday afternoon football game.
“It’s a tie game,” he says. “I can’t miss the last quarter.”
Alma glares at him, hands on her hips. She has her licence, but hasn’t driven a car for many years. As a young woman she learned to drive on rural dirt roads, but only got behind the wheel to drive a few miles to the shore in Malagash. She looks at Jeff’s deflated face.
It’s only six miles into Fredericton
, she thinks.
And there’s not much traffic on this road
. “Well, then,” she says, “I guess I’ll just have to take the car myself. What do you think, Jeffy?”
“Yeah! You can do it, Granny,” he says, eyes sparkling. “You’re a good driver.”
“Okay,” she says, “let’s go.” They climb into Jack’s new maroon and tan Oldsmobile sedan, two pals off on an adventure. She drives slowly down the long driveway onto the main road, her moist hands gripping the steering wheel. She isn’t accustomed to the car’s more modern features—power steering, power brakes, automatic locks, push-buttonwindows. But the road is traffic free, and she’s going well below the speed limit. There’s just that one busy intersection with traffic lights where they have to turn left onto Prospect Street, she thinks, then the mall is right there on the corner.
Jeff is fingering all the shiny silver buttons on his door, curious to see what they’re for and how they work. “Granny, I’m hot,” he says. “Can I put my window down a bit?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” she says, her eyes fixed on the road, hands white-knuckled in the ten o’clock—two o’clock position. Jeff presses all the buttons, but nothing happens. So she reaches over with her right hand, across the wide bench seat to help him. Her left hand jerks the steering wheel towards the side of the road. The car swerves. Tires crunch onto the gravel shoulder. The Olds careens down a steep six-foot embankment, and lands nose-down in the ditch.
Dear Granny
,
I’m sorry about the accident. It was my fault
.
You were only trying to help me
.
Thank you for the delicious roast beef you made for supper
.
I LOVE YOU
I LOVE YOU
I LOVE YOU
X O X O X O X O
X O X O X O X O
Jeff
Twenty-two years later, we found the letter tucked away in her cedar chest. At the bottom of the blue-lined notepapershe’d written,
Nov. 5 th 1978
—
Oldsmobile went in a deep ditch in New Maryland
. It’s one of the stories engraved in our family’s collective memory. It encapsulates their relationship—his grandmother’s helper role and Jeff’s appreciation of her unwavering assistance. This letter was the first of many that Jeff would write to his grandmother over the years, all of which she saved in the chest that kept her cherished possessions. These letters trace Jeff’s growth throughout childhood, then his struggles with school during his stormy adolescence:
Dearest Granny
,
I haven’t written you in a long time but you were a kid once you know how it is, lots to do, lots on your mind. I know I should write you all the time coz you’re on my mind all the time, but as you can see I can’t write to good. It’s probably because I’m failing English cause it’s really boring, but I’m going to need that credit at the end of the year. High school is alright, I like it
.
Jeff lost interest in school after the elementary years, and his boredom led to disruptive behaviour. At a parent-teacher interview, his high school English teacher confessed to Marion, “We just let him sit at the back of the room and read.”
Mica is in grade two. She’s marching with her class, two by two, down the school corridor. The only sound is the hollow echo of their shoes clicking on the cement tiles.
Similar Books
