(Continued from Daddy)

Stoically I got into the black ’35 Chevy, and we headed towards Berryhill High School.  He drove and stopped. A little driving and a lot of stopping and drinking.  “Hand me the bottle. If you practice what I teach you, you can grow up to be a champ, and maybe play at Wimbledon.”

“It’s getting dark, Daddy.”

“It’s getting dark, the lady said. Better hurry.”  He ran the car onto the berm, then back on the road.

“Watch out, Daddy! Watch out! Do you want me to steer?”

“Yeah, you steer. I’ll just operate the little pedal down there.”

The old Chevy continued toward Berryhill High School, slowly at first, with me nervously steering. I reached across him turned the headlights on.  “Daddy! Don’t go so fast!  Take your foot off the gas!”

“Can’t. I’m paralyzed.”  I grabbed at his leg as the car swerved.  It was rigid.

“Take your foot off the gas!”

“Paralyzed,” he said complacently.

Some hectic maneuvering followed, and finally the car pulled off the road with a jerk, and shuddered to a stop. Summer crickets sang in the field about us, but there was silence inside the car.  He began searching his pockets for a Camel and a match.  It was dark now, but his pale puffed face was momentarily illuminated in the match light. His blue eyes stared ahead, at nothing.  His faded red hair trailed down over his high, perspiring forehead.  As he flicked out the match I saw him lift the cigarette to his lips, which were not smiling.

I sat very still, my heart pounding, angry and frightened.  He had pretended to be paralyzed  in order to scare me.  In the process, we could have wrecked.  He was part of the night  next to me. “You could have killed us!”

“Didn’t. though, did I?”  His words were slurred.  He turned his glazed blue eyes toward me and stared emptily into mine.  With fearful fascination I watched this unpredictable man, my father,  as the darkness enveloped us again, and the silence, except for the night life of the fields alongside the road.

Then suddenly: “Watch out for those sons of bitches! Those rich capitalist bastards.  They’re out to get the poor man.  Sons of bitches!!”  Suddenly he struck out at the night, contacting not the sons of bitches but the windshield, which splintered loudly in the night air.

I got out of the car. The air was damp, and this was North Carolina countryside.  There was no moon.  We had never reached Berryhill High.  I didn’t know where we were. The only lights were about a half mile down the road.  I started walking down the deserted road, hugging my chilled arms to myself.

It wasn’t a house.  There was a high fence,  a gate, and a building. Signs Keep Out and No Trespassing==some kind of prison camp.  A dog began barking furiously nearby. I had to keep on.  I approached and called out:  “Can I use your phone?  We’ve broken down and I need to call my mother.”

A friendly response from someone looking out into the night.  Fearful that they would return with me to help, and find my drunken father passed out across the steering wheel amid the glass fragments, I spoke quickly, almost in code, to my mother  and left as quickly as I could, not knowing where we were, my directions were vague.   I was afraid to ask the men for the location.  Big men, with revolvers, let me back into the night, to return to the Chevy and to wait.

It seemed like a long time, but an empty stomach, the silence of the night and the lostness of us blended into a kind of  timeless enduring,  Was that a light on the road’s horizon?  No…yes!…It’s turning around! Frantically I ran toward the lights, waving both arms, but quietly, wishing still to hide our plight and location from the uniformed officials inside the high fence.

The lights stopped, then slowly approached.  Was it a stranger?  A new fear?  The car was not familiar.  “Nancy?”  My mother’s voice.  “Nancy?”

It was warm inside the taxi. As I climbed in beside Mary Mott, our neighbor, my mother was climbing out of the front seat of the taxi to find my father.

THE END

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Almost 40 years ago when I took that autobiography  workshop at the Friends General Conference at Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania,  my memories were much more….memorable?  We didn’t really share very much aloud. I only remember that we briefly shared memories we had of living through historical events. A very enjoyable and successful workshop!

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Quote From the Depression:  “Use it up, wear it out, or do without.”