“Where do you kids want to eat?”
I guess we’ll always be kids to them. I’m the 35-year-old
kid. Someday I’ll be a 65-year-old kid—if they’re
still alive. I turn to my sister, the 34-year-old kid in the back
seat next to me, and we share a smile.
“Wherever you want, Dad. You know this place better than we
do.”
I try to remember the last time the four of us were together. It might
have been my sister’s wedding. She has two kids now, the oldest
15. I look out the car window at the black snow lining the road. They
can have this place. I’ll take California any day.
“We’ll eat at the Union Jack, then. Oh, are you still
a vegetarian, Hal?”
“Yeah, Dad, I’m still a weirdo. I eat dairy, though. Just
give me a block of Velveeta and let me graze by the side of the road
and I’ll be fine.”
Jody pokes me in the ribs with her elbow, grinning at me. I turn to
her with a look that says, “I’m perfectly serious.”
My eyes focus past Jody on a baby blue ‘57 Chevy waiting to
turn onto Ridgeway. Suddenly old rusty cogs in my brain fall into
place and I yell out, “West Virginia!”
Jody looks puzzled for an instant and then bursts out laughing as
her own cogs tumble. “Two points for you!” she cries.
What is this thing they call time? How can it be almost thirty years
ago that we played the license plate game? I reach for her hand and
give it a squeeze. Though we’ve seen very little of each other
over the past fifteen years, nothing has changed between us. Time
is a lie.
Jody stares intently at my face. “Hal, I just flashed on that
time you fell on those scissors.”
I look at Jody in confusion for a moment. Oh, yeah, that.
“Hey, everybody, I have a confession to make,” I announce.
Now it’s Jody’s turn to look confused. She thinks I’m
changing the subject.
“Mom, remember that day when I was about six and came running
into the house with blood pouring between my fingers down my face.”
“How could I forget, Hal? I am your mother after all. With all
that blood, I was sure you’d put your eye out. I almost didn’t
have the nerve to pull your hand away to see the damage.” She
sighs, remembering. “You were a very lucky boy.”
“Well, I didn’t fall on scissors.” I’ve got
their attention now. “I was skinning the bark off a cherry tree
out in the orchard with my new pocketknife.”
“But you. . .”
I cut Mom off. “Unfortunately, I was skinning the tree up instead
of down, so when the knife slipped the tip stabbed me right in the
corner of my eye. It was the strangest thing: I felt no pain. But
I’ll never forget the crunching sound the blade made when it
sank in.” I can’t help it: I rub my eye.
“Yuck,” blurted Jody.
“I knew if I told the truth, I was in deep doodoo. So as I was
running to the house, I made up a story about falling on some rusty
scissors. You were there when I told Mom, Jody. Made quite an impression,
huh?”
“That’s impossible!” Jody looks at me incredulously.
“I can see you in my mind’s eye plain as day falling on
those scissors. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles in a courtroom
I was a witness.” Her mouth is agape.
“Didn’t happen. I told myself that someday I would tell
the real story. But I knew that day was far in the future.”
“No wonder I couldn’t find those darn scissors,”
Dad says. “I searched the orchard until it got dark.”
He reaches awkwardly back over his shoulder with his right hand, giving
me a deadpan look in the rearview mirror. “Hand over the pocketknife,
son.”
We all crack up—except Jody. She’s still stunned, sitting
there glassy-eyed and slack-jawed in disbelief.
Mom sounds gruff but is smiling. “You, young man, need a spanking!”
Glenn McCrea is a masseur and nature photographer from
Santa Rosa. Guy Biederman’s Lowfat Fiction classes inspired
Glenn to do something more than daydream about writing.
