Driving With Dead People (3 page)

When I heard Dad open the tailgate of the station wagon, I got up and looked out the window. He pulled his Bell + Howell Super Eight movie projector and his fold-up home-movie screen out of the back. Dad must have shown movies at Mammaw’s. I wondered what I’d missed.

I lay back down.

I closed my eyes, but just as I was drifting off, images from Dad’s collection flickered through my head: a tornado demolishing Willard Bank’s outhouse; a train explosion in Dunreath; my uncle Ernie in black rubber fire boots up to his hips wading through a flood near Pattonville, waving at the camera.

I sat straight up.

Maybe Dad had filmed Sarah Keeler’s accident. Hers was
huge
compared to a cow being hit by a Plymouth.

Dad could hear an ambulance, police siren, or fire truck from a dozen blocks away, and when he heard one, he followed it. Lucky for him, he didn’t have to strain his ears because the police
and
fire department were within one block of his store. He never missed anything.

I bet he was there, and if he was there, I bet he filmed it. My heart was racing as I wondered how I could find out.

I heard the screen door slam shut. I jerked my pink quilt up over my shoulders and tried to quiet my breathing. If he was still mad at me, I didn’t want him knowing I was awake.

The next morning I walked into our yellow-and-white kitchen in a plaid skirt and bare feet. Mom was in a good mood. “It’s about time you got in here,” she said, dumping a spoonful of white sugar across the top of my oatmeal. She was pretending I hadn’t spent yesterday sobbing in the back of the car. She was good at pretending.

I walked into the bathroom, tossed my pee-soaked sheets and pajamas into the bathtub, and headed back to the kitchen.

Dad was reading the
Elk Grove Courier
and slurping Maxwell House instant coffee he’d made by adding warm tap water to the coffee crystals in his mug and whipping it up with a metal spoon. I’d seen him do it a hundred times, his thick fingers choking the mug.

I sat down at the table and stared at Dad, who continued reading the paper. I wondered where he stashed his home movies. Dad titled and dated each one by writing on the rim of the plastic reel with a Magic Marker. If he’d filmed Sarah Keeler, the reel probably had her name on it or at least the date.

Dad dropped one corner of the paper and snapped, “What are you gawking at?”

I looked down at my oatmeal. I heard Dad flip the paper back up in front of his mean face. He hated me.

I thought about Dad standing by the side of the road filming her crumpled bike, her body lying on the asphalt. I imagined that he’d filmed her shoes, blown clear off her feet from the impact, lying in two different places.

I looked at Dad cutting through sausage patties with a butter knife. I was surprised he hadn’t run over any kids himself, considering how fast we had to scramble out of his way when he sped through the alley behind our house, the wheels of his blue pickup spewing gravel in all directions.

If he ever did, the police would arrive with sirens blaring and I’d watch as they hauled Dad away in handcuffs, hauled him away forever to Cincinnati or Cleveland or even farther. Someplace he could never come home from, a place where he could never yank my pants down again with everyone staring. Someplace he deserved.

“Eat it, don’t play with it,” Mom said, jerking my head back slightly as she ran a brush through the back of my hair. I looked up to see Dad staring straight at me.

He probably knew what I was thinking.

I hadn’t always wanted Dad to die or go to jail. There was a time when I felt sorry for him when bad things happened.

I was five. We were living in the little house down on Greenleaf Street.

It was a cool day in November, and Mrs. Beckner was driving Suzanne and me home from kindergarten. We couldn’t ride the bus because kindergarten was only a half day.

As we were driving down County Line Road, I saw swirling black smoke mushrooming up on the flat horizon. “That’s probably my dad’s store,” I said, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t. My dad’s hardware store was at least eight miles from where we were.

“Whatever it is, it’s big,” said Mrs. Beckner.

“Huge,” I said, my heart pounding with excitement. Something enormous was burning down.

When we pulled up in front of my house, Mom was standing on the front porch with her brown wicker purse slung over her arm, and Granda was leaning against her white Pontiac. Something was up.

As Mrs. Beckner put her car in park, I popped the door handle and jumped onto the grass near the sidewalk.

“Thanks, Mrs. Beckner,” I said.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, waving.

I ran over to Granda’s car.

“Hey, cutie,” Granda said, brushing my bangs across my forehead.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You’re coming home with Granda,” she said.

I turned to Mom, who was walking toward our station wagon.

“Where’re you going?”

“Your dad’s store’s on fire. I’ve gotta see if I can help.” She walked back, kissed my forehead, and headed for the car.

“Dad’s store—” I was ready to ask a million questions, when Mom interrupted.

“Stay with Granda,” she said over her shoulder. “And don’t play with the hose. You already have a stuffy nose.” She got in and pulled away.

Who said anything about the hose? I was always being warned about things I wasn’t going to do, until I was told not to. But today nothing could take my attention from the fire.

I shot Granda a devious look. “I saw the smoke,” I told her. “You can see it driving down County Line Road.”

“Oh, it’s a big fire. I think it’s an entire block,” Granda said, her right hand patting her chest.

“I guess we’d better not go over there,” I said, hoping she’d disagree.

Granda smiled. “You bet we’re not going over there. Your mother told me to keep you at my place. Besides, we have to be here when the other kids get home.”

“When’s that?” I asked.

“Three o’clock,” she said.

“How long’s that?”

“Three hours,” she said.

“Don’t you want to see the smoke?” I asked. “Just a little drive down the county line and back?”

“It’s lunchtime for you. Aren’t you ready for a sandwich? I have some fresh turkey over there and some deviled eggs.”

“I’m tellin’ you there’s a black cloud swirling clear up in the sky. You won’t believe it.” She smiled at me. “It’s
huge
,” I reiterated.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” she said.

“We won’t be in town. Mom won’t care if we take a little ride,” I said.

“Do you have to pee?” she asked.

“No.”

“Go pee.” She pointed toward the door. “And wash your hands,” she yelled after me.

I ran into the house. Our collie, Buddy, was there to greet me. I leaned down. “There’s a big fire, girl. Granda and I have to take off.” Buddy followed me to the bathroom.

Granda and I stopped by her trailer so she could make us a couple of sandwiches. Granda would never take a chance on my being hungry. She made turkey sandwiches on white bread with butter and wrapped them in aluminum foil. Soon we were heading up the county line.

I sat in the front seat with my bare feet resting on the console and craned my neck to the west. When we got around the
S
curve, I saw the swirling smoke cloud. Earlier the cloud had been fascinating; now it was so gigantic, it was freakish.

“Oh my word,” Granda said, impressed.

“Can we
please
see the fire up close, Granda?” I pleaded. “I’ve never seen a fire like that.”

I wanted to see the fire, but mostly I wanted to see Dad fighting the fire and Mom right beside him. I wanted to see firemen hooking up their hoses. I imagined a small explosion and me running into the flames barefoot and dragging first Mom and then Dad to safety.

“I’m not taking you over there. Now stop asking,” Granda said.

“Can we at least drive toward town so we can get a closer look at the smoke?” I asked.

“We’ll drive a little closer,” she said, “but don’t get any ideas.”

The next thing I knew, we could see Elk Grove’s enormous limestone courthouse in the distance, which meant we were almost to town. Granda told me to duck down a little so if by chance Mom or Dad saw us, they might not think I was with her. This made no sense because of course I was with her, but I did it anyway. Hiding only heightened the excitement of being undercover.

When we drove into Elk Grove, we saw flashing red lights and thick white hoses stretched across Orchard Street and Highway 64. Granda had been right, the entire block was on fire, and heavy black smoke was rolling into the sky, causing my eyes to burn. I pulled my turtleneck up over my nose and mouth like Mort from the
Bazooka Joe
comics to keep the fumes out. There were ambulances standing by.

We saw Dad running out the front door of his store tossing wheelbarrows, saws, drills, and even a lawn mower into the street. Other men were trying to help him salvage whatever inventory he could before the roof caved in. It took only about ten minutes from the time Granda and I arrived. When that roof dropped into the building, Dad ran backward looking up with his hands in the air as if he could stop it from happening. His glasses were smudged and his face was smeared with black soot.

“We should do something,” I said.

Granda’s eyebrows flew up. “We aren’t here, remember?”

“I know,” I said defensively. Seeing Dad’s head and face all wet from the spray of fire hoses and watching him cough up black mucus and spit onto the pavement made me want to help.

“He’s not getting sympathy from me.” Granda stared right at him, her jaw set just so. She had seen Dad at his meanest, especially the night he beat three-year-old Jamie so bad that Mom snatched up Jamie and JoAnn, who was only a year old, and drove them to Granda’s house for the night. In the morning Dad arrived, sorry and humbled, to take them back home.

“That son of a bitch deserves whatever he gets,” Granda said. “I just feel bad for your mother and you kids.”

“That son of a bitch isn’t gettin’ sympathy from me, either,” I agreed. Granda burst out laughing.

“Is there anything you won’t repeat, Monica? You can’t be using curse words. It’ll make Jesus mad.” She shook her head.

I wondered if Jesus was at the fire.

Dad walked over to the back of his pickup, opened the tailgate, and sat down. He poured water from a silver thermos over his head and neck.

All of a sudden we heard windows popping and cracking and realized they were from cars parked clear across the street from the blaze.

By the looks of things, Jesus was not at the fire—and neither was Mom. She’d probably opted for a quiet lunch at Bullard’s Drive-In instead. Less stressful.

That night Dad was on the evening news. Several reporters from television stations in Cincinnati drove down and interviewed Dad in front of his burnt store. Dad, Mom, JoAnn, Becky, Jamie, Mammaw, Pappaw, and I sat in the living room and watched in disbelief. No one from Galesburg had ever been on TV. Dad wore an Elk Grove Fire Department helmet and a black-and-white reflective firefighter jacket, which made him look important. Mustering all of his skill from narrating our home movies, he reenacted the fire:

“We lost at least half the block. Four businesses, including mine, were lost, maybe more,” Dad said into the silver microphone.

“Were there any injuries or loss of life?” the female reporter asked.

“None whatsoever. There were fire departments here from all over the area, and we couldn’t be more pleased with the way this was handled. It’s tough to think of rebuilding the hardware store from scratch, but at least no one was hurt.”

“Thank you for talking with us.” The reporter turned toward the camera and said, “Glen Peterson owned Peterson’s Hardware. We’re in Elk Grove, some fifty miles east of Cincinnati, where a massive fire has destroyed a city block.” We all clapped for Dad. He was instantly a local hero.

I was definitely going to get attention at kindergarten the next day.

I ran out to the screened-in porch to find Buddy. Dad’s filthy clothes were heaped on the floor, smelling of stale smoke. His faded brown boots sat by the door with the soles melted from running in and out of the hot building. I ran one palm over the drippy, bubbled surface of those boots and the other over Buddy’s fuzzy head.

That night Dad seemed happy to be with us, and I was glad he hadn’t burned up with all those wrenches and caulking guns.

A month later, when I wasn’t even thinking about Dad’s store anymore, I dreamt our house was burning. I ran into Greenleaf Street in my pajamas and saw JoAnn, Jamie, and Mom, but not Becky. Dad was across the street at the volunteer fire department, where he switched on the huge siren that summoned the volunteers, and then tried to get the big fire doors open so he could get a truck out. Everyone stood watching the blaze and I kept asking, “Where’s Becky?” No one said anything until we heard screams.

In my dream her escalating, high-pitched shrieks confirmed that Becky’s blue-and-white flowered nightgown had been ignited, followed by all that blond hair and freckled skin and white bones. Dad struggled to run back into the house, but the fire forced him back. He was wailing and trying to climb up the side of the house. It took ten minutes for Becky to stop screaming.

I woke up terrified and sweaty. I tiptoed over to Becky’s bed, where she was sleeping with her hand flung back against the pillow. Her Mrs. Beasley doll was under the covers with the top of her scrubby blond head sticking out. I wanted to snuggle in beside them, but I knew I’d wet her bed.

Panicked and convinced we’d all burn to death someday, I crawled over shoes and boots through the dark closet that connected our room to Mom and Dad’s. As I got closer, I could hear Dad snoring.

Once in their room, I walked softly over to the bed. Mom was sleeping on her side facing the doorway.

I looked down at Dad. His eyes opened, and I jumped. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Becky died in a fire,” I explained quickly.

“Where?”

“A dream,” I said. He sat up, stuck his hands in my armpits, and deposited me in between the two of them.

“Go to sleep,” he said, rolling back over. I lay there in shock. What had I been thinking, coming into Dad’s room? And now that I was squished in the middle, how would I get out?

I waited until Dad’s snoring settled into a reliable snort-and-blow pattern and then carefully scrambled over the top of him, crawling back through the closet on my hands and knees. Even if he was skilled at helping in disasters, it wasn’t worth the risk of being too close to his hands.

Once in my bed, I hugged Snoopy and thought about Jamie and me lighting matches behind the garage. I wouldn’t do that again.

Fire came fast, and the Petersons were not fast runners.

At church that Sunday I snuck glances at Becky and prayed for her safety.

I prayed all the time. I prayed for the robin that flew into our sunporch window and knocked himself out; for Hazel, the drunk who swayed down our street every morning, half-dressed, on her way back from the Galesburg Tavern. I prayed for Mr. Davis, who lived on our corner and had no legs. He’d opened a paint shop in his garage and spent all day lying on a little homemade cart, rolling around on his stomach to mix the paint, dragging the heavy cans around behind him.

I prayed for all of us kids whenever Dad’s pickup squealed into the driveway.

It was odd to keep doing something that never seemed to help, but just in case Reverend Morse was right, I prayed.