Read Online The Last Cadillac by Nancy Nau Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B

breakfast table, halfway into his favorite sandwich, a grilled peanut butter and ham sandwich—the treat he and Mom had shared during their college years at Purdue a lifetime ago.
    I looked up from packing the soup tureen and bowls and linen placemats, and other stuff no one needed.
    â€œOK,” I said, layering a box of knives on top of a boom box and a carton of light bulbs.
    Focus.
    I hadn’t thought about the Cadillac. But I took out theto-do list that propelled me through the remaining weeks in the North, and in that moment, the Cadillac went right to the top. Of course, we were going to take the Cadillac.
    How are we going to do that?
    His last Cadillac sat in the driveway of the condo. He couldn’t drive it anymore. Age had left him too slow and uncoordinated to drive, although it hadn’t done much to dim his sense of humor and love of a good story, especially the one about the black Cadillac convertible he owned in the ’80s—a doozey—with white leather interior and wire wheels. A thief stole the fancy wheels off the car, and later, he tried to sell them back to Dad, as they sat side by side, in their respective cars, during a one-minute stop at a red light. No deal. Dad got a kick out of that one. He found the value of a good laugh more important than owning anything fancy. After that, he kept his wheels plain and simple.
    Dad’s Cadillacs rolled along in the stories: of trips and football games, of dinners, and christenings, and weddings—even parades through town—of all the places those cars took my parents after Dad’s business picked up and he could afford to buy his first Cadillac in the early ’60s. Now, this one, the last of Dad’s Cadillacs would have a story all its own.
    Dad got up from the table and hobbled over to his walker. “Come with me,” he said.
    I closed the flap on the cardboard box I’d just filled and followed him. “What are you doing? Do you want some help?”
    â€œI’ll say.”
    He headed to the front door, and I was right behind him. “Dad, where are you going?” But he didn’t stop.
    We reached the door and I opened it, hoping he didn’t trip on the raised threshold.
    â€œWe don’t have time to go anywhere today, Dad.” Impatience intruded, but I scurried along behind him.
    He stepped down onto the front walk and pointed at the Cadillac. As he fumbled in the pocket of his khaki jacket, I had the urge to tell him to stand up straight. Here I was, in the middle of another role reversal, and another childhood memory hounded me: Stand up straight. Don’t fidget. Eat your carrots.
    Then, to my surprise, he pulled out a set of keys.
    I thought I knew everything about Dad. His favorite sandwich. His regularly scheduled television programs. Every tie and sock and pair of pants I’d washed and packed. But, seeing him produce those keys, I was reminded—again—that I would never know everything about anybody. I hadn’t even known my husband. And now, for the life of me, I didn’t know how my father had come up with those keys. Unmistakably, they were to a car. Dad’s Cadillac.
    He handed them to me.
    â€œHere. I want you to have these,” he said, extending the keys in a curled palm. His nails were getting long again. He needed a haircut, too. As usual, I was easily distracted.
    â€œWhat’s this?” I’d driven his car every now and again, to the doctor’s or grocery store. But we really hadn’t cruised around town in the Caddy. There’d been no time.
    â€œThe keys to the Cadillac,” he said. “My last Cadillac.” His shoulders hunched up and down, and then he stifled the weeping, looking at me with teary, smiling eyes.
    â€œDad, you old sweetheart.” I hugged him awkwardly as he leaned on his walker, and I stood in my bare feet, in my bathrobe, in the driveway, in the heat. “Thanks, Dad.”
    I turned the