sleeping puppy. Why hadn’t he just called an ambulance to come pick him
up? How, in his shock, had he thought to search the weeds for his missing foot? It didn’t add up.
I waited until my junior year of high school to sign up for driver’s education. Before taking to the road, we sat in the darkened
classroom, watching films that might have been written and directed by my father.
Don’t do it,
I thought, watching the prom couple attempt to pass a lumbering dump truck. Every excursion ended with the young driver wrapped
around a telephone pole or burned beyond recognition, the camera focusing in on a bloody corsage littering the side of the
highway.
I drove a car no faster than I pushed the lawn mower, and the instructor soon lost patience.
“That license is going to be your death warrant,” my father said on the day I received my learner’s permit. “You’re going
to get out there and kill someone, and the guilt is going to tear your heart out.”
The thought of killing myself had slowed me down to five miles per hour. The thought of killing someone else stopped me completely.
My mother had picked me up from a play rehearsal one rainy night when, cresting a hill, the car ran over something it shouldn’t
have. This was not a brick or a misplaced boot but some living creature that cried out when caught beneath the tire. “Shit,”
my mother whispered, tapping her forehead against the steering wheel. “Shit, shit shit.” We covered our heads against the
rain and searched the darkened street until we found an orange cat coughing up blood into the gutter.
“You killed me,” the cat said, pointing at my mother with its flattened paw. “Here I had so much to live for, but now it’s
over, my whole life wiped out just like that.” The cat wheezed rhythmically before closing its eyes and dying.
“Shit,” my mother repeated. We walked door to door until finding the cat’s owner, a kind and understanding woman whose young
daughter shared none of her qualities. “You killed my cat,” she screamed, sobbing into her mother’s skirt. “You’re mean and
you’re ugly and you killed my cat.”
“She’s at that age,” the woman said, stroking the child’s hair.
My mother felt bad enough without the lecture that awaited her at home. “That could have been a child!” my father shouted.
“Think about that the next time you’re tearing down the street searching for kicks.” He made it sound as if my mother ran
down cats for sport. “You think this is funny,” he said, “but we’ll see who’s laughing when you’re behind bars awaiting trial
for manslaughter.” I received a variation on the same speech after sideswiping a mailbox. Despite my mother’s encouragement,
I surrendered my permit and never drove again. My nerves just couldn’t take it. It seemed much safer to hitchhike.
My father objected when I moved to Chicago, and waged a full-fledged campaign of terror when I announced I would be moving
to New York. “New York! Are you out of your mind? You might as well take a razor to your throat because, let me tell you something,
those New Yorkers are going to eat you alive.” He spoke of friends who had been robbed and bludgeoned by packs of roving gangs
and sent me newspaper clippings detailing the tragic slayings of joggers and vacationing tourists. “This could be you!” he
wrote in the margins.
I’d lived in New York for several years when, traveling up-state to attend a wedding, I stopped in my father’s hometown. We
hadn’t visited since our grandmother moved in with us, and I felt my way around with a creepy familiarity. I found my father’s
old apartment, but his friend’s shoe store had been converted into a pool hall. When I called to tell him about it, my father
said, “What shoe store? What are you talking about?”
“The place where your friend worked,” I said. “You remember, the guy whose eye you shot
up? How, in his shock, had he thought to search the weeds for his missing foot? It didn’t add up.
I waited until my junior year of high school to sign up for driver’s education. Before taking to the road, we sat in the darkened
classroom, watching films that might have been written and directed by my father.
Don’t do it,
I thought, watching the prom couple attempt to pass a lumbering dump truck. Every excursion ended with the young driver wrapped
around a telephone pole or burned beyond recognition, the camera focusing in on a bloody corsage littering the side of the
highway.
I drove a car no faster than I pushed the lawn mower, and the instructor soon lost patience.
“That license is going to be your death warrant,” my father said on the day I received my learner’s permit. “You’re going
to get out there and kill someone, and the guilt is going to tear your heart out.”
The thought of killing myself had slowed me down to five miles per hour. The thought of killing someone else stopped me completely.
My mother had picked me up from a play rehearsal one rainy night when, cresting a hill, the car ran over something it shouldn’t
have. This was not a brick or a misplaced boot but some living creature that cried out when caught beneath the tire. “Shit,”
my mother whispered, tapping her forehead against the steering wheel. “Shit, shit shit.” We covered our heads against the
rain and searched the darkened street until we found an orange cat coughing up blood into the gutter.
“You killed me,” the cat said, pointing at my mother with its flattened paw. “Here I had so much to live for, but now it’s
over, my whole life wiped out just like that.” The cat wheezed rhythmically before closing its eyes and dying.
“Shit,” my mother repeated. We walked door to door until finding the cat’s owner, a kind and understanding woman whose young
daughter shared none of her qualities. “You killed my cat,” she screamed, sobbing into her mother’s skirt. “You’re mean and
you’re ugly and you killed my cat.”
“She’s at that age,” the woman said, stroking the child’s hair.
My mother felt bad enough without the lecture that awaited her at home. “That could have been a child!” my father shouted.
“Think about that the next time you’re tearing down the street searching for kicks.” He made it sound as if my mother ran
down cats for sport. “You think this is funny,” he said, “but we’ll see who’s laughing when you’re behind bars awaiting trial
for manslaughter.” I received a variation on the same speech after sideswiping a mailbox. Despite my mother’s encouragement,
I surrendered my permit and never drove again. My nerves just couldn’t take it. It seemed much safer to hitchhike.
My father objected when I moved to Chicago, and waged a full-fledged campaign of terror when I announced I would be moving
to New York. “New York! Are you out of your mind? You might as well take a razor to your throat because, let me tell you something,
those New Yorkers are going to eat you alive.” He spoke of friends who had been robbed and bludgeoned by packs of roving gangs
and sent me newspaper clippings detailing the tragic slayings of joggers and vacationing tourists. “This could be you!” he
wrote in the margins.
I’d lived in New York for several years when, traveling up-state to attend a wedding, I stopped in my father’s hometown. We
hadn’t visited since our grandmother moved in with us, and I felt my way around with a creepy familiarity. I found my father’s
old apartment, but his friend’s shoe store had been converted into a pool hall. When I called to tell him about it, my father
said, “What shoe store? What are you talking about?”
“The place where your friend worked,” I said. “You remember, the guy whose eye you shot
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