Freedom was worth his scorn. It was something every kid in tiny Sandy Creek, New York, understood. In that town, where the population was sparse but the distances long, driving meant you could get away – from your parents, from your neighbors, from all the constraints of small town life. Twenty years later, as I wove through the heavy Bay Area traffic with my father silent in the passenger’s seat, I knew he was watching me. It evoked those summer afternoon driving lessons. I felt fifteen again, uneasy, too aware of my body. The cars were backing up ahead of us, and I downshifted into second. Then he said it. I guess you’ve become a good driver after all. This was the only compliment he ever gave me. My father cared deeply about his cars: Studebaker sedan, 1959 Chrysler with its elegant tail fins, the Buick, a Ford Mustang. He always kept them spotless, with fresh oil and a full tank. In my thirties as I trained to be a psychotherapist, I had a supervisor who said something I never forgot. Always listen hard when your clients talk about their cars. They’re really talking about themselves. I couldn’t help but think of Dad. I think my father’s cars reflected how he wanted to be seen: smooth, stylish. He took care of them in a way he could never take care of himself. I can’t remember exactly when the alcohol took my father over. It was coming on, I know, when I was in high school. Dinners became tense. Gradually the scotch was turning my father mean. I didn’t come back to Sandy Creek much during college. And in May of my senior year I found a job to put a thousand miles between my father and me. With bachelor’s in hand, I’d go to South Carolina. For graduation, my father gave me a used red Ford Pinto with a standard transmission. I’d only driven automatics. I was going to have to learn to drive all over again, and Dad would have to teach me. Trapped with my father in that small, red tin can, I‘d be sweating, frantically moving my hands and feet as if playing a pipe organ. Next
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Volume 14 • 2019