by Inmon, Shawn
At church the next day, Father Wilkins greeted the family on the way out the door. “May the Lord be with you,” he said as they passed. Dominick thought that he gave him a bit of a fish eye, though.
At home, Laura put a picnic basket together with sandwiches, chips, and a potato salad she had made the night before and they piled into the Dodge. They held their breath when it took Joe took a minute to get it started, and again when it died just as he was pulling out of the driveway.
Joe said, “Goddamn it,” then caught Laura’s disapproving look. “I’ll go to confession next week, okay, hon?” then jumped out, raised the hood, and tinkered for minute. When he started it again, it ran smoother. He turned left out of their neighborhood and pulled into the Shell station just a few blocks away. He gave the attendant two singles. Dominick leaned forward and saw that pushed the gas gauge up past half a tank.
Joe worked his way to Highway 123, then paused.
He turned to the family. “Whose turn is it?”
“Mine!” Sam said.
“Mmmm, I don’t think so, Sam,” Joe said. “I’m almost sure it is little Connie’s turn. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes!” Connie said, nodding emphatically. She looked to her left, then her right. After several seconds of deliberation, she pointed left, as regally as Cleopatra ever could have.
“Left it is, then,” Joe said, turning the wheel.
It was another hot August day, so everyone rolled the windows down and let the breeze swirl through the car as they drove. After half an hour, they turned off the highway toward Alvarado Park. The park didn’t have much in the way of playground equipment—no swings or merry-go-round—but it was a nice change of pace from the city, with lots of hiking trails to explore.
Laura laid out the picnic lunch while Joe laid down with his arm over his eyes and fell asleep. Dominick played tag with Connie, and Sam even joined in for a while. When lunch was laid out, everyone sat around the checked tablecloth to eat their sandwiches and drank their warm cherry Kool-Aid. Laura surprised everyone with a treat for dessert—a Twinkie for everyone.
For a time, Dominick managed to forget his troubles and be a forty-one year old kid again. It was a break from all the worrying and wondering, but it was not to last.
Chapter Ten
It was Dominick’s turn to watch Connie again the next day, so he spent most of that Monday playing with her at the tiny park down the street from their house.
On Tuesday, he was up early, ate breakfast and got out the front door before his mom could ask him to watch Connie until Sam hauled himself out of bed.
He walked along the side of the house and opened the side door to the garage, letting the morning sunlight pour into the dusty darkness inside. He looked at the nail by the door, hoping to see the Dodge’s ignition key hanging there, but no such luck.
I know it’s too soon to be able to take off for good. I don’t have any money, other than what’s in that little piggy bank I spotted on the dresser in the bedroom, and there’s no way an eight year old kid can make it on their own, even if they are forty-one on the inside. Still. I want to fire the old girl up, take her for a spin around the block. No harm can come of that. Then, when the time comes, I’ll know she’s ready.
He poked through half a dozen rusty Folgers coffee cans, but was rewarded with nothing more than dozens of different bolts, screws, and nails.
I can’t believe he takes the key to this old car with him to work? Who’s going to break into our garage and steal this old hunk of junk? Other than possibly me, of course.
Dominick walked out of the garage just in time to see his mother pull out of the driveway on the way to work. He snuck into the house through the back door and into his parents’ room. He checked the table beside Joe’s side of the bed, but it was bare, apart from the small lamp and a half-filled ashtray. He checked the small drawer in the table on both sides of the bed, but came up empty. Finally, he crept into the bathroom, where the hamper was.
When he picked up his father’s jeans, he heard a slight jingle, but it was only a few nickels, pennies, and dimes—no keys.
Okay. Gonna have to do this the hard way. I can hotwire the thing It’s easy on these old rigs. I’ll just have to put it all back together before Dad gets home and he’ll be none the wiser.
He went out the back door again, then into the garage and pulled the door shut behind him. He grabbed a flashlight, a roll of electrical tape, and a pocket knife off the workbench and laid on his back on the driver’s side.
There are some advantages to only being four feet tall.
He pulled the plastic cover behind the steering column off, then pulled the bundle of wires down. He separated out what looked to him like the battery, ignition, and starter wires and gave them a little tug to separate them.
Don’t want to cut them. That’s too obvious, and Dad’s too sharp. He’ll know something’s up.
Dominick carefully cut a small notch into each of the wires, then connected the battery and ignition wires. The dashboard lit up. He lightly touched the starter wire to the first two and the starter tried to turn over. He reached over his shoulder and gave it a little gas and the engine fired up.
Yes! I knew I could do it. I love these old cars.
He took a small piece of the tape and wrapped the battery and ignition wires.
Sweat ran down his face and he wiped it away with one hand. He hopped out of the car, ran outside the garage and looked around to see if the sound of the Dodge starting had attracted any unwanted attention. The only sounds were the car idling in the garage and Mr. Bratski’s lawnmower across the street.
Dominick lifted the garage door up. There was a moment of panic, when he thought he might not be tall enough or strong enough to get the door up all the way so he could drive the car out. Standing on his tiptoes and shoving with all his might, the door finally swung up.
He squinted up at the door. Now how in the heck am I going to get that back down? I guess I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.
He climbed back inside the Dodge and put his hands on the steering wheel. If he extended his neck as far as he could, he could just barely see over the dashboard. If he did that, though, his feet couldn’t reach the gas and brake.
I guess I should just be happy it’s an automatic. I’d never be able to handle the clutch, too.
Dominick scooted his butt as far forward as he could and fished around for the brake with his foot. He found he could touch the brake and gas, or he could see out the windshield.
Damn. Maybe I should just shut this down and wait another year or so, until I’ve grown another few inches.
The Dodge idled noisily, filling the garage with fumes.
Or, I could just figure it out on the fly. I like that option better. One step closer to freedom.
Dominick pressed the brake and shifted into drive. The car pushed forward a few inches, then he let off the brake and it rolled toward the street.
If Sam looks out the living room window right now, I am totally busted, but if I know him, he’s on the couch, looking the other way, watching television.
He gave it just a little gas, doing his best to hold onto the steering wheel, which was huge in his small hands. He hit a bump where he had to cross the sidewalk to get onto the street, and the Dodge rolled to a stop.
Dominick craned his neck left and right to check for traffic, but there were no other cars coming in either direction, so he gave it a little gas. The car rocked against the bump, but didn’t go over. He stretched his toes out to give it a little more gas, and his foot slipped, pushing down hard. The car surged forward across the sidewalk and onto the street.
Dominick tried to do two things at once—turn the steering wheel right, and press the brake. He managed to turn the steering wheel, but that threw his balance off and his foot slipped again as it sought the brake.
Oooooh, shit!
Chapter Eleven
“Oh!” Carrie said, adjusting her pyxis. She stoppe
d it completely, then expanded and rewound the scene.
A curly-headed young boy sat behind the wheel of a car that was paused at the end of a driveway. He was obviously too small to drive, but, drive he did. He tried to ease out onto the street, but his foot slipped, and he lost control of the vehicle. It surged across the street. An old man standing in his yard tried to jump out of the way, but was not fast enough.
The car hit him flush, sending his broken body flying up and over the hood, then crashing into the windshield. The young boy finally brought the car to a stop and looked in shock at the body of the man on the spider-webbed windshield. His eyes went so wide, he looked like he might have lost his mind. His mouth formed one elongated word: “Nooooooooo!”
Carrie paused her pyxis at that precise moment. She reached into it and plucked a strand of the scene. She backed it up, watching the car careen backwards across the street and up the driveway. She let it play forward again, but the result was the same. She pinched another piece of it away and dropped it into a hole in the floor at her feet.
I know I’m not supposed to interfere. I’m only supposed to watch, and Feed the Machine. That would destroy me, though. Better to do what I feel is right, and end up being fired, or punished, than to just sit here and go crazy. If this is my eternity, I’m going to spend it doing the right thing.
She rewound the scene again, let it play forward.
This time, she nodded to herself, let the pyxis scoop up the emotions—fear, regret, relief—the young boy was feeling.
Chapter Twelve
The old Dodge leapt across the street, jumped the curb on the other side of the street and plowed through Mr. Bratski’s white picket fence, across the neat front lawn, barely missed Mr. Bratski himself, tore through the rose garden, and slammed into his garden shed.
When the Dodge slammed into it, the shed flew up into the air, bounced off a low hanging branch of an elm tree and came to rest on the hood of the car.
The collision threw Dominick around the car, bashing his head into the steering wheel first, then throwing him clear into the back seat. His temporary tape job on the wires came undone and the engine died.
Mr. Bratski recovered himself enough to run to the car and throw the door open. When he saw that no one was in the front seat, he said, “Is the damn thing running itself?”
Dominick pulled himself up off the floor of the backseat, giving Mr. Bratski a start.
“No sir,” Dominick said miserably. “It was me.”
Mr. Bratski pulled Dominick from the car roughly by one arm. Dominick steeled himself, believing he was going to beat him severely, and prepared to take it. As it turned out, Mr. Bratski was a nice man, and once the adrenaline rush from being nearly run over had passed, he let go of Dominick and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Thought I was a goner, for sure, when I saw this old behemoth bearing down on me,” he said, then started to laugh. “The Krauts couldn’t get me in France, but I almost bought the farm by being run over by a child in an old Dodge.” He laughed until he looked up and saw his ruined rose bushes, which had been the result of many hours of babying. The car had cut a vicious swath through them, tearing them, knocking them out of the ground, destroying them.
“Oh, young man, look what you’ve done here. You’ve ruined them.”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
And so much more.
Chapter Thirteen
That day wasn’t the worst of Dominick’s two lives—getting murdered and taken away from Emily still held the top spot—but it was a good runner-up.
Mr. Bratski had debated with Mrs. Bratski over the right course of action. Which was better—to call the police, or to call Mr. & Mrs. Davidner?
“Who’s going to pay for all this?” Mrs. Bratski wondered, wringing her apron in her hands.
“Right,” Mr. Bratski had said. “That’s why I’m calling his parents. The police aren’t going to replace my shed or my beautiful roses.”
Just then, Sam came out of the Davidner house, leading Connie by the hand. They both stood, open-mouthed, gazing in wonder and horror at the scene being played out before their eyes. Sam slowly shook his head from side to side, as if he already knew he had been permanently promoted to the best Davidner son.
Slowly, the rest of the neighborhood also came out, and soon it was like an unscheduled block party of concerned neighbors.
Laura Davidner was the first to be able to get away from her job and make it home. She pulled to a too-sudden stop in front of the house, fishtailing slightly, and spraying a bit of gravel.
“Runs in the family,” Mrs. Bratski observed.
Laura emerged from her car, with her hand over her mouth in disbelief. She looked both ways, then crossed the street.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bratski, I promise, we’ll make this right with you. I don’t know what to say.”
“To start with,” Mr. Bratski replied, “I’d just like to get this car out of my yard, so I can survey the damage.”
“Of course, of course,” Laura opened the door of the Dodge and reached to turn the key. She looked on the floor to see if it had fallen on the floor. “Dominick? Give me the key to the car.”
Dominick, standing slightly behind Mrs. Bratski for protection, said, “I can’t Mom.”
“Of course you can.” It was evident to anyone that knew her that Laura was fighting to stay calm, but it was a losing battle.
“I ... I didn’t have a key.”
“Then how did you...?” She nodded at the destruction in front of her.
“I hotwired it.”
“You—you hotwired it?” She looked out the open car door at Mr. & Mrs. Bratski. “My eight year old son hotwired our car and drove it into your shed.”
“Not to mention my roses,” Mr. Bratski offered.
“I’m nine, now, Mom.”
Laura leaned forward and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
Dominick thought she might fall completely apart and dissolve into tears of frustration, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. Laura drew a deep breath, climbed out of the car, and maintaining as much dignity as she could, said, “My husband will be home soon. He will be here to talk to you about the damage and to retrieve the car. I’m so very sorry for what my son has done here. It will not go unpunished.”
She took a few steps, grabbed Dominick by the left ear and strode across the street, dragging him in her wake.
TWO HOURS LATER, DOMINICK stood in the hallway, eavesdropping on his father, mother, and Father Wilkins.
His father hadn’t spoken to him since he had gotten home. Dominick had watched through the window as his dad had pulled up, spoken to Mr. Bratski, and attempted to start the Dodge. The battery was good. It turned and turned. There was no fire, though, and after several minutes of trying, it became apparent that it wasn’t going to start. With Mr. Bratski’s help, he pushed the ruined shed off the hood, strapped the Dodge to the station wagon, and pulled it out. It left a new set of massive ruts, right next to the set Dominick had made on the way in.
Being the good neighbor he was, Mr. Bratski helped Joe push the Dodge back into the garage.
With Sam and Connie banished outside to play, the parents and the priest sat in the living room, curtains pulled shut, deciding Dominick’s fate.
“Father, what do you advise us to do? This has all happened so fast. A few weeks ago, Dominick was a perfect son,” Laura said. “Kind, respectful, thoughtful. Now, all this. Where have we gone wrong?”
Silence filled the room while Father Wilkins filled his pipe from a small pouch, lit it and puffed on it several times. A sweet, woodsy aroma filled the room.
“There are no easy answers, of course, Laura. It’s a combination of things. The movies and television shows our children watch these days, the things they are exposed to on the street, the tearing of the fabric of society. It all combines to put a terrible burden on our children.”
“What do we do next?” Joe asked.
“Lock him in his room until he turns eighteen?”
Father Wilkins chuckled. “Tempting, isn’t it? That’s an easy thought, when the memory of what they’ve done is fresh in your mind. That passes with time, though, and it seems a longer term solution is needed here.”
Dominick heard a general shuffling, as if someone was shifting in their chair. Wish I could see what’s going on, since it’s my life they are deciding.
“Here’s what I have in mind. There’s a school up north called Hartfield Academy. I think it’s just what Dominick needs right now.”
“Hartfield Academy,” Laura said. “I’m not familiar. What kind of school is it?”
“It’s a military preparatory school.”
“Oh!” Laura said, exhaling sharply. “Oh, no. Nicky is so young, so small.”
“But the damage he is doing isn’t small, is it?” Father Wilkins said, gesturing across the street.
“It’s impossible, Father,” Joe said. “We’re barely making it as it is. Now, fixing the Bratski’s yard, it’s going to be even tighter. There’s nothing left over to send Dominick to a boarding school.”
“Of course, of course. I completely understand. You know that I was in the military, don’t you? I was an army chaplain for ten years. It was life-changing. It ... well, it made me the man - and the priest - I am today. My commanding officer was Curtis Hartfield III, the same man who runs Hartfield Academy today.”
He stopped to suck on the pipe, found it had gone out, and struck another match to relight it.
“I spoke to Commander Hartfield on the phone before I came over today. I called in some old favors, and, well, long story short, if you want it, he’s offering Dominick a full scholarship to Hartfield Academy. There would be some paperwork, of course, and we’d have to get a copy of Dominick’s records from the school to send along, but he’s always gotten good grades, hasn’t he?”
